of her sketchbook.
A cat. She’d doodled a cat. And a mountain. Like one of those she could see from her balcony. And she’d doodled the name Ada Scott. In print, in cursive. In rounded letters, and slanted letters. Ada Scott . . . Ada Scott . . . Ada Scott . . .
She obviously wasn’t going to get any work done tonight. Maybe it was too soon, she reflected, pushing the sketches away. Maybe she needed to settle into her new environment and let the muse return at her own pace. It never paid to rush the muse. She always rebelled.
Josy didn’t want to think about how for years, her muse had never left her side, had been a part of her soul. What had happened to that girl, the one who’d lived and breathed and dreamed of beautiful clothes, whose creative thoughts had flowed so easily and vibrantly onto the page, who had only to envision a hot new red dress, a flowy skirt or elegant jacket, and she could see it in luxe living color and practically feel the silk of it caressing her skin? The girl who’d once visualized an entire formal ball gown and all the accessories and sketched it all in rapid detail while listening to a lecture on textile variations at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York?
She’s still here,
she told herself.
She’s merely gone on a
sabbatical—given the creativity a break—focused on
other things. Like staying alive. Hiding out. Going
crazy . . .
She glanced around at the generic walls of the apartment, feeling stifled. It was Tuesday night. If she were home right now, she’d be meeting Jane and Reese for drinks at the Plaza. They went out every Tuesday night for drinks and then dinner, usually for sushi or Thai food.
She suddenly missed them, missed New York, with a painful lurch of her heart.
Okay,
she thought, jumping up, throwing her pencil down on the coffee table beside the worthless doodle-sketches.
You’re stuck here for a while, but you don’t have to sit
here alone in this suffocating apartment. You had two invitations for tonight, right? So don’t just sit here like a
scared little kid—do what Ricky taught you to do—stand
up for yourself and fight. Fight for your own life, your own
wants. Fight the urge to be silent and afraid. And alone.
Fight that urge to retreat into a mute, silent shell, a pathetic child like you were before. Get yourself out there
and into the game.
She knew Ricky’s way was right. Since she’d found out the truth about Doug and his lies she’d been less social than ever, more withdrawn than she’d been since her first foster home.
Ricky had taught her how to cope with the urge to retreat. And she needed to remember those lessons now.
She unzipped her suitcase, which she hadn’t yet unpacked, and tore through it for something to wear.
She was going to a party.
Chapter 5
GARTH BROOKS WAS CROONING FROM THE JUKEBOX over the din of laughter and chatter when Josy slipped through the double doors of the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill and paused for a moment to scan the packed, smoky room.
It was fairly dark, but she could see that the booths against the back wall were mostly full of people, as were the dozen or so small tables scattered around a big wooden dance floor. To the right of the entrance a group of men played pool, and in the low, smoky light of the room she spotted Candy Merck and some other women at the bar, chatting up the bartender.
Suddenly she noticed Corinne, waving at her from one of the tables off the dance floor.
“Josy! We’re over here!”
“Who’s that?” Roy Hewett asked his fiancée as the willowy blonde he’d never seen before smiled and started toward them. She was more than pretty, with a pale sweep of hair that didn’t quite touch her shoulders, sexy green cat eyes, and a walk that would have stirred the blood of a monk. In fact, her lithe figure encased in low-slung jeans, boots, and a silky, low-necked ruby-colored blouse drew more than one stare, he noted.
And if he hadn’t been happily engaged to
A cat. She’d doodled a cat. And a mountain. Like one of those she could see from her balcony. And she’d doodled the name Ada Scott. In print, in cursive. In rounded letters, and slanted letters. Ada Scott . . . Ada Scott . . . Ada Scott . . .
She obviously wasn’t going to get any work done tonight. Maybe it was too soon, she reflected, pushing the sketches away. Maybe she needed to settle into her new environment and let the muse return at her own pace. It never paid to rush the muse. She always rebelled.
Josy didn’t want to think about how for years, her muse had never left her side, had been a part of her soul. What had happened to that girl, the one who’d lived and breathed and dreamed of beautiful clothes, whose creative thoughts had flowed so easily and vibrantly onto the page, who had only to envision a hot new red dress, a flowy skirt or elegant jacket, and she could see it in luxe living color and practically feel the silk of it caressing her skin? The girl who’d once visualized an entire formal ball gown and all the accessories and sketched it all in rapid detail while listening to a lecture on textile variations at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York?
She’s still here,
she told herself.
She’s merely gone on a
sabbatical—given the creativity a break—focused on
other things. Like staying alive. Hiding out. Going
crazy . . .
She glanced around at the generic walls of the apartment, feeling stifled. It was Tuesday night. If she were home right now, she’d be meeting Jane and Reese for drinks at the Plaza. They went out every Tuesday night for drinks and then dinner, usually for sushi or Thai food.
She suddenly missed them, missed New York, with a painful lurch of her heart.
Okay,
she thought, jumping up, throwing her pencil down on the coffee table beside the worthless doodle-sketches.
You’re stuck here for a while, but you don’t have to sit
here alone in this suffocating apartment. You had two invitations for tonight, right? So don’t just sit here like a
scared little kid—do what Ricky taught you to do—stand
up for yourself and fight. Fight for your own life, your own
wants. Fight the urge to be silent and afraid. And alone.
Fight that urge to retreat into a mute, silent shell, a pathetic child like you were before. Get yourself out there
and into the game.
She knew Ricky’s way was right. Since she’d found out the truth about Doug and his lies she’d been less social than ever, more withdrawn than she’d been since her first foster home.
Ricky had taught her how to cope with the urge to retreat. And she needed to remember those lessons now.
She unzipped her suitcase, which she hadn’t yet unpacked, and tore through it for something to wear.
She was going to a party.
Chapter 5
GARTH BROOKS WAS CROONING FROM THE JUKEBOX over the din of laughter and chatter when Josy slipped through the double doors of the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill and paused for a moment to scan the packed, smoky room.
It was fairly dark, but she could see that the booths against the back wall were mostly full of people, as were the dozen or so small tables scattered around a big wooden dance floor. To the right of the entrance a group of men played pool, and in the low, smoky light of the room she spotted Candy Merck and some other women at the bar, chatting up the bartender.
Suddenly she noticed Corinne, waving at her from one of the tables off the dance floor.
“Josy! We’re over here!”
“Who’s that?” Roy Hewett asked his fiancée as the willowy blonde he’d never seen before smiled and started toward them. She was more than pretty, with a pale sweep of hair that didn’t quite touch her shoulders, sexy green cat eyes, and a walk that would have stirred the blood of a monk. In fact, her lithe figure encased in low-slung jeans, boots, and a silky, low-necked ruby-colored blouse drew more than one stare, he noted.
And if he hadn’t been happily engaged to
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