Better Luck Next Time Page 2

  Adalia had protested, saying she refused to kick the woman out of her own studio, but Dottie had been persistent—one of her superpowers—and before Adalia knew it, she’d agreed to come at least once. She had been nearly a dozen times now, although she didn’t have anything to show for it.

  Dottie had known what she needed without being told, and from the way Dottie was staring into Finn’s eyes, Adalia had a feeling Finn had his own intervention in store. Sure enough, Dottie said, “You must come to my house for tea. And soon. Promise me.”

  He nodded. “I will.”

  “Good boy,” she said, patting his cheek again. “Let Aunt Dottie help you set things right.”

  If only Dottie could set all things right, but Adalia knew firsthand it wasn’t that easy, at least not for her. There were too many fresh wounds, too many scars. Some injuries never healed, especially wounds to the heart.

  Chapter Two

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  The article in Fortune was supposed to be Finn’s victory lap. He deserved it, damn it. He’d built Big Catch Brewing out of nothing. No, that wasn’t quite true. He and River had done it together. Without the beer, a brewery was just a building, and making beer hadn’t mattered much to him. It was the idea that had excited him. He liked selling. Marketing. Building. Doing. And sure, his father had given him part of the seed money, but he’d paid it back after the first year.

  Except apparently everyone had thought he should hold on to that golden goose for the rest of his life, because no one in town seemed happy about the sale. He couldn’t go for a drink or a meal downtown without getting scowled at by someone. And when a pretty girl approached him, it was just as likely that she wanted to yell at him as proposition him. They thought he was a sellout, that he’d invited sharks into their tank. But he didn’t see it that way. Finn’s father had always told him that fish didn’t learn to swim half so fast if there wasn’t something with teeth chasing them.

  Of course, Finn’s father’s response to the Fortune article was that he could finally leave “that Podunk town” behind. He couldn’t understand why Finn hadn’t left yet. Charlotte was big and getting bigger—the kind of place where young people moved to become somebody.

  “Time to grow up, Finn,” he’d said. “Set your sights on something bigger than a brewery.” If he knew about the local coverage, he hadn’t said anything. Neither had Finn, although it made him feel like a coward that he hadn’t confronted his parents about the whole Duke thing. He already knew what they’d say. They’d done it to help him, to be supportive, and no one had been obligated to accept him.

  In truth, his father wouldn’t understand why the public vitriol was getting to him. His dad had always said that earning hatred was an earmark of success, but Finn had never felt that way. His mom wouldn’t have either. He’d inherited her desire to be liked—and until now, people always had liked him. That mattered to him, and this town mattered to him too. He wasn’t going to move on like it had been some stepping stone. His life was here.

  But it sucked that he couldn’t talk it out with anyone. Most people weren’t sympathetic, it turned out, when you complained about the fallout of selling your company for millions. He’d made up with River, mostly, after screwing up their friendship by selling the brewery without consulting him (to be fair, Bev Corp would have paid him a bundle to stay), but things weren’t the same, and River didn’t have much time on his hands. He had his relationship with Georgie, and both of them lived and breathed Buchanan Brewery. And for the first time in his life, it seemed Finn had nothing but time.

  Three days after the grand reopening of Buchanan Brewery, he was sitting in his house in sweatpants—sweatpants—at two p.m. on a Tuesday, willing himself not to think about everything. Trying specifically not to dwell on the way Adalia Buchanan had treated him—like he was a sad sack, like she should be nice to him because he was that pathetic. Somehow he would have preferred it if she’d been more cutting.

  His phone rang, jolting him out of the doldrums.

  It was Gretchen, the Bev Corp exec who’d handled the sale.

  Warily, he picked up the call. “Let me guess. You saw the article in The Asheville Gazette, and you want to give it back.”

  She laughed. “Well, I did see the article, but no, we’re still happy with the sale. Even if it was disappointing to see River Reeves…jump ship.”

  From the pause, he understood she was nodding to the nautical theme of the brewery, a joke he and River had cooked up because of their names—River and Finn.

  “Yeah, but the guy you brought in from Charlotte is the real deal.” Which was true, but he was still being treated as an outsider. If Bev Corp had thought they were playing it safe by choosing a North Carolinian, they’d miscalculated. Finn was from Charlotte too, and it had been commented on a time or two in their early days.

  “We’re very happy with him. The problem is one of publicity. We didn’t foresee this much pushback from the locals.”

  “You and me both,” he muttered.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m aware you’ve had your own…difficulties, so I’ll cut straight to the point. We’re hoping to hire you as a consultant. We need a community liaison. Someone who can help us improve our image and reclaim a space in the local beer community.”

  Finn actually laughed at that, genuine, unfiltered laughter. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. “You want to hire me to rehab your image?”

  “Yes, I can see why you might find that amusing,” she said. “We don’t want to necessarily publicize the fact that you’re the one helping us. But you built Big Catch, Finn. You know business. You found your niche in that community as an outsider. You can help us strategize.”

