The Art of Rivers Read online

  A smile tickled her lips as she recalled all the times she’d begged and cajoled her father into reading The Chronicles of Narnia. When she’d grown old enough to read, she’d recited them back to him, imitating the funny voices he’d used.

  A speck of sorrow burrowed its way into her consciousness like a tick aiming to begin a festering sore. Memories of reading to her mother after the accident sprouted, and her hand paused over the painting. All the nights Rivers had spent at Mom’s bedside, hoping and praying for healing, her heart had bled, the sharp truth penetrating with the realization that her mother would never be the same.

  No. She wasn’t going into that rabbit hole. Her gaze fell to the nail-scarred hand.

  Behold, I make all things new.

  Someday her mom would be whole. And Jordan was alive in God’s presence. Those facts provided some comfort.

  But what about now? Her grip tightened on the brush in her hand. Did God have restoration for her heart through painting? Would she heal by working with others through art again?

  Praise Him.

  As if summoned, verses tumbled into her mind like a gentle rain.

  They will enter Zion with singing; everlasting joy will crown their heads. Gladness and joy will overtake them, and sorrow and sighing will scurry away.

  Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.

  Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!

  As long as she still had a pulse, she’d lean close to her Savior and offer up praise. Her wobbly voice pitched to try and sing along with the tune playing from the speakers, a song about chains breaking for a sinner. She lifted her hand back to her canvas and brushed on details and highlights and shadows. Smudges of gold, white, and azure. Her gaze returned to the hand in the corner. She still hadn’t been able to bring herself to place a spot of red on the painting.

  Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool.

  Jesus had shed his blood for her—for all who chose to receive His gift. Including her mother and Cooper and the people of Re-Claimed.

  The brush hovered over the palette. She could do this.

  “Hey, am I interrupting?” Gabby plowed through the gallery door and into the studio. She stopped behind Rivers. “Are you finished? Because that’s amazing!”

  Davis leaned on the frame of the door dividing the two rooms. “I wanted to know what all that horrible racket was, but Cooper wouldn’t let me come back here. He claimed it was singing of some sort. I thought it was a turkey mating call.”

  “Shut up.” Worry slathered over Cooper’s face, pinching his forehead, and he moved past both Davis and Gabby to kneel in front of Rivers. “Are you okay?” His gaze roamed her face.

  With the back of her hand, Rivers wiped her cheeks. She’d not realized she’d been crying. “I’m fine. I get emotional when I paint.”

  “I can relate.” A gentle smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Sometimes it’s like going through both a winepress and the refining fire combined when I pick up that brush and try to feel where God is leading, the work He wants to do in me. The creative effort is tough, but cleansing and freeing, and hopefully in the end, healing.”

  Whoa. Cooper actually understood her process—the offering of worship and emotion through art. It seemed as if this man could peer deep into her soul. More tears blurred her vision, and the little quiver in her chin annoyed her to no end. Why did it have to be him who understood? Brooklyn and the rest of Jordan’s family would never approve of their friendship. And having a friend who got her was feeling pretty nice.

  She offered a quick nod and averted her gaze. She’d be out of here in a few weeks anyway.

  Gabby squeezed her shoulders. “I don’t want to put any pressure on you, but I could use an art therapist to work with the ladies. The sweet girl we had got married and moved to Charleston, and we haven’t replaced her yet.”

  “I’m only in St. Simons for a month.”

  “That would be perfect.” Gabby let go and gestured in her exaggerated fashion. “A few more weeks would give us time to find the right person.”

  Fear clawed at Rivers. Am I ready to help others, Lord, while I’m still struggling? It was one thing to consider going back to working with children, but adults? With addiction? “Can’t Cooper do it?”

  “Been there, done that, and it may as well have been a Sasquatch painting in front of them.” Davis walked farther into the room. “Oh, those ladies watched our boy all right, but had not one clue what was on the canvas. It was as if they’d swallowed their own lips drooling over him.”

