Tidal Wave (Paradise Lost Book 3)

  Tidal Wave

  Paradise Lost Book Thre

  Megyn Ward

  Shanen Black

  Ardor Press

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 1

  Lauren

  Halfway across the piazza I have the crazy urge to dash behind the mango tree and hide, taking the canvas with me.

  What if he hates it? What if I’m nothing more than a hack who should stick to paint-by-numbers? What if the risks I took with color and composition scream amateur?

  And what if he loves it? Buys it? Takes it away from me where I’ll never see it again.

  Suck it up, cupcake. Fear of failure or success is still fear and you can’t afford that.

  Deborah sweeps last night’s deposit of pink bougainvillea petals across the damp bricks of the piazza. “Good afta-noon. It’s a fine day.”

  My nerves make it hard for me to smile. I point to my shaded white bungalow. The bedroom window is open and a slight breeze stirs the white filmy curtains inside. “Can you keep an eye out? Ellie is napping.” I pat the monitor in my pocket. I’ll hear her if she stirs but an extra pair of eyes on her makes me feel better.

  “Don’t you worry about the precious bean. She wake up, I know where da cookies are.” Deborah laughs in her low, sultry way.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Though in reality, I’m grateful for everyone here who loves and watches over Ellie. She may not have a father, but she doesn’t lack for love.

  Unlike you.

  I’ve got a full life as it is. No need to add another complication.

  Beyond the towering tamarind tree in the middle of the piazza, Gram sits in her gazebo, with the climbing roses covering the walls and blooming in a wild profusion of red and white. A pitcher of margaritas and one of iced tea sit in front of her on a white linen tablecloth.

  Her radiant smile smooths out the deepest of her wrinkles and her vivid blue eyes twinkle. “There’s the artist. I was just about the send Deborah after you.”

  The man sitting next to her jumps to his feet. He’s wearing a white, loose-fitting shirt over shorts and expensive leather shoes. Dark hair, a hint of dark beard, and deep brown eyes that I’m sure have opened more than a few women’s legs with a simple glance. He waits for me to set the paper-covered canvas against the wall of the gazebo, and extends his hand to me. “Carlos Carrillo.”

  His hand envelopes mine in warmth and I want to snatch it away. It’s my immediate reaction to any man who isn’t the only man I want.

  Get over that shit.

  I don’t want him or anyone else. Painting and Ellie, Gram, and my sister. That’s plenty for me. It’s more than I’ve ever had.

  You’re lucky to finally belong to a real family.

  Gram doesn’t get up. She plays her role as matriarch and now patron to the hilt. I’m done playing any role. Never again.

  Pride is evident in Gram’s bragging. “Mind you, not above laying it thick when it comes to my granddaughters, but when you see this painting, you’ll know I’m not exaggerating in the least. Lauren has a gift and you’d be lucky to be the first to show her.”

  Carlos eyes the canvas with hunger. “I’m always looking for new talent.” He turns those ravenous eyes to me and I know he’s interested in more than the painting. “Lauren?” He’s working it out and I’m going to give him one second to do the right thing. “Or Liesa? Liesa Temple. I don’t need to see the canvas. The answer is yes. Of course I’ll show your work.”

  That was not the right thing. Fuck him. “I’m not Liesa Temple. I’m her cousin.”

  He studies me harder. “But if you let your hair grow, and we use your first initial, L. Temple, we’ll put that on the promos. We’re going to sell big. Big.”

  Without a word to him or Gram, I grab the painting and whirl out of the gazebo.

  Gram sounds surprised. “Lauren?”

  Carlos descends the stairs and follows me a few feet across the piazza, just beyond where Deborah’s pile of dead petals waits for her dustpan. “Wait. The painting. I want to see it.”

  Tearing off the brown paper and revealing the canvas would be more intimate than peeling off my dress and giving him free rein of my body. My heart won’t take selling myself so cheaply again.

  Maybe he said something else. Gram might have commanded me to return. I didn’t hear as I stomped back to my bungalow and inside, slamming the door behind me.

  Smooth.

  You freak.

  I place the canvas on the floor and lean it against a half dozen others, all at least four feet high. When the paper is ripped back, I let the calm cover me like a cooling shower. To me, this painting is the soft joy of motherhood. After the frantic pace of the birth, the pain and fear. After the hours of pacing with colic, after the panic of not knowing if she’s hungry or has a stomach ache, or is scared or somehow knows she’s got a loser for a mother. This painting is that moment of sweet connection when you know you were meant to have this child and your bond is eternal.

  What others might see is a bursting peony with pink so full and greens reaching out of the canvas with a feeling so fresh you can almost smell the growth. Gram cried when I showed it to her. She didn’t say what it meant to her, but she insisted on seeing the rest of the canvases I’d been working on for the last three years.

  Mostly flowers, reminiscent of Georgia O’Keefe. For me, they tell the story of my life. Buds tight, waiting to blossom. Lilies bursting with hope. Dead petals decaying in soft dirt. And many, like this one, dripping in love I can’t hold inside.

