Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks Series Book 1) Read online

  Now, that’s all she wears: her own designs, her own clothes; she and millions of other people.

  I was happy for her, I really was, but sometimes her trying too hard was a little much for me to handle.

  “That’s your name, is it not?” I step toward the door, ready to get out of this room and away from the stifling atmosphere.

  She rolls her eyes before picking up her coat and hanging it over her arm before moving past me, pulling the door open and saying, “Get Edward to bring my munchkins to me when they finish school. You can join us for dinner when you’ve finished work, if you get out of this mood you’re in.” I step out of the boardroom behind her and watch as she walks toward to the elevator, stepping inside and calling, “Tell Edward he can eat too!” before the doors shut.

  I huff out a breath, knowing that I don’t have much choice now that she’s left without me telling her no. She’ll call Edward herself if I don’t call him.

  Pulling my cell out, I shoot a message to Edward, telling him to take the children to Mom’s after they finish school while also informing him that she’s requested his presence there too.

  If I have to put up with her, then so does he.

  I walk out of the building and spot Edward at the side of the road, waiting for me. His face is flushed and he’s looking everywhere but at me. I know how he’s feeling because I’m dreading tonight’s dinner too.

  I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the night ahead and step forward.

  “Evening,” Edward says as I get into the back of the car.

  “You managed to get away then,” I ask, looking at him through the rearview mirror.

  He raises a brow at me before turning his eyes onto the road as he pulls into the traffic. “Just about.”

  I lean back, pulling my jacket open and resting my neck against the back of the seat; today has been a long day. Between finalizing the designs for the new website and fielding calls from board members who decided they had more questions about the new direction we’re going in with the stores; I’m beat.

  What is it with middle-aged men that sit in their mansions, drinking whiskey and thinking they know best? Sometimes the things they suggest boggles my mind and I wonder how they made it as far as they did. But then again, coming from a family with money sometimes means that you don’t have to work as hard for things.

  It’s the reason why I made it my mission to come top of my class while I was in college. Achieving things on my own merit has always been important to me, I didn’t want to “get by” just because of my last name.

  I turn my head toward the window, staring at the bumper to bumper traffic. All I want is to eat, spend some time with Clay and Izzie, and then go to bed. The city traffic is always a nightmare and I’m thankful that Mom moved closer to the city for her work.

  Her design studio is literally next door to her new house. “I’ll have longer to get ready,” she reasoned when she first came up with the idea. I thought it was ridiculous at the time but now I can see the benefits because I must spend about fifteen hours in this car traveling to and from work each week. Hours I could be spending with Clay and Izzie instead of in a metal box—granted it’s a top of the line metal box, but a box all the same.

  After twenty minutes, we start moving again and Edward manages to park a block away. We both get out of the car, walking side by side to Mom’s house, neither of us saying a word. I can feel the nervous energy emanating from him the closer we get and I want to say something to relieve his tension, but hell, he’s known her longer than I’ve been alive.

  Maybe that’s why he’s so nervous, because he knows her so well?

  He walks up the small path first, knocking on the big, black, wooden door and then smiling apologetically at me when he realizes what he’s done.

  “Habit,” he explains.

  “No worries,” I tell him, smiling when I hear Izzie’s squeal of delight as the door opens. She runs at me and I bend at the knees, bracing for the impact of her small body as I open my arms wide, picking her up before she manages to run me down.

  “Daddy!” she squeals.

  “Hey, pumpkin.” I pull her closer, resting my arm under her legs as I walk inside and tilt my head in greeting at my mom.

  “Are you having fun?” I ask, walking through to the dining room where Mom says Clay is waiting.

  “Yeah! I told Nana about the apple I drewed with Miss J!”

  “Drew, pumpkin, it’s the apple you drew.”

  “Oh,” she murmurs, her lips turning down into a pout.

  “Hey,” I say, sitting down at the table next to Clay and turning her face to me. “It’s okay to get words wrong sometimes.”

