Chasing Castles (Finding Focus #2) Page 10

  And even though he can’t protect me or my heart today, I still want him near me.

  He doesn’t say anything, probably fighting emotions like the rest of us. So, instead, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him. I feel his hard breaths on the top of my head, and then he presses a kiss to my hair.

  “How was Carter?” I ask, needing to focus on something besides the fact that the doctor still hasn’t been out to talk to us.

  “Fine.” Tucker’s voice is gruff. “He wanted to come with me.” I hear the break in his voice with that statement, and I squeeze tighter.

  “Thank you for goin’ by to check on him.”

  He takes another deep breath before saying, “Of course.”

  “It’s better that he doesn’t know what’s going on right now,” I tell him, trying to help him feel better about leaving Carter at Ms. Becky’s, because I know how hard it is for him to say no to his nephew. “This wouldn’t be good for him.”

  “No, I know. I told him one of us would be back to get him in a couple of hours. He asked for Deke.”

  Those words break me. I feel the crack deep inside my chest.

  Deacon is all that Carter has ever known as a father figure. We’d planned for Deacon to adopt Carter after the wedding, but we were waiting to tell him, wanting it to be a wedding surprise for him.

  How will I tell him?

  How will he bounce back from this?

  I know kids are resilient, but I don’t want Carter to have to be. I don’t want him experiencing that level of heartache at such a young age like I did.

  I don’t want history to repeat itself.

  I want Deacon.

  I want him to be Carter’s father.

  I want the life we’ve planned . . . the one we’ve waited so long for.

  Once again, I’m left with the feeling that my life is spiraling, and I’m grasping onto Tucker, needing something to anchor me . . . something to keep me from falling.

  Camille

  Past

  I LOVE JACKSON SQUARE FIRST thing in the morning.

  The beauty of the cathedral, old buildings, and the landscaping of the park is breathtaking. It’s exciting to be here surrounded by all of the talented artists. Every inch of this place inspires me. There’s also the freshness of a new day that is comforting. The crowds of tourists haven’t picked up yet, and the streets are clean for the time being. All of the vendors are setting up for the day while shopkeepers are opening their doors.

  It’s like a fresh lease on life with possibility permeating the air.

  Maybe a portion of this good mood and positivity can be attributed to selling ten pieces yesterday. Ten. In one day. It’s the best business I’ve done in a day since last summer, and it gives me hope and validation. The lady who purchased two of the canvases said she had a friend she wanted me to meet. She said he’s very charming and happens to run a small gallery down on Harrison Avenue.

  Maybe he’ll show up today?

  Maybe he’ll like what he sees?

  Having my art displayed in a gallery would be life changing, a dream come true. Even though I’m normally a dreamer with my head in the clouds, I’m also a realist. I hate getting my hopes up and being disappointed, so I’m trying not to think about it. Too much.

  If he shows, he shows.

  If he doesn’t, I’ll still be here, painting and selling my work.

  One of my favorite parts about this place is being able to watch people all day. From the passers-by, I gain inspiration. The coolest part is painting, right there on the spot.

  This is me.

  This is who I am.

  I feel free.

  I feel like a wild horse running through an open field.

  Okay, that might be the caffeine talking.

  “Good morning,” a deep voice says, catching me off guard.

  I spin around to see a man standing a few feet away. He’s knelt down by one of my larger canvases. The painting he’s inspecting is the Mississippi River. It’s a piece I painted just last week.

  “Good morning,” I reply, sitting my coffee down by my chair and getting up to stand behind the man, admiring my own work. I really love this painting.

  “You must be Camille,” he says, turning to look at me.

  “I am,” I say, my heart beating a little faster when he says my name. I’m not sure if it’s a fight or flight mechanism from all of those stranger danger talks with my dad or if it’s something else entirely. The way his eyes glisten in the early morning sun makes me take a longer look at him, holding his gaze.

  “And you are?” I ask when all he does is stare up at me.

  “Smitten,” he says, giving me a wide smile, showing off his perfectly straight, bright white teeth.

  “That’s my favorite painting,” I blurt out, unsure if he’s talking about me or the canvas.

  “It’s lovely,” he says, turning back. “I’d like to buy it.”

  “O-okay,” I say, my breath catching in my throat and causing me to stutter.

  “How much?”

  “Fifty?” I don’t know why my response comes out as a question. It’s fifty. I sell the small paintings for twenty-five, the medium-sized paintings for fifty, and the large ones for a hundred. “Fifty,” I say a little louder, without the question mark on the end.

  “I’d say I’m getting a steal.” He stands, taking the painting with him as he begins to walk down the wrought iron fence, looking at my other paintings on display.

  “I still didn’t get your name,” I hedge, feeling weird that he knows mine, but I don’t know his. I’m assuming he’s the guy I was told about yesterday, but that doesn’t mean anything.

  “Tristan.” He sits the painting down and offers me his hand. I hesitantly place mine in his and watch in awe as he places his lips on my skin. I’ve only seen someone do this in movies and read about it in books, but experiencing it first-hand has my stomach doing somersaults. “Tristan Harding.”

