Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
Riley
Last night, I kicked off my shoes, tore off my strapless bra, and crawled into bed and hid from the world.
Ari gave me a ride home and offered to stay, but I’d told her all I wanted to do was get under a blanket and try to blot out that horrible night.
It’s now 10 a.m. the next morning, and I haven’t moved, except to answer a call from Pete. I owe him that much.
He’s not angry with me. In his typical, gentle way, he explains the situation, and I’m registering about half of it.
“There’s enough money in reserves for this program to last through the end of the year, but after that we’re gonna have to figure out something else,” Pete says.
“Okay,” I sigh.
“It’s not the end of the world, but I’m not gonna lie. It looks bad.”
“I know.”
I eventually get him off the phone, wipe my tear-swollen face, and make some calls to friends down in Asheville. I’d better see if anybody down there is looking for a housemate, because I’m gonna have to get a real job and start paying real rent.
This sucks.
It turns out, Songbird Ridge’s belief that artists shouldn’t be starving might just be a myth. If things are this fragile, then they aren’t meant to last.
I make a few calls, all the while ignoring texts and calls from Rowdy.
I haven’t sorted out my feelings about how he handled the situation. Mostly, I’ve been beating myself up.
But I can’t have him hovering. I need to figure my shit out.
On the other hand, I miss him. It’s been less than twelve hours since he blew up my whole existence, and yet I miss holding his hand. I miss the way he looks at me. I miss his kiss, his hand on my lower back, the way he’s so gentle with me.
It’s my fault for inviting him. I never thought he would blow up while listening to someone criticize me. I should have prepared him for that. I should have told him I can handle it. Yes, it hurts, but that’s art, folks. Not everybody gets it.
I should have told him to let me handle it.
But I never suspected he would lose his cool and actually threaten Wilson Fucking Rogers III.
It’s shameful how my body reacts to the mere idea of Rowdy sticking up for me. I hate violence. I despise it. And yet…
The thought of Rowdy flattening that pompous, beady-eyed overgrown frat boy with no taste…well, it does wicked things to my body.
I hate it.
But I don’t.
But I do.
Here I am, putting my life together, and I sabotaged it all with one fake date.
I take a drink of water that Ari left on the nightstand, along with two Tylenol tablets.
I take a shower, then add the lilac dress to my pile of dry cleaning, hoping that my tears didn’t do too much damage to the silk.
And then I put on a pot of coffee, throw on my favorite smock, and get to work.
If I have to really earn my own keep, I’d better keep working.
I decide to do a self-portrait. This time, not my vagina. Yeah, Wilson interpreted everything correctly. It was exactly what he thought it was, but so far from pornography, it’s laughable.
No, this self-portrait is my face—my swollen, red, tired, sad face, wet hair. All I need is a bandage around my head and I’ll be indistinguishable from late-stage Van Gogh.
But it is what it is.
At least painting gets me out of my head.
What feels like hours later, I get a text from Daphne downstairs.
Daphne
Sorry to bug you, baby, but can you come downstairs? I need to show you something.
Sorry, Daph. If it’s bad news, I can’t handle any more of it.
Daphne
I promise, this isn’t going to make your day any worse.
Dammit, Daphne.
I head downstairs and push into the gift shop, where Daphne is polishing a pottery display.
“What is it?” I ask.
I follow her to the back office, where she hands me a letter. “Courier delivered it this morning.”
“Courier? Is that still a thing?”
“I don’t ask those kinds of questions when a courier is standing right in front of me,” she says.
Unsure what this is about, I open the envelope and read the letter inside.
At the same time, Daphne narrates, clearly having read this letter five times and memorized it. As treasurer, she’s entitled to open any mail addressed to the arts guild.
“Dear Ms. Hutchinson, we are pleased to announce that Songbird Ridge is the latest recipient of our corporate grant for $2 million…”
“Wait a minute, are you sure this is real?” I ask.
I examine the letter and the envelope. The return address is from Evergreen Tools. Daphne nods. “It’s real. I just got off the phone with the district manager.”
“But I’ve never heard of this company…” I trail off because it does ring a bell. I’ve seen the name somewhere.
Suddenly, it hits me. While snooping around at Rowdy’s house, I saw a magnet with that name on the fridge. A coffee mug. A mousepad.
“The only condition is, they want to build an arts education center, where people can go to learn how to paint, how to make pottery, glass blowing, weaving.”
I stare at her quizzically. “That’s going to take a bigger amount than two million just to set that up.”
She shrugs. “All they said they needed was for the town to provide the land to build it on. Pete is already working on it.”
I stand there dumbfounded while Daphne explains all the ins and outs of this.
“How did this company find out about us?”
Daphne smiles. “They sponsored a table at the gala. After Rowdy left with Hodges, the executives from Evergreen Tools drove up the final price of every live auction item through bidding wars. I was going to tell you, but I was waiting until all the checks cleared. The town made so much money that this grant matches what we made last night. We have enough to keep everyone’s base salaries going, plus start a reserve fund for emergencies. ”
I’m barely registering all of this. All I’m thinking about is the person I need to see next.