Family Of His Own. Catherine Lanigan
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ring. “What? No customers?”
“Not at the moment. Are you home?”
“I am. I just got here. I had to run some errands,” she replied, her eyes darting to the dining table and the empty canvas. She forced her gaze away in order to concentrate on what Scott was saying.
She walked over to the living room window and looked across the bare treetops to the snow-covered county courthouse clock tower. December days were unbearably short, and though it was only four in the afternoon, the lights on the massive Christmas tree on the courthouse lawn came on as she watched. Spotlights showcased the red sandstone courthouse walls. Up and down Main Street, crystal lights twinkled in the pear trees along the sidewalks. It was the one time of year her town resembled the magical images that flitted across her mind day and night.
“I thought you might stop off at the art supply store.” He chuckled.
“The trouble with us is that you know me too well. I have no mystery for you.”
“Sure you do,” he countered. “So. Tell me. Why are you buying more stuff right now when we just picked out what you’re going to send to Malcolm?”
“I should start something serious.”
“Tonight?”
“Well, I should...”
“Isabelle, I can tell when you’re feeling guilty that you aren’t working, and the lilt of your words when you’re inspired. You’re just nervous. Admit it.”
Isabelle’s shoulders slumped as his truth settled over her. “I am. Time passes so quickly when I’m working. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep tonight, so I thought—”
“You called me so I could tell you stories.”
“Oh, Scott. You don’t have any stories.” She laughed.
There was dead silence on the other end, and she felt the cold between them stretch from her apartment to Scott’s shop.
She backtracked. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. We just know each other so well that—”
He cut her off. “No, actually, you’re right, Isabelle. I don’t have any stories. Stories should be my life, and they aren’t. Look, I have a customer. I need to go. Good luck tomorrow.” He hung up.
Isabelle held the cell phone to her ear as the call disconnected. She hadn’t heard the bell over the door ring or any other voice on Scott’s end. He’d never faked a reason to get off the phone with her. If anything, she was the one who usually had to go first.
She had hurt his feelings.
They’d been doing that a lot lately, but she couldn’t seem to figure out why they both were so on edge.
Earlier, Scott had told her that he admired her for raising her own bar. Challenging herself. Just how deep were his regrets about his past work as a journalist? All these years, she’d thought he was happy in Indian Lake running his coffee shop, selling books and writing for the local newspaper. Most men would be thrilled to have their own business, especially a successful one.
Edgar was more than fulfilled by running the Lodges, she mused. He often remarked how busy he was, and he’d never said he wanted to do anything else with his life.
But then, Isabelle hadn’t exactly asked.
Isabelle sank into her 1940s club chair, a realization taking shape.
She’d worked for Edgar for ten years, yet she barely knew the man at all. She suddenly thought of dozens of questions she’d never asked Scott, despite their years of friendship.
Was she so immersed in her own needs and aspirations that she didn’t take the time to learn what mattered to others?
Tears filled her eyes as she stared out the window at the falling snow.
“There’s one word for you, Isabelle Hawks. Selfish.”
She was so desperate to be recognized that she put her ambitions ahead of everyone in her life. She never made time to see her siblings or her mother on a consistent basis. She was either working at the Lodges or she was at the easel. And Scott. It was amazing the guy still spoke to her. Other than meeting him at her mother’s for their Christmas dinner, she hadn’t made time for him since before Thanksgiving.
If things went well with Malcolm tomorrow and if she was lucky enough to have even a single painting hang in his gallery, she would have no one with whom to share her joy. She needed to start giving more attention to the people she claimed to love.
She picked up her cell phone and punched in Scott’s number.
“Hi. It’s me. I’m ordering a pizza. When you close up would you like to come share it with me?” she asked.
“I...” He hesitated.
“Please?”
“I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Uh, okay. You’ve got plans. I understand.”
“It’s unexpected and unplanned, if you want to know,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You never ask me over for dinner....er, pizza.”
“I’m just nervous about Malcolm, and...”
He broke in. “Isabelle. I’m covering a story. I really have to go.”
“Oh, sorry. Sure. Later, then.”
“Later.” He hung up.
Disappointment rattled through Isabelle like an old locomotive. Seldom had Scott turned her down if she asked a favor. She needed to be with someone tonight to help quell her anxieties. Though they hadn’t spent much time together lately, she could usually count on him to find just the right words to help when she felt low and small. Scott was good at things like that.
Tonight was different, though. Yes, she wanted comfort, but she also wanted to explain that she was beginning to see herself in a new light, unflattering as it was. She wanted to make up for hurting his feelings.
But now she’d have to wait. She supposed there would be time when she got back from Chicago. Scott would want to see her then. He always did. For so long, she’d relied on his loyalty and friendship.
Chicago. Isabelle put her cell phone on the small kitchen table and rushed into her bedroom, where she flung open the walnut door to her walk-in closet. Tomorrow could be the turning point of her life. She had to dress for it.
Twice, she ran through her wardrobe. Because she was the hostess at the Lodges, she had over a dozen black sheath dresses for every season and weather condition. Tomorrow would be a conservative black sheath day. With her white wool coat with the black buttons, she would present a picture of a serious artist to Malcolm.
She held up a jersey wool dress with long black sleeves and turned and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
“Serious artist,” she whispered. Once her work was in Whitestone Gallery, she wouldn’t be a fledgling anymore. She would no longer be overlooked. Even if she was never famous, she would always be able to claim her day...her moment.
She stared at the woman in the reflection. Unafraid, nearly audacious. Isabelle felt a change happening inside her and around her. Her own green eyes gazed back at her. She imagined she saw them twinkle.
NORTH OF DOWNTOWN CHICAGO, a half mile from Lake Michigan and centered in a block of shops, cafés and boutiques stood Whitestone Gallery. Its massive black awning, white Greek key design fringe and a bold white W stretched imperiously over the beveled glass door, which was executed in an art deco design that reminded Isabelle of the water spray in her nymph