Dane's Storm Page 5

  I glanced at Jay, and he had put his foot on the floor and was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees as he listened attentively.

  “When we were in the process of divorcing, Dane offered to put some money aside for me despite the agreement. I refused, telling him I only wanted the building, nothing more. He agreed, and as far as I was concerned, that was that.” I cringed, shaking my head at my own naïveté. “It was a painful time. I wasn’t thinking clearly, I suppose, but what in the world could his family want with a rundown building on the edge of town anyway?”

  “What do they want with it?”

  “Apparently, a big industrial park is going in and they’ve already bought up the surrounding businesses.”

  “For what? To sell them for profit?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “So, what were previously rundown buildings on the edge of town have become premium real estate.”

  I sighed. “I suppose. Only the Townsend family is already richer than God. I don’t get it.”

  Jay shook his head. “Rich people are never rich enough. According to them.”

  I bit at my lip. “I guess. Only . . . Luella Townsend has always hated me. I never imagined she’d still feel that after all this time.”

  His expression was somber. “She’s a powerful enemy to have. I looked her up. From what I could find online, she’s practically royalty here in Colorado. Why does she hate you?”

  “She always has. I thought it had to do with the fact that we didn’t have much money and she viewed me as some little gold digger trying to steal her grandson and his fortune. Even after I signed the prenup, though, she never thawed. And apparently, her disdain for me is alive and well. I went to see her at her country club and she was as heartless as ever.”

  “You told her the business is your life, right?”

  I stared at him for a moment, his words taking me off guard. The business was my life, though. He was right. God, it was all I had. I was twenty-seven years old and it was all I had. Maybe that was pitiful, but it was true. I nodded.

  “She’s giving me thirty days to vacate the premises.”

  Jay pressed his lips together, his face taking on the expression it did when he was problem solving. After a minute, he asked, “Have you thought about calling your ex?”

  A hot rush of anxiety coursed through me. “No,” I breathed, shaking my head. “No, I don’t want to talk to Dane.”

  “Not even to save Thistles and Thatch? Not to save the whole wedding mall?”

  “What can he do? I have to call a lawyer, but I did a search on Google, and my situation doesn’t look good. I signed that prenup. I knew exactly what it said.”

  “So, you think Dane knows about this?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “Audra, court cases have been won because of verbal contracts. What you and Dane had was a verbal contract. If he agrees to that, you could have a good chance against his grandmother.”

  I blinked. A tiny trickle of hope ran down my spine, but so, too, did a bolt of fear. I couldn’t talk to Dane. I didn’t ever want to talk to Dane again. I . . . couldn’t. And more so, he wouldn’t want to speak to me either. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

  “Call him, Audra. At least to find out if he knows about this. Best-case scenario, he doesn’t, disagrees with this awful thing his grandmother is doing to you, and can do something to stop her. Even if your legal case doesn’t look good, maybe she’ll listen to him and you can avoid court altogether.”

  “If he’s not in on it.”

  “Right. But you won’t know unless you talk to him.”

  I bit at my lip again, feeling uncertain, but also slightly better than I had before. I’d considered calling Dane earlier, but dismissed it when just the thought gave me stomach cramps, opting instead to do a Google search on the topic of prenuptial agreements and property ownership. When that yielded bad news, I’d left Jay a voicemail and curled up on the couch. But hearing Jay’s insistence that I needed to be proactive and call Dane, and with the possibility that I did have some actual ammunition—a verbal contract—I felt a little invigorated.

  Call Dane? Call Dane. I took a deep breath. It’d been seven years. I could do this. If it meant saving my business—the one thing in the world I lived for—then I could do this.

  I smiled softly. “Thank you, Jay. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I could only hope my newfound confidence wouldn’t lead to more heartbreak. How much could one person survive? How much could I survive?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Audra

  The bastard wasn’t taking my calls. I paced in front of my kitchen table, dialing the now familiar number, hitting the speaker button and holding it in front of me as it rang.