  “It is?”

  “Yep, Daddy does it all the time.”

  She giggles and turns to Edward, changing the conversation. “Did you hang my picture in the front of the car?” she asks, putting her hand on her hip and tilting her head to the side.

  “I sure did, Miss Izzie.”

  “Yay!” she cheers, hopping down off my lap and walking over to Mom. “Nana? Can you draw fruit?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Maybe I could come to the art class and learn?”

  “I’ll ask Miss J, she’s really nice so she’ll let you,” Izzie tells her, completely serious.

  I turn my gaze to Clay who’s sitting with the book on the table, his forearms holding down the bottom of the pages as he reads intently.

  “How did the test go?” I ask him, leaning closer.

  “Okay.”

  I frown and place my hand over the pages to garner his attention, waiting for him to look up at me. He turns his head slowly and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “Just okay?” I ask with a raised brow.

  “It was too easy, Dad,” he moans, putting his elbows on the table and resting his head in his hands. “They’re always too easy.”

  I take a breath, thinking about what I should say. Sometimes I don’t feel adult enough to be a parent. I worry that I’ll say the wrong thing all the time. All I ever seem to do is worry.

  Am I giving them enough attention? Am I enough on my own? Should I be spending more time with them? Am I doing what’s best by sending them to a private school?

  All of those thoughts run through my head on a daily basis, never giving me a break.

  “Maybe your dad can go in to your school and talk to the teachers?” Mom interrupts. I turn to her as she smiles softly, silently encouraging me but I don’t see it like that. She’s involving herself in things that she doesn’t need to; judging me and my parenting skills.

  “Can you?” Clay asks, his face full of hope.

  I narrow my eyes at Mom before she walks out of the room and turn my gaze back to Clay. “Sure,” I tell him. “Is school work the only thing that’s bothering you?”

  “Yeah.” He sits up straighter in his seat, a grin taking over his entire face as Mom brings bowls of vegetables in and places them in the middle of the table.

  “Izzie? Choose where you want to sit, munchkin,” she says.

  I watch Izzie as she skips around the table, lifting up onto the chair at the head. Mom chuckles and turns toward Edward. “Looks like you’re stuck sitting next to me.” She winks. My eyes widen in shock, she winked! I think I’ve stepped into a parallel universe.

  I choke on the mouthful of water I try to swallow and cough to cover it up, my eyes looking anywhere but at either of them.

  “Do you need help?” I ask, trying to break the awkwardness that I’m feeling.

  “No, I’ve got it,” she answers, flitting back out of the room.

  Once she places the last plate down, she sits next to Edward, smirking at him and whispering something.

  I don’t know where to look while eating dinner, Mom is blatantly flirting with Edward while talking to Izzie and Clay simultaneously. It doesn’t matter how old you get, that’s something that you don’t want to see your parent do.

  I cringe constantly a
s she makes remarks about his life and how they should “go out for drinks sometime.”

  Once we’ve all eaten, we move to the living room, Mom refusing to let me help clear the table and saying that it’s her job to do that.

  Izzie cuddles up next to Mom as Clay sits with me on the love seat, his book resting on his lap but left closed.

  “Miss J is so pretty,” Izzie says out of the blue. “Her eyes are so… so…” she looks up at the ceiling, her hand on her chin in thought. “Bright!”

  I chuckle at the choice of words and turn to Mom as she calls my name.

  “Have you met Miss J?”

  “No, but I’ve met Tilly, one of the other women who work there,” I tell her. “They have to be in class for six weeks before we get to sit in on a class for watching week.”

  “Ahhh,” she says, lifting the glass of white wine to her lips. “She sounds like a fantastic teacher.”

  “She is,” Clay agrees. “On the first day, she told me that books are art too, did you know that, Nana?”

  “I did.” She nods.

  “I told you that too,” I say, pulling back and making a face at him.