  I stare at his dark eyes for a split-second too long. Clearing my throat and shaking my head slightly, “Camille Benoit.”

  “Such a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

  Woman?

  Me?

  “Uh, thank you,” I say, once again a statement becoming a question when I don’t mean for it to be.

  “You’re very talented, Camille Benoit. Where did you learn to paint like this?” he asks, turning his head back to my work, but his hand still holding mine.

  “I, uh, I taught myself.”

  “No art classes?”

  “Well, yes, I’ve been a student at UNO the last couple of years.”

  “Very nice. I’ve witnessed some great talent come from that school,” he says, finally letting my hand go and it falls back to my side. “They’re fortunate to have you.”

  “I’m sure it’s the other way around,” I say, honestly. “I love my classes, and I’ve learned so much but, really, I just want to paint. Comin’ here and sellin’ my work seemed like a good way to get some real life experience outside of the classroom.”

  “I agree. And I’m glad I found you here.” He pulls out a business card from the pocket of his double-breasted suit coat. “I’d love to take you to dinner sometime. We can discuss your art. I also have a gallery—”

  “Down on Harrison,” I interrupt.

  “Yes. Technically, my parents own it, but they left it for me to run.”

  “The lady who was here yesterday told me.”

  “Cynthia. She’s one of my assistants. Always on the look-out for a fresh perspective. And you have that.”

  “Thank you.” Hearing his words of praise are good for my soul.

  After he makes his purchases, two medium canvases, bringing my weekly total to fourteen, which is my new record and more than enough to pay my rent for the month.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harding.”

  “Tristan,” he corrects.

  “Tristan,” I repeat, a slight blush creeping up on my cheeks.

 
“I’ll see you around, sweet Camille.”

  “So, how have classes been going?” Tristan asks, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin.

  I take a drink of my sparkling water and swallow quietly.

  “Good,” I tell him, looking around the dimly lit room and having a hard time believing I’m here. It’s making me tongue-tied and nervous. Tristan is so different from anyone I’ve met since I’ve been here and I’ve met a lot of different people. New Orleans is full of unique individuals, but something about Tristan draws me to him.

  “Do you feel like your classes are paying off?” he asks, his eyes squinting like they do when he’s analyzing a painting.

  “I do,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Before college, I’d never had the chance to study art. I feel like I have an even deeper appreciation for it and my classes have helped me hone my craft.”

  “They say all artists need to know their purpose. Do you feel like you’ve found yours?”

  “Yes,” I say, with conviction.

  “And what is that?” he asks, almost challenging me.

  “Well,” I say, leaning back on my hands. “I think originally, my purpose was escape. I was escaping from my life, from the events that were out of my control. Painting gave me a voice and a way to express my grief. Through that, I found a love for expressing myself on canvas. It’s also a way of preserving the past and memories. I think purpose changes as we change. Sometimes, my purpose is so simple, like just wanting to capture a moment of beauty.”

  “That’s beautiful,” he says thoughtfully.

  I shrug under his compliment and sit up a little straighter on the blanket.

  Tristan has set up a picnic, of sorts, in the middle of his art gallery. It’s probably one of the most romantic things anyone has ever done for me. There was a single rose and a bottle of wine and sparkling water and cheeses and fruit . . . so many things that are completely different and new . . . like, Tristan. He’s so unexpected and intriguing.

  “Camille, you know what you want. You know why you paint. You have a clear perspective and vision. That’s what makes an artist special.” He pauses to stare at me across the blanket, tipping his wine glass to his lips before he continues. “You have something that can’t be taught. It’s a natural gift.”

  Taking a deep breath, my stomach flips, just like it does when he brushes my skin with his fingers or twirls a strand of my hair. His words get to me.

  I’ve always had people in my life who believe in me, but there’s something different about Tristan telling me how good he thinks I am. He knows art. So, for him to see something special in me, it makes me believe that maybe there is. Maybe I’m not just some girl with a paintbrush. Maybe, I can be someone.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, trying not to let my emotions get the best of me.

  “No thanks needed. I only speak the truth.”

  His intense stare makes me feel uncomfortable, but not in a horrible way. It’s like an electric current under my skin—like he’s touching me with his eyes. I feel exposed and desired. Last week, after a late night coffee date, we almost kissed, but I got spooked and pulled back. Since then, he’s only made small gestures toward me, like he’s waiting for a sign or for me to say it’s okay. But I don’t know if it is. I don’t know exactly what I feel for Tristan.

  He’s beyond handsome, with his dark hair and eyes that match. And he’s so smart. And successful. But I’m still trying to figure out if I’m attracted to him because of who he is or the person he is. I’m not the kind of girl that falls into someone’s arms because of what they can do for me.

  “I have to go,” I tell him, needing a little space so I can think. “I have to be up early to get my spot on the square in the morning.”

