Chapter 34
CHAPTER 34
ELIJAH
B ad news travels fast.
Peter Levon’s arrest hit the newspapers within days, and I’ve spent the past couple of weeks firefighting. The morning after the arrest I called a board meeting, updating them on what had gone down. They weren’t impressed I’d withheld the information from them, but when I explained the necessity of keeping it quiet, they backed down.
“So what happens now?” Gabriel asks.
He finally managed to convince me to join them at boys’ night. I must say, it’s been fun. With Lottie in Italy for a few more weeks, I needed a distraction.
“We’ve postponed the new release to retest everything Pen, and I did and for client reassurance.”
“What’s the fallout been?”
I run a hand through my hair, looking at my brother.
“Some clients have left, which was inevitable. Others have decided, better the devil you know. There’s been no lasting damage, or at least that’s what the company’s PR team is telling us. Being open and transparent appears to have gone a long way in calming the media storm.”
I wonder if Pen and whoever her handler is have smoothed the way.
I still shudder whenever I think of what could have happened had I not come across that email.
It was as if fate had stepped in.
“How did Todd take it?”
“He was furious,” I say, remembering how he’d slammed into my office and tore strips off me for not confiding in him. “He eventually simmered down when I explained about the bugs in my office. He then had the entire office building swept as a precaution. It’s good to know my office is once again a safe space.”
Although one which is now filled with memories of Pen sat in it.
As if reading my mind...
“Have you heard from Pen since she left?”
I shake my head. She’s been radio silent since she returned to the US. Peter hasn’t given anyone up, so there’s been no reason to contact her. I told her I wasn’t going to her wedding, using Lottie as an excuse. To her, however, it must have seemed like I wasn’t willing to support her in her happiest hour.
I don’t deserve someone like her in my life.
Gabriel looks at me, and I shrug.
“I’m seeing my therapist again,” I admit. “I think it’s time I sort out my shit for Lottie.”
I need a clean break to continue with my plans of devoting my time to my company and Lottie, helping her heal.
“That’s great,” he says. “But Eli, it’s not just for Lottie. It’s also for you.”
Gabe is right. I need to do this for myself as much as for Lottie. I realised once Pen had left, that she has moved on from the past, has planned a new life. I take my hat off to her. Commend her. She’s given me hope. So much so that I called my therapist and scheduled a meeting the following day. I intend to take them more seriously, move forward. I’m currently damaged goods with a lot of baggage, it’s up to me to sort through it. He helped me once before when I broke my ankle, and he’s helping me get my head together now, be a better man.
My biggest problem isn’t one I can share with Gabriel or anyone else. I see Pen everywhere, wherever I turn there are memories of her. In my apartment, my office. It’s like her scent has become a permanent fixture sent to haunt me. I even slept in the spare room after she left, although Christie had already changed the sheets.
Fate is screwing with me. She was my friend for years, and I messed that up. I fell for her but could do nothing about it. I’m falling for her again, but she’s out of my reach and can never be mine.
Somehow I know Pen will always be the one who got away.
“Are you guys going to come and play cards, or are you going to mope all night in the kitchen?” Xander says, sticking his head through the door.
“We’re coming. I need to whip your ass after last month,” Gabriel says. Apparently, Xander managed to beat Gabriel, which is nearly unheard of.
“Bring it on,” Xander says, moving to the fridge and grabbing another box of beers.
We make our way back into the living area, where the rest of the guys are waiting. Caleb is still away, but it hasn’t stopped the rest of them.
“Come on, Elijah, you’re dealing,” Quentin says, holding out the pack of cards. “I’m expecting a great hand.”
It’s late by the time I head back to my apartment. It was a great night. Gabriel was right. I felt human hanging around with my brother’s friends. I laughed. Not something I’ve done all that much. At least not before Pen arrived.
I head upstairs and hit the keypad on the door. It unlocks with a pop, and I enter my studio. The specialist light comes on immediately. The large windows are dark as they look out over the night sky. The smell of oil paint and turps assaults my senses, my body instantly releasing some of the tension it’s been storing, settling the nerves that have been stretched taut, first by Levon and then by Pen leaving.
I move towards my easel, pulling off the dust sheet. It’s been a couple of months since I was last in here. The divorce, work, Lottie going to stay with her mother. I lost my mojo for a moment. It took my therapist reminding me, it’s time to set aside some time for me.
I stare at the half-finished painting before lifting the canvas from the easel and placing it against the wall. That’s not what I’m feeling at the moment. I grab a blank, pre-stretched canvas from the pile and gather my tools.
I close my eyes, allowing my mind to focus on the blank canvas in front of me. A picture forms, and I want to groan.