  “Yeah.” He shrugs. “But she knows what she’s talking about, she’s an art teacher.” We all chuckle but he doesn’t crack a smile before he says, “I can’t wait for class this week, Miss J said that she has a special surprise for me.”

  I place my hand on his back and frown. I can’t say that it doesn’t bother me that I haven’t met her yet, the only thing stopping me from barging in there and demanding to meet her is the fact that neither Clay nor Izzie will shut up about her. It’s all they’ve talked about since they started the classes, and the huge smiles that adorn their faces when they come out of the studio is enough to tell me that sending them there was the right thing to do.

  “I’m tired,” Izzie moans, yawning and resting her head on the arm of the sofa. I look down at my watch and realize that it’s later than I thought.

  “I think it’s time to make tracks,” I announce, standing up and stretching my arms above my head.

  “Let me wrap some food up,” Mom says.

  “No,” I tell her, my voice coming out rougher than I meant it to, but I don’t need her to send food home with us, I’m capable enough to make our own.

  “Don’t be silly, it’ll go to waste here.” Standing up, she wanders into the kitchen, yet again not listening to a word I say. And she wonders why I’ve pulled away from her.

  I shake my head and gather all of the bags up before making sure Clay and Izzie are wrapped up warm.

  “Come and give me loves, munchkins,” she says, passing the trays of food to me and kneeling down, her arms open wide.

  They both cuddle into her, wrapping their arms around her as she squeezes them and whispers something in both of their ears.

  “Now you,” she smirks, standing up and holding her arms wide in the same way she did for Clay and Izzie.

  I shake my head, not wanting her to touch me but she doesn’t give me a choice when she pulls the trays out of my hands and passes them to Edward before wrapping her arms around me.

  I stand there stiffly, my muscles tense as she continues to hold me for what feels like hours but is only mere seconds.

  “Wasn’t so bad, huh?” she says in my ear.

  I grunt back, giving her a non-committal response before pulling away.

  “You’re a fantastic father,” she says, cupping my cheek. “I’m so proud of you.” A lump forms in my throat as she stares into my eyes, a sadness surrounding them. “I love you.”

  I swallow against her sudden words, not knowing what to say other than mumbling, “Love you too, Mom.”

  The last few weeks have gone by in a blur and I’m exhausted, but in a good way. I only have Sundays off, but during the week I have toddler sessions in intervals during the day and my after-school session at four, so by the time I get home after cleaning up the studio, I’ve been dead on my feet.

  But tonight, I feel like I have a new lease of life, I’m excited because it’s my first adult class since the studio opened; I can’t wait to have a relaxing session. There’s a special addition to my adult class: wine. I grin like a Cheshire cat at the thought.

  Setting up the last easel in the circle I’ve created, I sit on one of the stools, waiting patiently for someone to turn up. Ten minutes later, a well-dressed man and woman walk in.

  I smile at them. “Hi, my name’s Harmony. Are you here for the adult art class?”

  The woman looks me up and down and the man smiles stiffly at me, looking up from his cellphone. “Yeah, my wife signed us up.”

  “Ah, yes, you must be Mr. and Mrs. Hearst. Please, let me take your coats and go ahead and pick a seat,” I say, pointing to the circle of easels.

  Mrs. Hearst practically throws her coat at me and teeters off on her tall heels toward a stool at the farthest side. Her husband smiles apologetically at me and hands me his coat, making his way over to join his wife.

  I hang up their coats and bring them each a glass of the red wine I’ve been letting breathe for the past thirty minutes. Mrs. Hearst downright refuses a glass, turning her nose up at it, but Mr. Hearst gingerly takes it from me, placing it on the floor right away, not bothering to even take a taste.

  I walk away to greet the next arrival, seething at their rudeness. You can tell they come from money, they reek of entitlement and for the first time ever, I find myself wishing for a client to never come back again.

