Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (29 page)

“Eventually, if you don’t do something, Troy, the weeks will turn into months and then before you know it, it might be too late.”

“You think?”

“I don’t think! I know.” Adam spoke in a gravely serious tone. “C‘mon. Deep down inside you must realize that. You‘re not stupid!”

“So what are you saying?”

“That you can’t let too much time pass. If you miss Ashley that badly you should try to get in touch with her. Otherwise you risk losing her forever.”

Troy sighed. “You‘re probably right,” he admitted, rinsing another neatly trimmed head of Romaine and then placing it on the drip rack.

“Troy, if Miss Whittaker tells you Ashley still has feelings for you, then it must be true. She knows her daughter better than anyone. Jeez, don’t you get it? You and Ashley are in the same boat.”

“Okay,” Troy said, gaining confidence. “For argument’s sake, let’s say she does still have feelings for me, what does that have to do with her and me being in the same boat?”

Adam stared at Troy frustration. “Because you and Ashley are both in denial? C’mon man, employ logic to the situation. She’s afraid of her feelings for you because she felt betrayed, got hurt. But that doesn’t change the fact that Ashley is not over you.”

Troy regarded his co-worker closely.

“And you’re all talk,“ Adam continued, “about how much you supposedly care about her, yet you’re willing to let Ashley runoff to go hole up in some secluded beach house near New York . . . If that was someone I cared about, I wouldn‘t let that happen. No way! I‘d go find her and plead my case. Even if I had to make a complete fool of myself. And I’d do that because I wouldn’t want to look back someday and wonder if maybe I made a huge mistake. Think about it, Troy, if you talk to her, if nothing else, at least you’ll receive closure.”

***

Talk to her
? Adam was right.

That’s what Troy needed to do.

If he didn’t get in touch with Ashley soon, he would have to endure many more days, weeks, or months of potentially unnecessary suffering.

Later, when he got off work, he was planning to head over to the Whittaker residence.

Troy figured if he remained close with Ashley’s mother, he might be able to win Ashley back.

The date with Stephen had occurred five days ago.

Today was the first time he had come to Castle Beach. He had arrived from New York City in a rented Mercedes.

“How can you even eat that?” he asked, watching Ashley nibbling on a warm slice of Dominoes pizza.

She had ordered a large pie with pepperoni on it for lunch. It was two o’clock. Ashley wore her French hat and coveralls. She looked slightly gothic, as she had applied more mascara than usual.

“Easily,” she kidded. “I put it in my mouth and chew.” She washed the pizza down with a glass of milk.

“No, really, I don’t even think that’s real pizza. It’s more like dough with ketchup on top.”

“Well, I like it.” She patted her pink lips with a napkin.

“I can tell.” Stephen saw that Ashley had already pigged out on three pieces.

They stood in the backyard, on the patio where Ashley was detailing yet another painting, one again with a coastal theme. She seemed to have the ability to produce pictures prolifically the way factories manufacture products.

“So far, that painting is coming along well,” Stephen commented, sitting down at the picnic table. He had on a cashmere sweater and chino pants from L.L. Bean. “A beach scene. Why don’t you add a hotel?”

“Nah.”

“Why not? It would create a summer resort theme.”

“I don’t want that kind of theme.” Ashley did not like the suggestion. Add a hotel. It sounded like he was talking about the board game Monopoly.

Stephen fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes. “Then what are you aiming for?” he asked, lightning a smoke

“I’m not sure yet.” Ashley ran her brush up and down the canvas. “I’m still in the experimental stage. I never know what a painting will be until I’m halfway through with it.”

“You’re talking like an amateur.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me; you’re talking like an amateur.”

Ashley could not believe how he had just addressed her. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.” Now she would not look at him.

“Sorry. I’m just being honest.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t be so honest.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. That is right, Stephen.”

This exchange soon led to an argument, with the two of them criticizing the other’s talent.

Stephen accused Ashley of being pretentious. Then he said that her artwork, for the most part, was mediocre and that he thought some of the graffiti he had seen in Brooklyn showed more promise.