  Gram must have thought all that time I’d been dabbling, filling up hours as a single mom with no job and few friends. When she saw the paintings she mobilized and started calling gallery owners in New York. Gram has an impressive art collection and is known to donate generously to artistic charities.

  I know it frustrated her when I refused to go to New York or make efforts to return calls or send photos of my portfolio. This guy, smarmy Carlos, is the latest in Gram’s compromise for me to show my work at a gallery here in Grand Cayman.

  She’s never flat-out asked me about why I hate to the leave the compound less and less frequently, but I know she’s getting concerned.

  A flop of something soft hitting the floor in the bedroom brings my attention back to the bungalow. Soft baby sighs and coos waft into the living room, signaling the end of my alone time.

  The bungalow, tucked into the corner of Gram’s back property, is not much larger than a garden shed. In fact, that’s what it had been before Gram suddenly acquired two grown granddaughters and decided there was plenty of room at her island acreage to create a compound and accommodate all of us while we got to know each other.
She’d added a couple of rooms to the shed and renovated the whole thing for my bungalow. For my sister, Kylie, who is married, she built a charming two-bedroom cottage in the other corner. Gram’s sweeping home, with its open plan and patios everywhere, Kylie’s place, and my bungalow, form a circle connected by the brick piazza.

  Sun-dappled, isolated, quiet, and safe. My idea of heaven. I rarely leave.

  “You’ve got a thing about you…” I start singing. “I just can’t live without you.”

  She squeals, delighted that her nap is over and we’ve got an afternoon to fill with fun.

  My voice takes on strength. “I really love you, Eleanor baby.”

  I pop into her room. “Eleanor, gee I think you’re swell,” still singing loud enough to fill the piazza. My singing voice is truly awful. Epic terribleness.

  She’s standing on my “big bed,” stuffed toys strewn around the room. Before naptime, we have to gather them from her little bed across the room and arrange them on the big bed. When she wakes, the toys sail from the bed to land on the floor. In another year or two, this ritual will end as she stops taking afternoon naps, gives up her stuffed toys, and eventually starts kindergarten.

  I treasure this game of hers. The song goes on. “And you really do me well, you’re my pride and joy, et cetera.”

  “Ellie!” She jumps up and down. “How many times I got to tell ya, Ellie!” She’s picked up a little island accent from Deborah and Jacob, Gram’s maid/cook and gardener/handyman.

  I grab her around the waist and whisk her into my arms. “Ellie for every day. Eleanor is for dress up.”

  I plop her on the floor in her Disney Princess undies and nothing else. “How about your yellow dress?”

  She’s already heading toward the kitchen. “Nope. Not gonna wear clothes today.”

  I’ve got no problem with that. I follow her to the kitchen and peel an orange for us to share. Gram calls. She’s embraced her cell phone since we all moved into the compound. I wouldn’t have noticed the call, since I normally turn the ringer off when Ellie naps or I paint, but the phone is on the counter and I see it light up.

  She’s going to have something to say about my behavior and I might as well take my lumps now. “Hi, Gram. I’m sorry—.”

  “I assume Ellie is awake since I heard your caterwauling over here.”

  I can’t suppress my grin. She’s really pissed because normally, she says she loves my singing. She professes to like hearing music from us, or the laughter coming from their cottage when Kylie and Zach are home. I know it bothers her when Ellie cries, but only because she loves Ellie. The first six months, when Ellie had colic every night, might have been as hard on Gram and they were for us.

  “We’re having a snack,” I say, watching the juice from the orange run down Ellie’s arm.

  “Please come see me when you can.” She hangs up. No goodbye or see ya. Okay, Gram would never say see ya, but she’s always, always polite.

  This won’t be good.

  “Okay, doodlebug, we’re going to visit Gram. How about that yellow dress?” I wipe the orange juice from her face and sticky fingers.

  She doesn’t fight me so at least that’s one thing going for the day. I even check my makeup and hair before venturing back across the piazza. Gram is old school and things like hygiene and image are important. Because I’ve come to love Gram fiercely, I’ll accommodate her. But she’s the only one. No one else will ever make me conform to their wishes again. Ever.

  “You look adorable,” I say to Ellie as we walk hand in hand across the piazza.

  “As do you, Mommy.” This kid. From Deborah and Jacob’s island slang to Gram’s formal declarations, she’s got it covered.

  Gram is still sitting in the gazebo. A sizeable dent has been made in the margarita pitcher. The iced tea is untouched.

  Ellie drops my hand and sprints to Gram the moment she sees her. “Guess what?” She launches herself into Gram’s lap and I pray I got all the sticky juice off of her.

  Gram grunts and shifts to make accommodation for an urchin dropping onto her. “I couldn’t possibly fathom a what.”

  Ellie acts as though she’s completely adored by all in her kingdom. Which is pretty much the case. “I losted my dinosaur and…”

  Gram is gentle but firm, as usual. “You lost your dinosaur. Was it the T-rex or the stegosaurus?”