  “Townsend Robotics.”

  I halted in my pacing. “Dane Townsend, please.”

  There was a pause and what I thought was an impatient sigh. His secretary obviously recognized my voice. “Mr. Townsend isn’t available.”

  “You don’t say.”

  A small harrumph sounded from the other line before her sugary voice said with false sweetness, “May I take a message?”

  “I’m sure you know this is Audra Kelley. Again. Have you given him my other messages?”

  “Oh, good morning, Ms. Kelley. Yes, every one. Mr. Townsend is a very busy man. I’m sure he’ll call you back as soon as he has a moment.”

  “Did you tell him it’s an emergency?” I kept my voice calm though I wanted to shout.

  “I made sure it was on the message.”

  The asshole. Pinpricks of rage climbed my spine, causing me to pick up my pacing. “Please tell Mr. Townsend I called again,” I said stiffly, my jaw rigid with frustration. “Tell him it’s of the utmost importance that he calls me back. Again. Please. And tell him that time is of the essence. Again. Thank you.”

  “Will do, Ms. Kelley,” she sang in my ear before hanging up. I let out an angry growl, tossing my phone onto the table. Hot tears threatened, but I refused to allow them to flow. No, I would not cry. Tears solved nothing.

  He knew. He knew what his grandmother was doing and that’s why he was avoiding me. It was the only explanation. No one was so busy they couldn’t return a quick phone call after ten calls over the course of a week. Damn him. Why? I was angry, but I also couldn’t deny the deep stab of hurt. We hadn’t ended well. We’d gone down in a fiery blaze of agonizing pain. Did he still resent me so much? It’d been so long . . . surely he’d . . . moved on.

  I sighed, plopping down into a kitchen chair and putting my head in my hands. I had moved on. Moved . . . forward. I’d thought so anyway, at least as much as one could move on from utter devastation. But before this mess, I still would have said I was okay. I had been excited about the successes of my company. I went entire weeks without suffering one of those days where I just felt inexplicably crushed and wanted to spend the day in bed. When I did have those days, I pulled myself out of bed anyway. Yes, I would have said I was doing just fine.

  And now suddenly, I felt alone, drifting aimlessly into murky waters I didn’t understand and couldn’t navigate. I hated feeling lost, hopeless, and so scared I woke up each day with the hairs standing up on the nape of my neck.

  The way I used to . . . then.

  No, don’t go there. Don’t.

  And yet, almost without thought, I found myself wandering down the hall, into the spare room with the half-door that led to the attic. I hesitated outside it, before I reached down and turned the handle, the familiar squeak bringing a rush of memories. I inhaled a quick gulp of air. Why am I doing this? And yet, as if I were in a dream, I felt strangely disconnected like I was both in it and watching from somewhere far away.

  Bending my back, I ducked through the small opening and pulled on the light within, climbing the creaky stairs. It smelled of dust and mothballs, and I sneezed once, moving a cobweb out of the way as I made it to the last step. The overhead beams were low enough that I had to walk hu
nched over, moving toward the subdued light of the round, grimy window. When I’d made it to where the sunlight created a patch of shadowy light on the old wood, I knelt and glanced around.

  Dusty boxes littered the space and dust motes spun lazily in the low light adding to the dream-like feeling. My eyes lingered for a moment on the gray rubber bin to the right of the window, and a slow-moving swell of agony rose within me before I tore my eyes away. Away . . . away, up to the wall above where a single blue butterfly had been painted in a childish hand. It was the lone one on that portion of the wall and it fluttered there in strange solitude as if once upon a time I’d known what would remain beneath it.

  My eyes moved away from the singular butterfly to where there were several more in varying shades of color. They climbed the upper wall and spilled onto the peaked ceiling—the only portion that was finished in planks of wood and not just open beams. Butterflies fluttered and flew on almost every available space above me and my lips tipped into a small smile.