  Rivers allowed herself a peek at Cooper, who shook his head with a grimace. She could imagine his brooding, dark attractiveness being a bit too much for a group of recovering women.

  “We don’t have to flesh it out right now.” Cooper gave her knee a squeeze, then shot a warning look toward Gabby. “We can all pray about the decision first.”

  “Yeah, well”—Davis snorted—“just throwing this out there if you take the challenge, leave off the joyful noise or hand out earplugs. Maybe give everyone their own cool supersonic headset to mask your turkey-screeching. I mean singing.”

  Rivers intended a huff, though what escaped her mouth sounded like a snicker. She’d heard her own voice, and it was pretty sad.

  Cooper snapped toward Davis and pinned him with a hard stare. “Dude. Seriously.”

  “I know.” Like a scorned puppy, Davis’s head lowered. “Dead man walking away now.”

  “I’m taking off too.” Gabby followed. “Let me know what you decide, Rivers.”

  Rivers couldn’t help but have warm feelings for this whole crew and the way they interacted—admonishing, joking, encouraging.

  STEP ONE. ADMIT HE was powerless over his new addiction. God, help me.

  Cooper pried his gaze from Rivers, stood, and forced his attention onto the picture she’d painted. The landscape in front of him did zilch to cure him of his Rivers fascination, which was quickly evolving into a reckless obsession. The work mesmerized him, swallowed him like the big fish that ate Jonah, but in such a way that he didn’t want to be spit out just yet. He knew full well the brain chemistry associated with viewing beauty on or off a canvas, how the dopamine released, triggering feelings of warmth and pleasure. And his dopamine was exploding like Mount Vesuvius over Pompeii.

  The color, the shapes, the composition—the sheer power of the piece woke places deep inside him—barred off places that had been chained shut. Because he and the ocean had an immense love-hate relationship. The beach held sweet memories of his childhood, a place where he could escape the inevitable bullying he’d endured because of his speech impediment. But the Atlantic had stolen and buried Savannah and then shredded his family.

  On this canvas, Rivers had taken in the beauty of the Atlantic, and her artistic and spiritual voice in the scene swept his breath away. As if a veil had torn away from a blind man’s eyes, he could see the ocean anew, Christ’s hand above all, his scars forgiving Cooper’s failure. There came an almost physical nudge in his soul that this particular message—this painting—was meant specifically for him, and it was not just a message from the earthly fingers that had held the brush.

  “I asked, do you like it?” Rivers spoke barely above a whisper.

  “The way this speaks and communicates to me...my soul...” His throat clogged with emotion, so he swept his hand in a broad gesture toward the painting. “You have an incredible gift. I don’t know how to convey how remarkable.”

  Rapid blinking accompanied a blush. “Thanks. This is the first time I’ve gotten caught up in the Spirit the way I used to before...”

  Before she lost Jordan. His mind finished for her. She never seemed able to speak it. “I’m glad something here unlocked the creativity for you.” Could her heart be unlocked somehow, too?

  He needed to squash
that line of thinking like a mosquito. A pesky mosquito carrying West Nile or something more deadly.

  “I have one more touch on this piece before finishing, and then I’ll go to the cottage. More cleaning out.” Thoughtful, her chin tilted. She gazed at him, melting him into a puddle inside. “Would you be able to deliver dinner tonight? I have some things I want to give you.”

  “Yes.” God, help me. Although he craved being with her, the idea of reentering the cottage with its memories spiked like a nail in his temple and revived the headache that had been forming earlier.

  She turned and dipped her brush in a tiny glob of red paint, then ever so slowly dabbled a spot on the nail-scarred hand. Expelling a long breath in a whoosh, she stood and threw the brush into a jar of water. “I’ll clean up now and go.”

  “Okay.” That was weird. “I’ll let you know when I head your way.” Davis was going to have a field day with this new development. Steeling himself, Cooper returned to the front of the gallery and tried to strike a nonchalant pose beside Davis and Angelo.