“Is that really necessary?” Ashley snapped, offended. This guy is unbelievable, she thought. He has an ego the size of Texas.

“Yes it is necessary, Miss Ferguson! If you want to make it as an artist, take my advice, stick to decorative art. Because you’ll never make it as a real artist. You just don’t have what it takes.”

Ashley felt like throwing sand in his face.

“And I think your sculptures are crap too!” she hit back. “As a matter of fact, Stephen, that last one you sold didn’t look anything like Julius Caesar, it looked more like Mr. Potato Head . . . See? Two can play at this game.”

He growled. “Mr. Potato Head?” The expression on his face was one of utter surprise. “Why, you must be insane! Do you know anything about sculpture? Or how wealthy my sculptures have made me?

“I know what I like. And as far as I’m concerned, your sculptures are overrated.” Ashley did not feel like listening to his long-winded definition of what he did, or how much money his sculptures had grossed.

***

Eventually the argument ended and they went back to being civilized.

Stephen tried to convince Ashley that if she wanted to improve her status in the art community, she needed to attach herself to the appropriate people, like him. Similar to how an aspiring actor would need to find a good agent.

“You never know,” he elaborated, “I might be able to get you your own exhibition. Would you be up for that? To have your own art show?”

“Of course I would.” Now Ashley thought she should give him another chance. “That would be a dream come true. You could do that for me?”

He gave her a confident nod. “It’s quite possible. I’m connected with several prominent galleries around the country and abroad. However, before I’d be willing to give you your big break, I’d like to make a suggestion.”

“What’s that?”

“Rather than do a bunch of large paintings, why don’t you do some smaller ones?”

“Why?”

“From what I’ve learned, the trend these days is that they sell quicker. And with your distinctive abstract style, if you produce a collection of smaller works, I can almost guarantee, by the time that show ends, every one of your paintings will have a red dot on it.” That meant the work had been sold.

Suddenly Ashley’s mood went from uncertainty to budding optimism.

“But Stephen, I thought you said I should stick to decorative art. That I’ll never make it as a real artist.”

“I was lying. Sue me.”

“So you really think I have potential?”

He whistled. “My elegant friend, you have more than potential . . . They wouldn’t have wrote about you in the New York Times if you didn’t. You were born with a gift. I love your artwork.”

“And I love your artwork too,” she confessed. “So ignore that Mr. Potato Head comment. I only said that because you pissed me off. Your sculpture of Julius Caesar was absolutely brilliant.”

“Thanks.” He stood up and stared at the ocean. “So tell me, why did you wait until last night to finally tell me you had a kid?”

Ashley gulped back her fear. “Is it that important?”

“I’m just saying you should have told me sooner.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, while drawing sea gulls in her painting’s whimsy blue sky. “I thought that if I brought it up it would be a deal breaker.”

“No, no,” he assured her. “It wouldn’t have been like that at all. I’ve dated women with children before.”

“Yes,” Claire said, handing Troy a fresh mug of coffee. It doesn’t matter what my daughter says, I know Ashley is still not over you. Not by a long shot.”

Troy blushed. “Really?” he said, reaching for the sugar bowl that was on the table near the living room recliner.

“I’m sorry,” she elaborated. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just assumed that that’s what you came over here to discuss.”

“It is, Miss Whittaker. Definitely. So does Ashley ever mention me?”

“On occasion.” Claire parked herself on the couch. A paperback novel by Nora Roberts was on the cushion beside her, as were her reading glasses.

“What does she say?”

“I won’t lie; it’s not a favorable reaction, Troy. However, I’m sure that’s only because she’s still angry at you.”

“I know. I really messed up bad.” Sighing, Troy nervously spooned sugar into his cup. Now that he had stopped by the Whittaker residence, the reality was overwhelming. It seemed so strange to him to be in this house when Ashley no longer lived here.

“Stop beating yourself up,” Claire urged, while grabbing her glasses. She cleaned them with her shirt, and then plopped them on top of her nose. “We both know Ashley has many issues that she needs to work through. And apparently, right now, she feels she needs to do it alone.”