  Somewhere in the middle of her pep talk, Finn felt his no turn into a yes. It wouldn’t take up much of his time, and what the hell else was he doing with his life? He’d been hoping for the next big thing, the idea that would help him find success a second time and not be a flash in the pan, but instead he’d become a hermit. If anyone knew how he spent his days, they’d stage an intervention. Besides, if he agreed, he’d be helping the community too, wouldn’t he? Rehabbing the brewery’s image would involve raising charity dollars, for sure. His old employees would benefit as well. He didn’t like to think people might hold a grudge against them for decisions he’d made.

  “I’ll do it.”

  He hadn’t really intended to take Dottie up on her offer of tea, but after talking to Gretchen, he felt the need to share his news with someone who wouldn’t judge him off the bat. So he showered and got dressed in real clothes—a button-down short-sleeve shirt and khakis—and found Dottie’s number on his phone’s contact list. While he knew Dottie shared River’s distaste for big corporations, his friend’s aunt wasn’t judgmental. She wouldn’t hate him for it.

  Can I take you up on tea? he texted.

  Her answer was almost immediate: I’d already set out another cup for you.

  He suspected that was just Dottie trying to sound mystical, but it still gave him the chills.

  As he drove to her house, he found himself whistling, feeling pepped up.

  When he got to Dottie’s place, her car wasn’t in the drive, but there was a real clunker in its place—the kind of car that looked like it wouldn’t get you to the gas station. It might be a faded yellow, or perhaps it was just a really dirty white, the kind where the dirt had seeped into the paint and could no longer be cleaned off. The bumper was secured in one corner with mechanical tape. He would have wondered if her car was in the shop, but this wasn’t the kind of vehicle a rental place would give out. Did she have other guests? She hadn’t mentioned anything, but Dottie was notorious for holding impromptu gatherings.

  He got out and knocked on the front door, grinning a little as he took in the bright yellow trim. God, his mother would hate that, but he liked the look. It was sunny, and it screamed that the person inside didn’t care about convention.

  N
o one answered, so he tried the knob. It opened.

  “Dottie?” he called.

  Still nothing. He let himself in, shutting the door behind him, and made his way to the kitchen. Two empty teacups sat across from each other on the table, but there was no sign of Dottie. She’d left a short note. Help yourself, dear. I’ll be back shortly. I ran out of cream, so I walked to the corner store.

  So much for Dottie being psychic. But the note didn’t mention anything about the other car.

  Someone screamed in the back yard, and Finn flinched as if he’d been struck. Was it Dottie? Had someone maybe, what, mugged her? The thought didn’t fit—both because Dottie was the kind to befriend muggers rather than scream at them and because the sound was so angry.

  He walked to the closest window and looked out at the back yard. No one was there, so he left the house and circled around. A fluttering scarf caught his eye from the door of Dottie’s studio. Then he saw that the door was cracked open. The cry must have come from inside.

  Maybe he should mind his own business, but he’d never been particularly good at that. Besides, for all he knew, the driver of that whacked-out car could be trying to carry off Dottie’s art. He didn’t pause to think about it. He was already moving.

  He opened the door a few more inches, but he didn’t get any farther, because the person inside wasn’t a stranger. It was Adalia Buchanan. She was always pretty, with those bouncy curls he wanted to touch, but right now she was magnificent. Her hair had been swept back into a messy bun that barely contained it, her cheeks were streaked with paint, and she had a ferocious look in her eyes that reminded him of a Valkyrie. It took a moment for him to notice what she was working on.

  Finn wasn’t an art connoisseur, but he hadn’t been a beer connoisseur either. He’d known genius when he’d tasted River’s home brews, and he knew it now, looking at that canvas in front of Adalia. He didn’t recognize any of the shapes as objects or people. But the bright colors slashed and swirled together in a way that expertly conveyed a mood. Sadness. Despair. Anger. So much anger.

  Seeing her with that painting, it felt like an awakening. Like he’d finally found something else worth getting behind. Worth fighting for. So he wasn’t prepared for what he saw next. She pulled a utility knife from the pocket of her cargo pants and slashed the painting, wet paint staining her fingers and the drop cloths spread out beneath her. The anger had faded from her, and even though she attacked the painting with violence, a deep, deep sadness had permeated her gaze.

  He wanted to stop her, to take the knife from her fingers, to soothe her, but he felt immobilized. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch her in the grip of whatever powerful emotions had made her destroy something she’d made. Something beautiful. It would feel wrong to interrupt such a private moment.

  But he must have shifted or something because the next thing he knew, she turned toward him, her eyes wild, that knife still in her hand. She saw his eyes on it and dropped her hand, her expression that of a woman who’d been caught naked by a Peeping Tom.

  And he was the pervert in this scenario.

  “I…I’m sorry,” he blabbered. “Dottie invited me over for tea, but she wasn’t inside, and I heard you scream. I worried there might be a burglar out here stealing her art or—”

  “Get out,” she said, her voice ice cold. He wouldn’t have known she was embarrassed, that she was affected by what had just happened, if not for the slight flush of her cheeks. Part of Finn knew he should just leave, but he felt the need to say something else, if only to help himself process what he’d seen.