  “Doesn’t take a genius squad to see that mini-typhoon you’re being sucked into.” Davis shot him a hard look.

  “More like the storm of the century.”

  Chapter 14

  ONCE SHE’D RESTED AND then cleaned out a closet, Rivers eyed the old brown envelope on the table. She’d been avoiding the emotional landmines that possibly waited in their yellowed pages, but something told her she should wade on in. As if the past held a key to a locked door.

  With hesitant fingers, she opened the letters addressed to Brooklyn and Pearl’s mother.

  Dear Stella,

  You and your wealthy daddy don’t understand the way I came up. It was hard times, most nights nothing but cornbread for supper and a beating with a belt. Sleeping with the cold wind blowing through the cracks in our shotgun house.

  I work hard every day and in the evenings, too, keeping you and the girls well fed and dressed nice. So, I have some drinks at the club. You knew that when we met. Why do you keep hounding me? Drinking helps me relax before a performance.

  It’s not like you’ve never had a sip of wine. Stop being a baby.

  Come back to Savannah and act like a wife.

  Frank

  STELLA,

  You wanted to get married. You decided we’d have kids even though you knew I played the clubs at night. Now, you have the twins—women have children every day. It’s not like you’re in a shack in the country. Don’t play the martyr.

  Frank

  DEAR STELLA,

  I heard our sweet Pearl was in the hospital. I didn’t realize how sick she was. Can you please forgive me? I promise I’ll help. I’ll stop drinking. I can stop for you and the girls. This time will be different, I promise.

  Love always,

  Frank

  STELLA,

  You keep telling me I have a problem, but I’m nothing like my daddy. It’s not my fault that blond came onto me. I didn’t go after her, and things weren’t what they looked like. Yes, she kissed me, but that was all.

  You always blame me. You’re always looking for something to be angry about. It’s no wonder I have to drink. You push me too hard.

  Frank

  DEAR STELLA,

  I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t even have that many drinks after the show, so they must have made them strong. You know Vick and his sense of humor. I promise I’ll change. I don’t care what that policeman said. I never meant to hurt you or the girls. It was an accident, and maybe Pearl and Brooklyn got in the crossfire.

  You know me. You know I’d never deliberately injure a child. I pray they’re not hurt too badly. This is the last time, I promise. Just let me come home. You’ll see.

  Love always,

  Frank

  RIVERS TOSSED THE CORRESPONDENCE back onto the envelope they’d been stored in for so many years. Under the letters sat a news clipping about a one-car accident on a Thanksgiving Day. Frank and the woman with him had died after crashing into a tree. Maybe the blond, maybe another woman, but obviously not Stella. The death certificate indicated that the wreck hadn’t been long after that last envelope was posted. He hadn’t kept his promise.

  The one-sided correspondence painted a vivid, bleak window into Stella’s life. The scenes Rivers imagined twisted her insides. And she hadn’t even opened Stella’s journal yet. What nightmares had been recorded there? No wonder Pearl and Brooklyn separated themselves from Cooper. The twins had already endured having a parent who’d broken their trust, who’d physically abused them. Then they’d endured such a great loss due to a son. One they’d raised with good husbands at their sides. One they’d taught right from wrong.

  Rivers understood what Stella had gone through. A familiar ache grasped her chest.

  She’d get back to the matter at hand, before she got sucked down too deep. Turning her attention back to the piles of old scarves, purses, and costume jewelry, she searched the cabinets for a container or bag to store them in. No luck. Those items could be let go. The letters and the journal she’d give to Cooper. Maybe reading them would help him understand his mother, aunt, and grandmother better—why they’d shut him out after the accident.

  They also might break his heart further. Guilt might push him over some precipice, causing him to start using again.

  She squirmed at how much the idea of Cooper landing back in the clutches of addiction bothered her. The heaviness of it was like a boulder mashing against her chest.

