Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (28 page)

“I had to,” Claire said. “I thought she might know where you were. I kept thinking you were so upset, that you’d drink yourself into a stupor, and crash your car.”

“Sorry.”

Claire also admitted that she had spoken to Troy.

“I don’t care!” Ashley fired back. “I told you, I don’t want you to mention his name anymore. What Troy did to me was downright mean and there is nothing you can say that will make me view him differently.”

“Okay. Relax!” Claire took the cordless phone out to the porch. She needed to get out of the house. She had been cooped up inside for too long.

“I am relaxed.” Ashley claimed. Then, “Did Stella tell you what Troy’s psycho girlfriend did? How she egged the bakery and wrote on the front window with soap that I was a slut?”

“Yes. Is that why you quit, because you’re afraid of this person?”

“No way!” Ashley said, mocking. “That’s not the reason why I quit. I’m not afraid of some jealous loudmouth. Though, instead of being pissed off at me, Troy’s old girlfriend should be mad at him. He stabbed us both in the back.”

Once more, Claire tried to defend him.

“Ash, if you would just let Troy explain his side of the story, I’m sure you’d realize he didn’t purposely intend to mislead you.”

“Yeah right! If having a girlfriend and going out with me on the side isn’t deception, I don’t know what is. So if you don’t want to wind up in another argument, I would suggest you stop siding with him.”

“Sure. Whatever. I won’t say anything more about him. Subject closed.”

***

With that now behind them, Ashley also made clear to her mother how she no longer planned to attend group therapy.

“But honey, why would you want to give up on therapy again? You said this time it was helping.”

Disenchanted, Ashley frowned. Sometimes, the things her mother said, particularly when she was convinced that she was right, was difficult to endure.

“I’ve made up my mind, mom. And please don’t try to talk me out of it. I’m not going anymore.”

Claire grumbled.

“So. I was wondering,” Ashley added, now thinking about the baby. “Do you think you could drive up here tomorrow and drop off Kimberly? I would come down there, but it would be easier putting her playpen, crib, and high-chair in your car, since you have more space.” If Ashley tried to put all of that stuff in her Toyota, she would have to leave the trunk partially open, and keep it held closed with either rope or twine.

“Oh Ash. Before we get into that, I wanted to tell you that I spoke to Eve this morning.”

“Really? Does she know I’ve been-shall we say, out of town?”

“No. The only one who knows about that is Rachel. I showed her your note.”

Ashley groaned. Why am I not surprised? she thought. “It figures.”

“Hey. I had to tell someone. I was worried sick.”

“Whatever. So what did my sister-in-law say?”

“Eve told me she’s going to stop by with that curator on Sunday, to look at your latest paintings.”

“That‘s good news.”

“It is honey. This could be your lucky break. So are you planning to be here?”

“I’m afraid not.” Ashley wasn’t trying to be difficult; she just knew that Eve would be able to take care of the situation. “Why should I? Either the curator will like what he sees or he won’t. I don’t think me being there would sway his opinion one way or the other.”

Her mother sighed. “Well, apparently, you know what you’re doing. Although pertaining to your artwork, I do have one question.”

“What‘s that?”

“In case the curator asks, that painting of the Empire State Building, is that finished?”

“Yeah. It‘s done.”

“Are you sure? To me it doesn’t look like much more than a sketch.”

Ashley dumped a few oyster crackers into her soup.

“It’s supposed to look that way,” she explained. “Trust me. With that particular piece, I used a more one-dimensional approach, purposely excluding a lot of background. I only wanted to concentrate on the plane and the building, nothing else . . . Now about the baby, what time do you think you can drop her off? I‘ll give you directions.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“When you do drive up, could you also bring that old charcoal grill we have? The house here doesn’t have one. I’ve been painting on the patio and I’d like to be able to cook while I’m outside.”

“Okay. I’ll bring the grill. I’ll let you know later what time I’m coming. You can give me directions then.”