  I’d drawn them, each and every one. When I’d gotten in trouble as a girl and been sent to my room, I’d snuck out into the bedroom next to my own with my art supplies, and tiptoed up to this attic. My father’s disability didn’t allow him to climb stairs and so even if he came looking for me, he could only call my name from the bottom floor. Here I’d draw butterfly after butterfly, delicate-winged creatures that were not only beautiful, but could fly away on the slightest of breezes. Maybe I’d wanted to as well.

  I stayed kneeling in the tiny pool of muted sunlight, closing my eyes and tilting my face upward as if in prayer. Although I’d prayed once and those prayers hadn’t been answered. I didn’t expect any answers now. Still, this had once been my secret place, my sanctuary of sorts, and that long-ago feeling of peace fell over me despite the painful memories that lived here too.

  I wasn’t a child anymore, though, and I couldn’t stay here forever, finding solace in pretend games and painted butterflies. My eyes lingered on that bin, too scared to move closer, fear and yearning spiraling inside me like a howling wind. I tore my eyes away, taking another deep breath—clenching my eyes shut momentarily—and then turning in the shaft of sunlight, making my way toward the stairs.

  As I shuffled in my hunched-over position, my foot caught on the uneven edge of a floorboard and I tripped sideways, catching myself on a stack of dusty boxes. I swore under my breath. The boxes teetered backward as I righted myself and I tried to stop them from toppling over but wasn’t quite quick enough. The old box on top broke apart when it hit the floor and papers and files slid out, landing in a messy pile. “Damnit,” I muttered again. I didn’t have time to clean this up now. I’d have to get a new box and throw all these old papers inside it later. Not that they were probably anything of importance, because from what I could tell by the ones on top, they were old tax documents.

  I started to move again, when I noticed what looked like a letter among the other papers. I bent lower, picking it up. I frowned when I saw the name “Bea” scrawled on the front. Who was Bea?

  The letter was sealed, but the glue was old enough that when I picked at the seal, it opened easily. I unfolded the paper inside, my eyes moving over the script:

  My beloved Bea,

  My heart aches as I write this and yet I know what I’m doing is for the best. If I were a selfish man, I’d show up today. I’d run away with you as we planned, and I’d spend my life loving you. It would be the easiest thing in the world for me to do, Bea. The easiest. But it would also be the most selfish, because I could never give you the life you deserve. I have so little, not even enough to begin a small life for us. Eventually, the realities of everyday survival would be bigger than the wild love we feel now, and you’d grow to resent me for all you were forced to give up. I couldn’t live with that. I couldn’t live watching the fire in your eyes slowly fade to ash. I couldn’t know that I was responsible for it.

  I won’t be there today, Bea. I won’t even send this letter, because I know you and you’ll try to convince me otherwise, and I’ll be unable to resist you. Instead, I write this for me, to confirm that I’m doing what I know to be right. To remind myself that the tree protects the flower, but in doing so, is frozen for all time.

  I won’t take you in my arms as I long to do with every breath. But you will be in my heart, every day for the rest of my life.

  Yours always,

  Wallace

  I read the letter one more time, sadness racing through me as I noted the date at the top. How tragic! My grandfather loved another woman before he met my grandmother and he deserted her without ever telling her why? A woman named Bea? I folded the letter back up, wishing my grandfather were still alive to ask him about it. I pictured my grandfather—a stoic but kind man who’d always seemed to have sadness in his eyes. He’d told me our family had Cheyenne Indian in us, and I’d inherited his bone structure and dark hair. He died when I was so young, and I’d always attributed the sorrow in his eyes to my father’s state, never even considering that he’d experienced things beyond our own family as I supposed all children were apt to do. My grandmother had been a kind woman, but I’d always sensed more of a friendship between her and my grandfather than a great, romantic love. I looked at the letter. Well, now I’d never know who the woman named Bea was. He’d taken the memory to his grave.

