Chapter 27
ROXY
Idrove for half an hour, under a cloudy, rainy night sky, to escape Nashville until the city became a distant blip.
My destination was a rustic farmhouse by a lake that my mother and I inherited from my maternal grandmother, Tabitha.
Elsa used it for part-time rentals, so I called her to check whether it was booked.
‘Mum, I need to get away for a bit to Hazelwood,’ I told her when she picked up.
‘Of course, honey. We don’t have anyone renting it at the moment; it’s free for a couple of months. Everything alright?’
‘I’m OK, look I’ll call you when I settle in.’
I also added that if Angel contacted her, she was to insist that I was fine and safe, not to worry, and not to come looking after me.
Kudos to my mother; she never asked for an explanation.
She’d learned with me to wait until I chose to tell her more.
I rang off, and in a few minutes I turned into the winding driveway.
It was a stunning estate, tucked away in the gorgeous community of Leiper’s Fork, Tennessee, and close to boutique shops, local food spots, and fantastic architecture.
The property offered the ultimate in country serenity.
It sat on a solid twenty acres with its own small private lake surrounded by rolling hills, mature hardwood forests, and lush meadows.
The lodge blended sophisticated modern finishes and luxury with log-cabin charm.
Inside, a massive stone hearth sat at the center of the whole space.
Five bedrooms, including a dreamy primary retreat, branched off the hallway, each well appointed with beautiful modern oak furniture.
The home also featured two luxe guest suites and a versatile studio space, perfect for music, art, or working from home.
Outside the windows, undulating green fields stretched toward the smoky blue ridges on the horizon.
Grandmother Tabitha had been a kind, lovely woman with a wicked sense of humor and fierce independence.
She’d spent her days rescuing stray animals and baking biscuits that could cure any heartache.
She passed away from old age over ten years ago and left the house to Elsa and me in secret.
Interestingly enough, she cut out Evangeline, stating my half-sibling would inherit more than enough from Reese, who had made it clear there was nothing in his will for Elsa or me.
When I arrived, the temperature was dropping fast as a freezing breeze swept through the valley.
A silver crescent moon hung above the pines, casting pale shadows across the gravel porch.
I bumped in using my set of keys to the place.
I moved shopping bags inside and stocked the kitchen with basic groceries: milk, butter, bread, oatmeal, eggs, fresh vegetables, and ginger ale I got at a store along the way.
I also lugged my wooden crates of art supplies into the sunroom and set up my easel near the glass panels to catch the natural light.
Afterward, I messaged Mimi, Chloe, and Elena, and even Sofia, with an excuse about needing time to get away and paint; then I shut down my phone.
I had holiday owing at the gallery and planned to apply for extended leave ASAP.
The farmhouse had Wi-Fi, but I planned to use only my laptop to connect to the internet and kept my online usage to a minimum.
That first night, after cooking, eating, and locking up, I cried into my pillow for hours.
I just wanted someone to put a comforting arm around me and let me weep until I fell asleep.
My left hand felt bizarrely naked without my wedding ring, the bare skin serving as a reminder of my wrecked hopes.
Falling into a restless sleep, I dreamed of Angel all night.
I missed his muscled arms, the solid warmth of his torso against my back, and his unyielding strength.
When I woke, his face was all I saw.
So I took long walks through the acreage and by the lake, trying to forget him.
Nature helped.
The gorgeous views and the sound of chirping birds calmed my churning heart.
A small woodland was home to squirrels and deer.
Closer to the water, I spotted geese, ducks, and other waterfowl.
Over the next few weeks, I established a quiet routine at the farmhouse.
I woke up early, ate, and painted, adding more vibrant canvases to my Capri collection, using bright cerulean and citrus hues.
To express my inner frustration at Angel, I also rendered several chaotic abstract pieces with layers of charcoal and crimson acrylic paint.
To pass the evenings, I sifted through the old DVDs Tabitha left behind.
I re-watched classic 1950s movies like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Roman Holiday, and Sabrina.
However, severe pregnancy nausea struck with a vengeance as the days rolled by.
I hit seven weeks, and the round-the-clock sickness only subsided when I was chewing food.
The constant, churning misery made it impossible to sleep or find a comfortable position.
I couldn’t bear the thought of socializing or working until the first trimester was over.
Then came the staggering fatigue at week nine, when any physical exertion felt harder than ever.
Worse of all, though, was dealing with my residual feelings about Angel.
I was freakin’ pissed off at how gullible he’d been over the years regarding my sister.
I also confronted my buried anger toward Evangeline.
For years, she lashed out, her behavior sliding deeper into entitlement, narcissism, and abuse.