By the first week of November, Ashley had decorated her cottage, with lovely new drapes, flowers, green plants, and potpourri, which she had sprinkled in tiny bowls and had put on nearly every available table.

The place smelled like a fragrant garden.

She had also purchased a few modestly-priced photos of sailboats, and a large Salvador Dali print, The Persistence of Memory, which she had hung in the sitting room above the fireplace.

Ashley had made mental changes as well. Since her near fatal overdose, she had been much more careful not to take as many painkillers.

And now, whenever she had more than two glasses of wine or a martini . . . lately that wasn’t often on account of the baby living with her . . . she would not take any pills at all.

What is more, she had not only learned that Blake Cromwell and his wife Lavern were generous people, she had discovered how much they loved children.

If you ever have to go somewhere
, they had told Ashley,
and you need someone to watch your daughter, you can call us. Anytime you want
.

For Ashley, it was awesome to have friends like that who wanted to help. Thank goodness, Blake and Lavern did not know about her problematic past.

As far as her artwork went, October had been another triumphant month.

Not only had Ashley sold paintings at the Earthquake Gallery in Trenton, she had also auctioned a few in New York. The curator in Trenton had connections in Manhattan; that is how she ended up making sales there.

All told, for her work, Ashley had earned close to ten-thousand dollars, which, for an unknown artist, was no minor chunk of change. At least it wasn’t to her.

What made these recent sales more astonishing, the New York Times had devoted a paragraph to Ashley in their Arts and Leisure Section, claiming that she was a promising new painter with a fresh contemporary style. This had thrilled both Ashley and her mother.

Claire kept bragging to Rachel,
My daughter is going to be famous one day. You watch Rach, one day soon, everyone in the art world will know who she is.

***

During this time, Ashley, in New York City, had met a talented sculptor named Stephen Sorbello.

One afternoon, in mid-town, following a scrumptious lunch, fettuccine Alfredo with mineral water, Stephen had taken Ashley to a Broadway play.

Then they had gone sightseeing.

Ashley had a wonderful time. Yet, although Stephen was handsome, with dark hair and a clean-cut appearance, between them, she did not feel much chemistry.

At one point, while they were walking through Times Square, she wanted to end the date. Stephen had a thing about constantly talking about himself, which made Ashley feel both invisible and inferior.

“I keep telling the critics,” Stephen was boasting, “that these precious hands of my mine were born to sculpt. They weren’t made to push a pencil in some stuffy office or to do manual labor . . . I am an arteeesse!”

“Yes. I know,” Ashley muttered, now more interested in staring at the noisy traffic.
You told me that like ten times already!

The sun had just set, melting in red and golden hues behind the buildings. The city was filled with lights, people, vendors, cars, buses, yellow cabs. Coming from a small town, Ashley felt a bit overwhelmed, even though, in her life, she had been to Manhattan at least twenty times.

Eventually Stephen began to complain about a bad review he had allegedly received the week before.

“Why, those flaming pansies,” he griped, as they walked along Park Avenue, “couldn’t mold a marble out of silly putty. Critics are no talent pests! Who are they to write that my sculptures lack originality? I’ll never do an exhibition in L.A. again. Not in a million years. That town’s full of pretentious nobodies.”

Ashley did not offer a comment. Stephen would not have heard her anyway.

“That’s why I prefer New York. This city is where it’s at. Take it from me, Ashley, stay away from the west coast. That part of the country does nothing but pollute the soul.”

“But I thought you said you grew up in Los Angeles?”

“I did.” He gazed up at the tall skyscrapers, sniffed the crisp Big Apple air. “Then I got smart and came here. Yeah. There’s no other city in the world that’s quite like New York. I love it here.”

Ashley could only wonder if Stephen had traveled as extensively as he’d claimed. From talking to some of the other artists she’d recently met, she had learned that he had indeed traveled widely across the United States. However, to major cities around the world, like London, Paris, and Rome, well, that was still up for debate. Stephen was wealthy, and lived in a gorgeous penthouse apartment there in Manhattan.