  “A brilliant artist like you shouldn’t be peddling art on the street corner,” he says with a touch of disgust in his voice that confuses me. That’s where he met me was on the square . . . and he bought my art on the street corner.

  “Come work for me.”

  “What?”

  “Here,” he says, looking around the dimly lit room. The paintings shroud in shadows, but still so beautiful. “I could use someone to field phone calls and be available for private showings. An art gallery doesn’t run itself. It would give you a chance to make money while you’re finishing school and I think you’d learn a lot about the business side of art.”

  “But you have Cynthia.”

  “Yes, but she’s busy with other things. I need someone who’s devoted to the gallery.”

  “But I have my paintings to sell . . . I have my spot.”

  “You can sell your paintings here. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about having a show,” he says, his eyebrows lifting. “A Camille Benoit debut.”

  “Really?” I ask, and now my heart is beating fast for an entirely different reason. “A show?”

  “Yes, I’ve been thinking about it since the first day I saw your work. If you can complete a few more pieces by the end of January, we could schedule something for February.”

  “With just my work?” I ask, still not sure if I understand him right. How can he mean a show with just my work?

  “Just you.”

  “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  “You can say yes.”

  “I . . . I, well, I love selling my art on the square, but . . .”

  “But you’re better than that.” His statement almost sounds like a reprimand. “Listen, you’re going home for the holiday, right?”

  “Yes, I leave in two days.”

  “Right, well, why don’t you think about it and then let me know your answer when you return. I’ll make reservations for us at Restaurant August.” He stands and offers me his hand. When I’m on my feet, his hand leaves mine, and he wraps his arm around my waist.

  “It’d make me happy if you’d say yes,” he says, his voice and warm breath at my neck.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, smiling. I don’t think Tristan is used to people not crumbling at his will.

  A light growl escapes his mouth as his lips find the sensitive skin under my ear and my breath hitches.

  “You,” he says between nips. “You’re going to make me work for what I want. Aren’t you?”

  I can only laugh lightly in response, my eyes closing on their own free will.

  He pulls me back slightly, and his usual brown eyes are almost pitch black in the dim light.

  “I always get what I want.”

  His lips are sure and confident, doing just that.

  Camille

  Present

  WHEN THE DOORS OPEN AND a man in a white coat walks through, we all stand, our focus turning solely to him.

  “Landry family?” he asks.

  “That’s us,” Annie says, standing abruptly and walking over to join Sam. Micah walks over and stands behind her, placing his arm on her shoulder.

  It’s then that I realize I’m not a Landry. Not yet. Not technically, anyway. I may feel like I’m part of the family and I might be treated as part of the family, but I’m not. I have no earthly ties to Deacon, no authority. If I’ve ever needed a reason to marry him, it’s right now. I want that. I want to be able to say that he’s mine and for it to be true, in every sense of the word.

  We’ve taken things slowly our entire lives, always feeling like we’ve had time, but the truth is we don’t. Because as I stand here, waiting to hear what the doctor has to say, I know that forever would not be long enough. I need the past, the present, and the future and anything beyond that I can get.

  He’s mine.

  I wish it were Deacon who just walked through that door.

  I wish he were standing there showing off his dimples and smile.

  I need him.

  I need him so much it hurts.

  As I wait for the doctor to speak, seconds feel like minutes and minutes feel like hours. On their own accord, my feet walk slowly to stand behind Micah, needing to be as close as possible to hear
what the doctor has to say.

  “How is he?” Annie asks. Her voice sounds like my heart feels—on edge, splintered, trying to hold itself together.

  The doctor takes a deep breath and exhales, and I fight the urge to grab him and shake him. I don’t know what’s come over me, but if he doesn’t say something in the next second, I might scream. The waiting is too much. The truth of the situation, although it might not be what we want to hear, will be better than the unknown.

  The unknown is what kills. It’s what allows fears to become reality and worst-case scenarios to infiltrate your mind.

  The unknown is what has my heart clawing its way out of my chest.

  “He’s critical but stable. The next hour will be crucial.”

  “What does that mean?” Sam asks the question that’s on the tip of my tongue.

  “It means he’s still unconscious, but his brain activity is good and his oxidation levels are improving, so we expect him to wake up soon. He’s on a ventilator, but we’ll take him off as soon as he shows us he can breathe on his own. Right now, his leg is being looked at. The x-ray showed no fracture. So, the laceration is being cleaned and stitched. He has a few 2nd-degree burns, but nothing too substantial.”

  “So he’s gonna be okay?” I ask, feeling the first full breath enter my lungs since I drove up to the restaurant.

  “Yes,” the doctor says with confidence. “He’s lucky. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Annie sobs.

  “Thank you,” Sam adds. His voice is still tight with emotion, but relief is evident in his tone.

  A cumulative sigh is heard from everyone else in the room, but I still feel on edge. I don’t think I’ll truly be able to relax until I see him with my own eyes and know he’s okay. I need that smile and the dimples that light up a room. I need the look he saves just for me. The one that has always been mine. The one that tells me everything is right in the world.