“Thanks, Miss Whittaker. At least hearing that makes me feel less guilty.”

She smiled. Claire had invited Troy to stay for dinner. He accepted. She had prepared pot-roast, with asparagus and a tray of buttered rolls.

***

“So,” she said in the kitchen when they sat down to eat, “you want her new cell phone number?”

The meal smelled wonderful.

Troy nodded. He had no idea why Ashley had gotten a new phone.

“I do,” he said, as he turned his napkin into a bib. He did not want to stain his blue-collar shirt. “As long as you don’t think it’s going to cause a problem. And if it‘s possible, I’d like to get Ashley’s street address as well.”

Claire passed Troy the platter of meat. It was drenched with steaming juice.

“Okay. I’ll jot down her new phone number. But I’m not going to give you her address; you’ll have to get that from Ashley. That is, if she decides to give it to you.”

“I understand,” he sympathized, digging into the hot roast. The dinner was outstanding. All of those years working in a diner had made Claire a first-rate cook. “I really hope we can clear things up. I miss your daughter so much. I can‘t get her out of my mind.”

Near the table, Albert sat drooling, anticipating a scrap. The dog’s tail wagged aggressively.

“I’m also assuming, from the way you made it sound that Ashley has no intentions of moving back to Wichita?”

“I doubt it.” Claire took a bite of a roll. “She seems content on staying in Castle Beach. The property owner offered to rent her the cottage year-round.”

“Jeez!” For Troy, that was yet another demoralizing setback. “While her life seems to be looking up, mine keeps going further down the tubes.” Although Ashley only lived a couple of hours away, to Troy, it seemed like much further than that.

“Would you like more gravy for your pot roast?” Claire asked, offering the platter.

“Yes, please. Thank you.”

“How about another roll?”

“Okay. Wow! I’m going to be stuffed.”

“Ruff!” Albert barked, putting his paw on Troy’s leg.

“Albert, stop it!” Claire scolded.

“Ruff! Ruff!”

“Hey buddy,” Troy said to the hungry collie. “Go lay down. I don’t have any food for you.”

***

During dessert, lime Jell-O with whipped cream, Claire said, “I wish you luck, Troy. And be strong. My daughter inherited her stubbornness from her father.”

“She is stubborn,” he agreed. “I won‘t deny that.”

“There’s also another obstacle you need to be concerned with.” Claire poured him more coffee.

“Obstacle?”

“Yes. His name is Stephen Sorbello.”

Startled, Troy peered up from his bowl of Jell-O. “Who’s he?”

“A rich sculptor from Manhattan. He and Ashley are-”

“Dating?”

“Well, they seem to be, the way she describes the relationship. Although my hunch is, Ashley is probably more using this man to try to further her career.”

“And where did she meet this guy?”

“In New York, at an art show.”

Disappointed and unsure how to react, Troy slid his spoon aimlessly around his dish. That was terrible news. How could he compete with an affluent artist who could potentially make Ashley‘s dream of becoming a well-known painter come true?

Immediately this reminded him of Naomi running away to Montana with Earl Lowry.

“I have to tell you Ms. Whittaker, I came here somewhat hopeful. But now, hearing this, any sense optimism I may have felt just disintegrated.”

Claire tried to supply him with a feeling of belief. “Please Troy, hold onto that optimism. I know my daughter and I’m telling you the truth she misses you. Don’t let the fact that she’s paling around with someone else scare you. Just call her and see what happens. Don‘t give up.”

That was precisely what he needed to hear. If Troy had heard something to the contrary, such as Ashley and Stephen Sorbello were planning to move in together, he would have lost it.

“So how’s the baby?” he asked, now almost finished with dessert.

“Fine,” Claire said, standing up. She started to clear the table. It was cluttered with as many dirty napkins as plates and silverware. “Kimberly will be all right.”

“Is Ashley still drinking?”

“From what she told me, no. She said she stopped.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I believe she’s making an effort.”

“I guess what I’m trying to say, is that you wouldn’t have-” He struggled to find the appropriate words.

“Given her custody of Kimberly if I knew she was still bombed into oblivion?”