  The rest of the group are pleasant and most already know a lot about art, so I find myself coaching the Hearsts on how to draw an apple, although that wasn’t the object of why I placed a bowl of fruit in the middle. I put it there because it didn’t matter to me what I put, what I was really interested in was how they would interpret it. It goes without saying that the Hearsts didn’t get this and tried to draw a bowl of oddly shaped fruit; they had no imagination.

  Apart from the odd interruptions from the Hearsts, I had a great time and I think everyone else did too. There was one painting in particular that caught my eye: the man had made a beautiful watercolor of all the different colors of the fruits and it made my own creativity rise to the surface.

  After I tidy away everything and set up for tomorrow’s session, I walk up the wooden stairs to my own personal studio, sitting down at my bench and letting all of my creativity flow through me and then out of me, onto the paper.

  My fingers haven’t stopped moving over the paper since I sat down; I’ve smudged the pastel chalk colors into each other until it started to resemble the scene in my head. My hand stops moving as I take in the picture in front of me, feeling overwhelmed as it all comes together.

  I scrape my chair back, my heart stuttering as I realize I wasn’t sketching something random out of creativity—this is a memory.

  The willow tree stares back at me—mocking me—and I watch it for a beat before picking it up and holding it out in front of me, ripping it into tiny shreds, exactly like my heart fractured into pieces that day.

  Once it’s unrecognizable, I pick up the pieces in a daze and toss them into the waste paper basket in the corner of the room, my chest heaving on desperate breaths as the memory rushes through me.

  The whole situation has caught me off guard and is so unexpected that it opens an old wound, one I thought I’d buried away deep into the depths of my mind and locked up tightly in a box.

  Walking the same streets we used to and being on this side of the tunnel must be wreaking more havoc on my mind than I knew, it had to be if my subconscious was making me draw both from one of my best and worst memories. I thought having all those memories locked away would protect me; I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  How did I not realize what I was drawing? I was so immersed in the colors and details that it didn’t cross my mind until I stood back and looked at what I’d created.

  I continue to stare at the waste paper basket until it blurs from my tired eyes and I sigh before making m
y way downstairs to collect my purse, locking the studio behind me as I leave.

  I climb into my car, feeling numb, but an old familiar pain creeps its way past the barrier I’ve had up for years and into my heart—a thief stealing all of my happiness—as I drive through the tunnel, back to the side where I belong.

  I thought I was finally over this feeling, but it keeps creeping toward me the more I ignore it. I’ve considered confronting the situation head-on and demanding answers, but it wouldn’t change a thing. I’d still be left wondering, “what if.”

  I take a few deep breaths as I pull into Mom’s driveway, frowning as I see that there are no lights on in the house. I look down at my watch and gasp; it’s nearly two in the morning, I must’ve lost track of time.

  I open the front door quietly and hang up my coat and purse before going into the kitchen for a glass of water. I lift it up to my lips with a shaky hand, relishing in the cool liquid as it slides down my throat.

  How can one piece of art have shaken me up so much? It’s like I can’t pull myself out of this swirling pit of emotion that’s trying to suck me under.

  No, you need to pull yourself together, Harmony. You can’t let yourself go to that place again.

  I need to go to bed and wake up in the morning with a fresh perspective, ready for my Saturday morning session, and put it all behind me.

  Who am I kidding? I know it won’t be that simple.

  “If you angle the spatula this way, it won’t take away any clay from this part of your sculpture and gives it a much cleaner edge,” I explain to Clayton, watching the frustration on his face ebb away as I show him what to do.

  “Okay, Miss J, I’ll try again,” he says in a small, determined voice.

  I beam at him. “That’s all I ask, and remember—”

  “I know, I know, there’s no such thing as a mistake in art,” he interrupts.

  I chuckle. “That’s right.”

  I do another lap of the room, watching each child concentrate on their own work of art, head to toe covered in their artwork from the start of the six weeks. To watch them all blossom since that first day has been a blessing. Their lines have gotten cleaner and they’re understanding that in my class, nothing is ever wrong. Each one has their own style and I can’t wait for their parents to see their final masterpieces on gallery night in three weeks.