Now, after brushing lint from his black tuxedo, Stephen reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a fancy cigarette case. “Smoke?” he asked.

“No thanks.” Ashley waved it away. “I quit.” And she had. She had crushed the last pack she’d had and then had threw the pack in the garbage.

“That’s a smart thing to do. I should probably quit myself.” Using a Zippo lighter, Stephen lit the cigarette. “So where to now?”

“I don’t care,” she said. “Wherever you want to go.”

They stopped at a bar on Fifth Avenue.

Ashley ordered a gin and tonic. Stephen had a scotch on the rocks. They talked for another half hour. Then decided to call it a night.

“Thanks for the drink.”

“You’re welcome. Are you sure you don’t want to spend the evening at my place?” Stephen left the bartender a huge tip. “My penthouse provides an incredible view of Central park. You’d love it up there.”

“No,” said Ashley. “I don’t think, at this point, that would be a good idea. I don’t know you that well.”
Was he kidding? Spend the night at his place?
There was no way in hell Ashley was going to do that.

Presently she just wanted to get back to Castle Beach, kick off her heels, take a shower, and get some well-needed sleep. As much as Ashley had enjoyed spending the day in New York, roaming the cold, crowded streets had left her exhausted.

“Hey,” Stephen added, “you can bunk in my room and I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“Sorry. The answer is still no. But if you want to be a gentleman and kindly escort me back to the train station, I’d be grateful. It‘s getting late.”

“Certainly.” He stepped toward the curb and whistled. “Taxi!”

***

Inside busy Penn Station-as the New Jersey transit train rolled to a thundering stop-Stephen tried to plant a kiss on Ashley‘s pink lips. Not pleased by the unexpected display of affection, she had promptly turned her head so that his smooch landed harmlessly on her cheek.

“Oh. C’mon!” Stephen grumbled. “Is that all I get for taking you on the town and treating you to a Broadway play? What about a real kiss?” He did not say this to be cruel; he was merely embarrassed.

“Okay.” She gave him a hug instead. “Thank you for the lovely outing.”

“You’re welcome. It was my pleasure.”

After releasing her indifferent embrace, Ashley, in her jacket and elegant, low-cut dress, boarded the train. A conductor had helped her up.

“Wait a minute,” Stephen called. “When can I see you again?”

Slowly, she swung herself around to face him, but did not answer. Nor did Ashley smile or reveal any other evidence of interest.

She merely waved good-bye, before stepping forward into one of the cramped compartments.

***

On the cement platform, Stephen Sorbello whispered to himself,
What a cock tease. I hate women who play hard to get.

With Ashley no longer in his life, Troy was emotionally lost.

He was still incredibly saddened over their breakup, and he missed Ashley more and more as the weeks passed. Her absence created a void in Troy’s heart that left him feeling powerless and alone.

What was wrong with her? he often wondered. And why had Ashley let their relationship end so abruptly?

Was it really because of Sarah?

If so, that seemed unreasonable.

When Troy had dated Ashley, as he had tried to explain, Sarah had meant nothing to him.

In fact the more he thought about it, the more he realized how little he had cared for his ex., even when they were a couple. Sarah had been too selfish and bossy.

Ashley, on the other hand, was far more interesting and considerate.

The one thing Troy had wanted her to know more than anything was that he had never meant to hurt her.

If only Ashley knew how many times he had cried because of her, then maybe, just maybe, she would realize he wasn’t a jerk.

On numerous occasions, while at work, Troy would be daydreaming of Ashley’s sweet smile, and wondering what she was thinking.

Specifically if she was thinking about him.

He was so upset about losing her, yet, because he had an occupation that forced him to deal with the public, he had to conceal his heartache.

A few of his co-workers, however, could tell he had been miserable lately. They would advance comments, such as, “Troy doesn’t seem to laugh as much these days.” Or, “He seems withdrawn.”

***

One afternoon unparticular, Adam, who had been in the produce department with Troy, helping him trim lettuce in the backroom near the sink, had brought up Ashley’s name.