  Ellie is speaking too fast to get it right. “Streg-o-sagus.”

  “Stegosaurus.” Gram says slowly.

  “Ellie,” I say when I climb up the steps to the gazebo. “Apologize to Gram for jumping on her and sit in a chair, please.”

  Ellie frowns at me, then throws her arms around Gram’s neck and kisses her. “I’m sorry if I hurted you.”

  Gram pats Ellie. “Thank you. You may stay on my lap if you wish.”

  While Ellie chatters about her lost dinosaur, I pour myself iced tea and replenish Gram’s margarita. I’m not in any hurry for Gram to turn her attention to me. Ellie and Gram are fast friends and I marvel at that.

  Gram demands manners and respect. She expects precision and effort. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t lower her standards for Ellie, but there’s an acceptance that flows both ways. The way Gram treats Ellie is exactly right and what I try to emulate.

  God knows I don’t want to imitate my own mother. Ellie’s life will be nothing like mine.

  She’ll only know love and acceptance of who she is. I’m terrified somehow my past as a celebrity will taint her. She’ll get dragged into the limelight and her life will be ruined. I’ve never told Kylie or Gram, but I have nightmares of Ellie being forced onto a stage and I wake up sweating and paralyzed with fear.

  When Ellie is done, she slips off Gram’s lap and races off to the bougainvillea bushes to look for lizards.

  Gram sips her margarita. The humidity of the island feels much less oppressive in this sanctuary behind Gram’s front gate than it does anywhere else. The piazza is almost totally shaded and flowers burst in wild dances from trees and bushes. Ellie has freedom to explore, people to keep her safe and make her feel loved. And I’ve got the solitude I’ve always craved.

  Gram sets her glass on the table. “Now, then.”

  Here it comes.

  I try to head her off. “I know I was rude and you went to a lot of trouble to arrange for me to meet with Carlos. I’m sure he could have helped my career. I apologize to you.”

  She opens her mouth to speak but I jump in.

  “But I won’t apologize about sending Carlos packing. Whether he ended up loving my art or not, he’s a user. I’ve got a nose for people like that and I won’t deal with them anymore.”

  Gram watches me with a passive expression and silence grows for several seconds.

  I sit back and gulp my tea, knowing she’s winding up for something. Ellie is entertaining herself by creating dancing girls out of hibiscus blossoms as Deborah showed her.

  Gram breaks her silence. “When you and Kylie came to live with me nearly four years ago, it was with the agreement you’d both work toward financial independence.”

  I hide my face behind my glass. Already guilt eats at me.

  Gram’s face holds that balance between sympathy and rigidity. “Kylie and Zach have made a go with the dive shop. They’re paying rent now.”

  I focus on Ellie humming to herself and digging in the dirt of the flower bed.

  Gram chuckles. “It’s not that I need the money. We’ve discussed this. It’s the principle of responsibility.”

  I nod not wanting to make things any worse.

  Gram is gearing up to one of her favorite subjects and maybe if I let her go on, she’ll lose track of what she wants to discuss with me. “With your father, I gave him everything his heart desired because, why not? I had the money and I did so adore him. You can see how that turned out. I raised a narcissist who wouldn’t even claim his own daughters. I learned from my mistakes.”

  Keep your mouth shut, Lauren.

  But t
hat’s too much to ask of me. “I’ve learned, too. I’ve learned I never want to work with or for someone who doesn’t value my worth. In this case, Carlos was far more interested in Liesa Temple, than in Lauren Knightly’s artwork.”

  Gram scoffs. “But you are Liesa Temple and will be for the rest of your life. Why not use it to your advantage?”

  My jaw drops, literally drops. “How can you say that? I’d have never expected that from you.” My chair rattles across the gazebo floor as I push it with the backs of my knees and stand.

  Gram holds out her hand. “Oh, do sit down and stop with the dramatics. We have no cameras here and we conduct ourselves with dignity in this household.”

  I don’t move.

  Gram takes a delicate sip of her margarita. “I am in no way advocating you return to Liesa’s Life, that Wretched Reality Show.” Gram always calls it the Wretched Reality Show with capital letters whenever she mentions it, as if instilling it with all the disdain she can muster. And Gram can muster a shit-ton of disdain. “But you are a celebrity and I have no idea why you’re insisting on anonymity when a career in art could benefit from some notoriety.”

  She’s stabbing me with every word. “You don’t think my painting is good enough to make it without labeling it an original Liesa Temple?”

  “I said nothing of the sort. I know a thing or two about art and you’re quite talented. But so are a hundred other young up and comers. It’s the same in any artistic community. Writers, poets, actors, singers. Good heavens, even athletes. It takes more than talent to rise to the top. For most, it’s a matter of luck. Others, it’s the right connections. For you, dear, it’s a matter of coming out of the shadows and telling the world of your new career.”