  I put the letter on top of the pile of loose papers and shuffled forward to the stairs. With the small reminder that sad things happened to people all the time and life went on, I headed to my room, took a quick shower, and got ready for work. If I was going to continue to hold on to hope, I had to operate as if something would work out. If I allowed my business to crumble then it was as good as admitting that Luella Townsend had already won.

  When I walked into my studio an hour later, Jay was already there, a cup of coffee in hand. “Morning, sunshine.”

  I smiled weakly as I began taking off my jacket.

  “Still no call back?” he asked. I appreciated the sympathy in his voice, but it also embarrassed me. He obviously felt sorry for me.

  “No,” I answered flatly. “I called again this morning and his secretary keeps telling me she’s given him the messages.” I sighed, hanging up my coat and tossing my purse onto the table.

  Jay came around his desk and leaned his butt on the edge. “If the bastard won’t call you back, go to him and demand he talk to you.”

  “I can’t. He’s in California.”

  “They do make these things called airplanes now.”

  I expelled a breathy laugh. “Fly to California? I . . . that seems kind of drastic.”

  “A woman is trying to steal your place of business and leave you penniless. I’d say that calls for drastic action.”

  I worried my lip. “Fly to California and confront him?”

  He shrugged. “It seems like that’s the only option he’s leaving you with.”

  My chest tightened. Calling had been one thing . . . The anger of him not returning my call had even spurred me forward and made it easier to keep calling. But to see Dane in person? My stomach squeezed uncomfortably and without a thought, I placed a hand on it. I simply didn’t know if I could muster the strength to go to Dane—to see him in person.

  “What really happened between you two?” Jay asked. “I mean, you said you were young but . . .”

  My eyes snapped to his and he left the thought hanging. What really happened between you two? “We just . . .” I shook my head. “I , we . . . I mean, we got married because I was pregnant,” I said hesitantly. “Our baby”—I cleared my throat—“didn’t . . . live. And after that we . . . just fell apart. Our marriage didn’t survive it.” I nearly didn’t survive it.

  “Damn, Audra, I’m so sorry.”

  I shook my head, grimacing. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago and I . . . I’m past it as much as you can, you know, move past something like that. I don’t think about it anymore.” About him. A jolt of guilt moved through me at my own words, feelin
g the wrongness of my statement, but it was true. I made sure it was true because it was how I survived.

  Jay was watching me closely, a small frown mixed with the still-sympathetic look in his eyes. “It’s common that couples who lose a child don’t make it.”

  I nodded and the movement felt jerky. “I know, yes. We, um, didn’t beat the odds. Not to mention we had other things working against us. Anyway.” I turned, began rifling through some papers on my desk, not wanting to talk about this anymore because talking about it forced me to think about it.

  “Well, take today to consider going to see Dane, okay?” Jay asked gently.

  I nodded. I didn’t even really have the money for airline fare. The McMaster deposit should arrive in a day or two, so I supposed I could use some of that for a plane ticket and hotel room for a couple of days.

  But then I’d have to hope I had the money to purchase all the flowers and supplies for the wedding in two months.

  However, if I didn’t do something, I wouldn’t have a business at all by that point.

  I told Jay I was going to get a cup of coffee and left the studio to head to the kitchen. On the way, I stood at the railing staring at the first floor and foyer I’d admired—thinking it’s really mine—just the week before. Life could change in an instant, a heart-shattering moment. Who knew that better than I did?

  Only, some things couldn’t ever be fixed. Maybe, maybe this could be fixed if I took the chance and fought.

  The videographer, who rented a space downstairs, came in the front door and waved at me with a smile as she headed to her office. I gave her a small smile and a wave in return. The thing was, what was happening wouldn’t only affect me, and that thought had kept me awake at night too. I had a building that housed other businesses, some of whom had paid the rent for the year. Money I’d already allocated into the remodeling. I’d have to go into debt to pay that back. They’d lose their business base too, and though it’d be easier for them simply to move and begin somewhere new, it would still be a disappointment and hardship.