“Exactly. Although I don’t want to put you on the spot. I’m just curious.”

***

After leaving, Troy phoned Ashley on the drive back to his apartment.

“Hello?”

Suddenly he fell speechless. Her voice made him panic. WAS IT NORMAL TO FEAR SOMEONE YOU LOVED?

“If this is you Stephen, you‘d better quit clowning around and say something.”

Stephen! Troy cringed.

It sounded as if Ashley had already replaced him.

As he was about to speak, she hung up.

Maybe Adam and Claire Whittaker were wrong, perhaps Ashley had already gotten over him.

It took about a week before Troy would finally get in touch with her.

Initially when Ashley realized he was the one calling, her response was unwelcoming.

Furthermore, she had become crabbier when he had told her that her mother was the one who had given him her new cell phone number.

“When did she tell you my number?”

“Last week,” Troy answered, groaning. “C’mon, Ashley, don’t be mad at your mom. It’s not as if she gave me the number without some hesitation. I pretty much had to beg.”

There was a temperamental intermission and then, “You begged her?”

“I had to,” he chuckled softly, hoping to ease the mood. “Otherwise she wouldn’t have handed it over. She wouldn‘t give me your street address. She said I would have to get that from you.” He desperately wished Ashley would stop treating him as though he were an annoying telemarketer.

“When did you bump into my mom?”

“Last week.”

“Where?

“At your house. I stopped over. She made dinner. I hope you’re not upset by that.”

“No.” Another tongue-tied silence. “I suppose not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m just surprised, that‘s all. So what’s new, anything?”

He sensed that she was secretly interested as to whether or not he had found someone else.

“Nothing is new,” he explained. “We’re getting ready for the holidays at the store. How about you, getting a lot of painting done?”

“Actually I am,” she said.

“Any interesting themes?”

“I’m mainly painting stuff that has to do with the ocean, pirate ships, buried treasure, sea gulls, that sort of thing.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re making progress.”

“Thanks. I love painting.”

“So I hear you work on your art outside.”

“Usually, yes. When the weather permits.”

“How do you like living on the beach?”

“It’s awesome! Even though my house is like a small toy compared to most of the other homes in the area.”

“Well, as long as you like the place and it‘s quiet, I don’t see why that should matter. Look where I live, in a shoebox apartment.”

***

While rinsing her paintbrushes in the kitchen sink, Ashley suddenly told Troy that she had to go.

“Okay,” he said, sounding deflated. “I have to run myself. So are you going to give me your address, so I can come up to visit?”

She sighed. “I don’t think so just yet. If you want, though, I will give you my email address.”

Recently Ashley had purchased a computer. This was not only to correspond with her mother, but also because she would soon have her own website, so that prospective buyers and critics would be able to view photos of her work.

“Oh.”

“So do you want my email address?”

“Sure. I guess. If that’s all you’re going to give me.”

I’m so stupid,
Ashley reprimanded herself.
Deep down, I love this guy, and yet I do nothing. I should just get it over with and let Troy know where the cottage is. I miss him so badly . . . So why am I so afraid to tell him that? Am I that incapable of following the yearnings of my own heart? I know Troy must care about me. If he didn’t, during the summer, why would he have brought over all of those jars of Gerber’s, and changed the baby’s diapers as many times as he had?

***

Discouraged, Troy allowed his head to slump to the floor.

WHY DO YOU PUT UP WITH THIS? his conscience screamed. CAN‘T YOU TELL SHE’S CLEARLY NOT INTO YOU ANYMORE? HOW MUCH MORE HUMILIATION CAN YOU TAKE?

As Troy wrestled with his conscience, a memory of Sarah Kline unfolded in his mind.

He thought about how she had dropped by Crown Jewel recently, and how she had asked if he would like to try their relationship again.

“I know we could make it work, Troy,” Sarah had stated confidently, placing a forgiving hand on his shoulder. “I told you that fling between you and Ashley Ferguson would never amount to anything. How could it? Face it; she’s emotionally scarred. And why would you even want to be involved with an alcoholic anyway? If you stayed with her, she’d do nothing but bring you down.”