  The cool wind through the open windows cleared the cottage of some of that musty closed-off staleness houses got when they sat empty and unused. A lot like this morning’s art session had freed something inside of her stale soul.

  She sucked in a deep breath of the salty air. The birdsongs and sounds of nature invigorated her. God’s creation had that effect.

  She’d have to ask Cooper or Gabby where the best place to donate was. The Stink Bug couldn’t carry much, so maybe a charity that picked up. Of course, Cooper deserved to have first dibs on the bigger items she discarded. He might need them, especially when she sold the gallery. Or, duh...They might need used furniture and castoffs at Re-Claimed.

  Oh, some smaller things would be perfect for art therapy. Her adrenalin pulsed as creative ideas came alive in her mind. The fabric, buttons, feathers, paint, yarn, and seashells would make a great mixed media project. Maybe the costume jewelry too. Not everyone enjoyed painting on a canvas. In fact, that process intimidated some children. These ladies weren’t that young, but sometimes a person got locked into the age when a past trauma occurred.

  She froze. Was she really going to try to help those people?

  The atmosphere shifted in the room. Darkness seemed to stalk her thoughts as if to consume them. She imagined herself exposed and fragile in front of a group of recovering addicts—the raw issues and the devastation that went along with addiction.

  Stop. Rivers rose to her feet. Grappling with the dilemma required prayer, not wallowing. Maybe it was time for some music too. Her lips lifted when she felt that almost physical tap on her heart. And, yes, dancing.

  She grabbed her phone and cranked up a tune, setting the music to shuffle. Her feet moved to the first song, a slow one, full of praise.

  Great choice, God. The Lover of Her Soul knew she needed to stretch after sitting on the floor for so long, sorting through the past.

  After a few pliés and lunges, she broke into twirls and spins and kicks like a child. Her voice strained to join the worship song. When that tune ended, another faster one began. Bouncing around the room, she belted out the words to the theme song from Trolls. “Can’t Stop the Feeling.” Dance. That was what she needed. To shake off all the negativity clawing at her.

  HE SHOULD’VE STOPPED watching her ten minutes ago because the food was getting cold. But Rivers hadn’t answered the doorbell, and Cooper couldn’t break his gaze from the window—and her dancing inside.

  Would she want him to interrupt?

&nbs
p; Yeah, because standing here spying on her is not creepy at all.

  As it was, he already couldn’t take his mind off this woman. The rescue at the beach. Her caring for Star. The intense painting at the gallery. The horrible-joyful-mournful singing this morning. And again now, her voice was blasting through the open windows. But add in this dancing...this beautiful, strange, passionate dancing.

  His whole body shuddered with emotion. The mix of ballet and modern dance. It was crazy, stirring, her form willowy and flexible. Rivers had told him her father had taken her to dance lessons until her mother’s accident. Too bad she hadn’t been able to pursue that dream, because she had talent. But what did he know other than he couldn’t take his eyes off her?

  Well, one other thing he knew...he’d love to sketch her. If he could somehow capture the kinesthetic control and fluidity of her movements. The arc of her muscles. And curve of her lips.

  Stop. Don’t go there.

  Her voice hit a squeaky high note at that moment, and a small laugh escaped his lips. Man, she sang badly. And loud.

  The music changed to a new song, a love ballad, and she suddenly plummeted out of sight. A guttural sob shredded his trance.

  “No. Why? Why?” Rivers wailed.

  She must’ve hurt herself. Heart pounding, Cooper’s fingers found the door knob, and he barreled inside.

  She knelt with her face in her hands.

  He dropped the meals and sank to his knees beside her. “What happened?”

  Her watery blue gaze lifted to meet his, and her torso shook. “This was what we were going to dance to. Our first dance as man and wife at the wed—” Her head plunged, and the weeping began again.

  His whole being grieved along with her over the loss of her fiancé. Jordan had been like a brother to him before Savannah’s death. Cooper’s arms strained with the desire to pull her to his chest. To comfort her, even though he had no right.