Page 46 of Worthy of Sunsets and Second Chances

When I squeeze my eyes shut, I see Kendra’s beaten body at my feet. I shake my head and open my eyes to see her standing next to me, breathing fast and shaking.

“I c-can’t be . . . I have to get out of here,” Kendra chokes, then spins around and painfully makes her way back through the front door. Her body is covered in the marks of that night, but her soul will bear the scars forever too. Unseen, but never forgotten by the woman that has to carry them. It makes me want to rip out a sword and slay an impossible dragon, lay its disgusting, unworthy heart at her feet.

Kendra shuffles her way around the house to her backyard, heading to the garage—her studio, her safe space. I stay silent behind her as she approaches the deep rust-colored side door, a twin to the one we just entered on her front porch.

She sticks her hand out for her keys and I place them into her shaky palm, but they are unnecessary. When Kendra puts her hand on the doorknob it’s unlocked, unsecured in an eerily familiar way.

Thank fuck Kendra is safe, right here in front of me, otherwise I might be sick.

“That motherfucking son of bitch!” Kendra screams when she flicks on the lights and sees her studio. “Nooooooooo.”

The pure rage Kendra is feeling melts into agony, and she sinks to her knees. I go down with her and wrap her carefully in my arms. Her whole space isn’t ruined—no, that devil went right to where she poured her heart and soul.

Kendra had finished all of Rem’s wedding gift pieces for Lainey, plus all the extras she had added to the stunning collection. They were laid out in the studio so that she could show them off before wrapping them up and bringing them to the newlyweds before they left for the honeymoon. Kendra was going to take them to Rem and Lainey the day after the wedding when they were meeting back at Rem’s parents’ house to open gifts. I know this because she told “Wren” when we were texting last week before the wedding. I was going to offer my help with the whole delivery process, but then everything changed and nobody was thinking of wedding gifts. She was so happy, proud, and excited. These pieces were not just something that she was making for Brooks and Books or for a random customer—this was as personal as it got. Obviously she would have told Bennett about it.

So after he left her broken and bloody, it wasn’t enough for him. That asshole had to come into this space and take even more from her by smashing every . . . single . . . piece of wedding pottery that Kendra had made for the new LeBlancs.

It was a clear message.

Nothing else in the studio was touched.

35

Kendra

TWENTY YEARS OLD

Being back in Fox Grove feels horrible. But I wanted one week here with Nana in my favorite place—the cabin—before everything changes for me.

“Where the heck are we going? We never come out here, Nana.” I peer around her shoulder as she fiddles with the garage doorknob.

“I know. It’s been years since I’ve gotten out here, and this damn door is sticking like bubblegum on the bottom of a boot,” Nana grumbles.

Laughing, I say, “Let me try.”

Moving aside, Nana allows me to give it my best shot. I use my young hip and slam into the side door, forcing it open, tumbling into the dark garage triumphantly.

“That’s my girl.” Nana pats my cheek. “Tiny, but mighty.”

I grin at her as she flicks on the light to reveal the dusty, but not overly messy garage that I expected. There are organized shelves, a big sink that has a window looking out to the Savellis’ backyard, some old bins, and things covered in tarps or dustcloths. Honestly, I thought it would be weeks’ worth of cleaning and sorting, but this is very manageable.

“What do you need from out here?” I ask, running my finger along the dusty sink.

“I’m not very crafty, myself. Your grandpa, God rest his handsome soul, liked to think himself crafty. I’d play along and let him pretend he was whenever he’d get it in his head that he’d want to try out a new hobby. The only thing that stuck was golf”—she points to an old set of clubs in the back corner—“and that was fine with me. And that’s a sport, different skill set.”

I grin at her, knowing that she loved to just tool around the course with him, never swinging a club herself, content to half watch him play while she read a library book. They both got to do something they enjoyed and still spend time together.

“Are you finally going to learn to play?” I tease her.

“Good heavens, no! I can’t even open my own garage door—can you imagine me trying to golf? I’d end up clubbing a poor, unsuspecting young person instead of my own ball.” Nana shuffles toward the middle of the space and a large object covered with a dustcloth. “Help me with this, please.”

Together we pull the stiff fabric back to reveal an old, but in nearly perfect condition, pottery wheel in a dandelion-yellow color that instantly overwhelms the otherwise bland space.

“Your grandpa took one class for fun, next thing I knew we had all the stuff for him to make pottery out here. Even have a kiln under there.” Nana points to another very large, covered shape on the other side of the shelves.

“He never used this?” I ask, my hand itching to plug it in and hear it hum.

“Oh he did, for about three months. Then he got tired of it. You can’t master a new craft, an actual art, in three months, Kendra, especially something like pottery. It takes time, patience, finesse, and your own magic—he had none of that. So he covered it all up and left it out here. Planned to sell it but never got around to it.” Her bright blue eyes spark with a mix of amusement and pain.