  “Why would you destroy it?” he said softly. “Your work is magnificent, Adalia. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Something flickered in her eyes, and for a moment he thought she was pleased, that his words had moved her, but then she grabbed the slashed canvas from its stand and handed it to him, the wet paint slopping on his fingers. “Then you keep it.”

  And she walked out and left.

  Chapter Three

  “Come on, Bessie,” Adalia coaxed as her car pulled into the inclined driveway of her house. “You can do it.”

  Bessie was a hunk of junk, but she was Adalia’s hunk of junk, purchased here in Asheville. She knew Georgie had practically chewed off her tongue to keep from offering to buy her a car, especially after learning just how little she had in her savings account. Her sister had settled for forcing “bonus” money on her for designing the merch and bottle labels for Buchanan and a “stipend” for her work on social media. Adalia had considered turning it down—she was one-fourth owner, which meant she should only make money when the brewery made money—but in all honesty she needed it. It had made her feel like she’d earned the car.

  Besides, Adalia’s father had given her enough lectures over the course of her nearly thirty years that it had sunk deep into her skin—there are no free rides. Only losers accept handouts. When will you ever live up to your family name?

  When pigs learned how to fly, and she hadn’t seen a winged pig yet, although if she were being honest with herself, occasionally she looked.

  Jack’s car was already in the drive, so Adalia steeled her back as she walked toward the front door. To say things were awkward between them was an understatement. Jack had been in the house for three nights, and while they were polite to each other, somehow that made it weirder. If Jack had been a normal roommate, Adalia could have ignored him and hung out in her room, but she felt an obligation to at least make some kind of effort to talk to him. Too bad he seemed to be struggling with what to say just as much as she was.

  She dumped her purse on the bench in the small entryway, then headed for the staircase, eager to shower and remove the dried paint smeared all over her hands and lower arms. Red seemed to be her favorite color in Asheville, and she’d already gone through several tubes. She kept meaning to buy more, but the pull toward Dottie’s garage was sometimes so strong it nearly possessed her. She’d find herself in Dottie’s driveway…and a fresh tube of red acrylic paint would be waiting for her next to the palette and brushes Dottie had given her.

  Thank God, since Adalia had left anything to do with art in her New York apartment, as well as everything else that hadn’t fit into her suitcases. Georgie had offered to pay for her things to be packed and moved, but Adalia had left the remains for her roommates to pick through.

  When she’d left New York, she’d intended to leave art behind too, but it turned out her soul needed art as much as her body needed oxygen. She’d tried to deny it the first month, hoping that doodling with the Buchanan Brewery logos and merch would satiate that unquenchable hunger to create, to pour every bit of her feelings into some medium outside herself. But she’d been a fool. Other than her mother’s death, she was at the lowest point of her life, and her soul begged for release.

  Once Adalia had finally acquired Bessie—the salesman had raised his brows and asked, “Are you sure?”—the very first place she’d driven to was Dottie’s garage. She hadn’t even stopped in to say hello, not that she’d needed to. Dottie had told her no greetings were necessary. Somehow she understood that Adalia’s art was a private thing right now, and she respected her privacy as she worked through the tangled emotions consuming her.

  She hadn’t painted on canvas in years, but Dottie had left her a stack of sixteen by twenty canvases along with the paints and other supplies. Waiting, as if she’d known that Adalia would be by sooner rather than later. A note had sat beside them:

  Georgie told me you worked in mixed media, but the choices for those pieces are such a personal thing—the choosing as tied to the artist as the creation itself—and I would never presume to know your artist’s soul. Start with this or anything else in my studio—what’s mine is yours!—and if you’d like to begin collecting materials that grab you for your mixed media, you can put them in the bin in the corner. Let your heart guide you, Addy. It won’t steer you wrong.

  Adalia had laughed bitterly at the last
line. Her heart had brought her nothing but pain. Her art too. She still hadn’t put anything in the bin.

  Her first painting had been for Alan Stansworth, the man who’d hurt her heart and slashed her soul.

  It was Alan who’d driven her to leave New York for Asheville, wounded and broken. Her mentor turned lover had used her in the worst way a person could. He’d stolen her art—her heart’s creations—and claimed them for his own. The pieces had been in an exhibit under his name.

  And so she’d destroyed them. Now she couldn’t seem to stop.

  She’d sobbed and sobbed as she poured her heart out onto the canvas that day, ending with a piece so full of chaos and yearning it had stolen her breath. It was good. No, it had been more than good. It had been her best piece yet. But the irony twisted something in her heart, and before she even knew what she was doing, she’d slashed the painting with a utility knife Dottie had left on a workbench, putting as much effort into the slicing as she had into the brushstrokes.

  At the end, she was covered in paint and the canvas was shredded into so many pieces it was unrecognizable. An emotion she couldn’t name—although she was sure there was probably a German word for it—swept through her, a mixture of relief and emptiness. Like she’d just dumped every last bit of pain onto the canvas, leaving her heart a shell. She cleaned up her brushes and her palette, dumped the canvas into Dottie’s dumpster and went home, scaring Georgie half to death when she saw all the red paint covering her body and thought Adalia had had a run-in with a serial killer.

  But the emotions had built back up again, and three days later, Adalia was back out at the garage, doing it all over again. And again.