Reese’s pressure on her to be perfect didn’t help, but that was no excuse.
Her trauma was an explanation, sure, but not a rationale for destroying my marriage.
She did not deserve my forgiveness or my understanding.
Not now.
Not freakin’ ever.
ANGEL
Rattling around my house without Roxy was the worst penance possible.
I hated every second.
Her absence showed how much I had taken her presence for granted.
She was kind and sweet, and she tempered my brooding edges.
Plus, she was sexy as hell; our lovemaking was wild, euphoric, and out of this world.
Being without her was killing me.
I tried calling and texting her again, almost once or twice a day, and got nothing in return.
I gave in and called Elsa to ask where her daughter was.
‘She told me to tell you she’s fine and very safe, Angel,’ her mother said with the same gentle cadence that reminded me so much of my wife.
‘So you know where she is.’
‘I do, but I can’t say.’
‘Is she well and safe?’
‘She is.’
A wild tear hit me. ‘Is she with anyone else?’
‘Angel, really? You know Roxy is better than that.’
I did, and I might have pushed Elsa to tell me more, but that would have been disrespectful.
No doubt it would have also gotten back to Roxy, so I rang off with a heavy heart.
It was clear now; she wanted time and space away from me.
I gave her that, but truth be told, my emotions swung into extremes.
I couldn’t predict if the next second would bring gut-wrenching pain or temporary numbness.
All I experienced was the ache getting worse.
I had vivid dreams of her.
She was the first thought in my mind at dawn and the last before I slept.
I yearned and longed for her with all my soul.
But I had to allow her distance. I probably also needed that time to test my own character and prove I deserved her trust if she ever let me back in.
So I focused on what I could control.
I worked on my healing, pouring my soul into the music, and planning the downfall of Reese’s corrupt empire.
Bishop came by my place one Tuesday evening for a beer and burger, and Roxy soon came up in conversation.
I soon shared how much I was not coping with her absence.
‘Some days I’m doing fine, others I slump right into a freakin’ depression,’ I told him, tracing a line in the condensation on my bottle. ‘That’s the price I’m paying for failing her.’
Bishop listened, leaning on the counter.
‘I want Roxy back,’ I muttered, the admission cutting deep. ‘I want her to walk through that front door. I want to explore a future with her. I’ve texted her, but everything I’ve sent remains unanswered.’
I shook my head.
‘She isn’t even opening the messages. My brain can’t process how immensely I miss her. Hell, man, I can’t eat, sleep, or think. Way worse than when I got jilted.’
‘Why?’
‘Because all I do is think of her, of how she shows grace, how sweet, amazing she is and fuck, how much I love her.’
My mate arched a brow. ‘So you do love her?’
I jolted in shock.
‘Hell, first time I’ve admitted it.’
Bishop chuckled.
‘Not so hard now was it? Your mind is still playing catch-up, mate,’ Bishop said, his voice steady.
‘It’s like my head refused to believe it that my heart was hers from the moment we exchanged vows,’ I rasped, pushing a hand through my hair.
Bishop took a slow sip from his bottle.
‘Sucks that I caught on too late,’ I confessed. ‘Hell, man, I screwed this up.’
Bishop set his beer down and gazed intently at me.
‘Brother, be gentle with yourself. We’re all out here doing our best. Sometimes that isn’t good enough, so we strive harder to make it better. One day at a time.’
‘It feels like a losing battle right now,’ I said, my jaw tightening.
‘The biggest lesson? Find your healing,’ Bishop insisted, pointing a finger at my chest. ‘Also fill your time with your crew, hobbies, work. An idle mind is a dangerous playground.’
I rubbed my tired face.
‘Journal or write music,’ Bishop advised. ‘It always helps to voice your struggles instead of locking them down. Seek therapy, too. Professionals will help you untangle the toxicity of Evangeline.’
I huffed. ‘I’m not that lost a cause yet.’
‘Jury remains out, my friend,’ Bishop shot back.
‘Fuck off.’
We shared a grin as he steered the conversation to sports, turned on the television, and we lost ourselves in a Knicks playoff game.
Brian and Amos at Waring Partners hit the jackpot, first with Maurice’s whereabouts.
‘We found him skulking in a club downtown, asking about Roxy and dealing coke on the side,’ Amos told me on the phone. ‘We got the local sheriff on it, and they hauled him away. He’s wanted on charges in New York for murder, so he’s going away for good.’
That brought me some relief.
They also had news on their investigation into Reese Rosedale.
The pair delivered a thick folder to our Six Sinners’ HQ in Nashville.