Why?
But I don’t fight it. Instead, I let the moment take me. Inhale, exhale, I allow the painting to take shape. When I open them again, I begin underpainting, allowing the bigger picture to take on a form.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
“Penelope is here to see you,” Mum says, coming into the room, followed closely by Pen.
“Hi,” I say, sitting up, my extended leg making the process a little difficult.
“I’ll grab you some refreshments. Juice, Pen?”
“That would be amazing, Mrs F,” Pen says, making me smirk.
She’s the only one who can get away with calling Mum Franny or Mrs F. Mum loves it.
When she’s gone, Pen steps closer.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
Pen pulls a face, and I grin.
“Okay, in that I’m bored out of my ever-loving mind,” I tell her truthfully, patting the sofa beside me.
Pen takes a seat.
“What did the specialist say?”
“That the operation was a success. The pins will hold the ankle bone in place, and with physio, I should be back in the water within six months.”
Pen’s hand comes out and squeezes my forearm.
“I’m sorry,” she says
“For what? I’m the idiot who misjudged the kerb and came off his bike.”
I expected to be devastated when they initially told me the prognosis, but instead, I felt nothing. Years of training gone in an instant. I’ll miss the trials for the Olympics, that dream has ended. But then, life has taken a different turn, one I’m excited about. Pen and I have almost completed our business plan for Frazer Dawson Cyber Security so life is far from over.
“Here, I brought you something,” Pen says, handing me a gift bag. “A little something to stop you moping around.”
I pull a box out of the bag and stare at it.
“What the hell is this?”
Pen laughs.
“Paint by numbers.”
I look at her like she’s lost her mind.
“What the ? —”
Pen shrugs.
“You’ve been moping around since you broke your ankle. You’ve done all your assignments in record time. You hate reading. Our business plan is almost complete. I thought this might be something you could do while sitting. It doesn’t involve any brainpower and is actually good for your mental health, according to the woman in the shop. And god only knows, you could do with some help in that department.”
She jumps out of the way as I lob a cushion in her direction.
I look down at the set in my hand.
What the fuck! I’m a swimmer and a computer programmer, not an artist.
Pen raises an eyebrow. A look of disdain must be written all over my face.
“The box contains everything you need. The picture, the paint, the brushes. Remove that look from your face. If you don’t like it, then give it to Harper or throw it away. But don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Who knows, maybe there’s a budding artist hidden inside that enormous exterior of yours.”
I realise I’ve hurt her feelings. She’s only trying to help. It’s true. I’ve been like a bear with a sore head since my accident. Not because of what it means but more because I’m like a caged animal, unable to do anything for myself, confined to the sofa or my bed.
“Fine—I’m sorry. Thank you. It was kind of you to think of me.”
I grimace, and Pen laughs, her laughter lightening my mood.
“Don’t poo-poo what you haven’t tried. It might surprise you.”
I nod, unconvinced, as Pen sits down on the sofa by my feet.
I wince as the movement jars my ankle.
“Oh shit, sorry.” Pen’s face wrinkles when she realises what she’s done.
“Please don’t apologise. I’m going stir-crazy sat here. Mum is on the warpath. Doctor said rest, and that to her means I can’t move. I feel like I’ve got ants crawling all over me. I need to move that badly.”
Pen inclines her head in sympathy.
“Try the painting. It might surprise you.”
“I will. It can’t be any worse than this,” I say, motioning to my current place of rest.
Pen never found out how that one paint-by-numbers set opened my mind to another world. I spoke to my therapist about it, who recommended art therapy when he realised how enjoyable I found it. Art therapy then turned into a hobby. I look at the number of completed canvases. It may be a trifle more than a hobby.
I stare at the outline composition that now covers the canvas. I love this part, where big sweeping shapes form what will become something. I grab my cloth and begin rubbing out and smudging the paint. My brush and cloth move over the canvas, and before I know it, a picture is taking shape.
By the time I leave my studio and lock the door, I feel calmer, more myself. That was one thing Pen got right. Art is good for my mental health. The room I chose for my art studio floods with light during the day, and I had specialist lighting installed for nighttime painting. It is, and always has been my sanctuary, like Gabriel has his tech man-cave.
My private room, somewhere only Lottie knows about.
Darra never lived here, and to Lottie, it’s always been Dad’s room, somewhere we paint together. Lottie joins me, and it’s been our time, our thing to do together. My heart clenches. I miss her. She messages every day, but it’s not the same. My protective instincts are in overdrive. She may be almost fifteen, but that makes it worse. She’s growing up before my eyes, and my fear grows that one day soon, she’ll no longer need or want me as her dad anymore. She’ll realise I’m broken.