Family Of His Own. Catherine Lanigan
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her toward her future. Malcolm and Wes spoke of master artists, icons she’d revered since she was in middle school and stumbled upon her first art history book in the Indian Lake library. She’d been drawn to art nouveau—Toulouse Lautrec and Aubrey Beardsley as well as Klimt and Mucha. She’d adored Erte and his movement into art deco, but it was the short span between 1890 and 1905 that fascinated her, as if she’d been a part of it somehow. Perhaps she’d underestimated the universal appeal of her faeries and nymphs along with her talent. The only place her paintings had hung was in the gift shop at the Lodges.
Malcolm had said he was fascinated with the faeries’ expressions. Odd. She’d never put much thought into their expressions. She knew from art school that other painters labored over faces, the nuances of the eyes, of the lips, hoping to capture the next Mona Lisa smile. She did not. Often, Isabelle simply closed her eyes and waited for her heart to guide her hand. Her faeries were the faces she saw in her dreams. She knew them well.
Malcolm hadn’t commissioned her projects or presented her with a contract. Yet her elation was undeniable. Only Scott had ever made her feel this hopeful.
All these years, it had been Scott who had shored up her crumbling emotions when she’d been rejected—again.
For the first time, she realized he’d been the one pushing her to try again. Paint again. Submit again.
Scott...
He was the first person she wanted to tell about her visit with Malcolm.
NEW YEAR’S EVE was the last night the Lodges was open for the season. Edgar Clayton preferred to close the cabins and facilities for the winter, though he’d confessed to liking the solemn yet dazzling interlude between autumn and spring more than any other time of year. Edgar was a pensive soul, Isabelle had decided. Never married, he devoted himself to making the Lodges a memorable experience for his guests.
She had to admit she admired Edgar’s sentimental side, which was why she would not abandon him this New Year’s Eve. Once again, she’d agreed to organize the decorations, the flowers and the menu for an extravagant party...at least to the extent that his somewhat limited budget would allow.
Aqua, silver and indigo helium balloons with long, metallic ribbons that nearly skimmed the heads of the tallest guests covered the ceilings of the main dining room and the enclosed patio. Isabelle always used a lake or water theme for her New Year’s decorations and this year was no exception. She’d filled the center of each table with silver netting studded with glitter. Aqua tapers and votive candles nested among silver and aqua glass balls and branches that resembled coral. Soft cedar and bells of Ireland created the illusion of seaweed, and the overall effect was that of a mystic lake.
The silver-banded wine and champagne glasses and the matching bone china had belonged to Edgar’s mother. Each time Isabelle helped the serving crew place the dinnerware, she wished she’d met the older woman, but she’d died years ago.
Odd, she thought, that she yearned for guidance from Edgar’s mother but not her own.
Connie didn’t feel the joy of creating “tablescapes” or planning parties the way Isabelle did. When Isabelle was a child, she’d told herself that her mother simply wasn’t creative and artistic the way Isabelle was. However, Connie was a gifted architect. She had phenomenal vision and was capable of creating entire cities in her head, then rendering them on graph paper and in the intricate and time-consuming balsa wood and paper model layouts she perched on bookshelves in her den.
Still, Connie had shunned all domestic duties once Isabelle’s father died. Those duties had gone to Isabelle and she still resented them. She had felt too much like a servant to the needs of her brothers and sisters. She didn’t blame them for her fate; it was the way it was. The heartbreaking truth was that Connie had become emotionally disconnected from her children once she became the sole provider. As much as Isabelle understood that, now that she was an adult, it didn’t mend the fissure in her heart. A dull ache, perpetual and reliable, thrummed inside Isabelle, underscoring her decisions, actions and needs. Connie had sacrificed her love and care for her children and had burdened Isabelle with responsibilities that were too great for a ten-year-old to bear.
Isabelle admired her mother’s career, but deplored the mundane, day-to-day rut of domesticity. Children held an artist back and Isabelle decided it would be best for her career if she never had babies. Isabelle had seen what having a family and an absorbing career could cost. And the price was too high.
“Isabelle.” Scott wrapped his arm around her waist. He’d walked up from behind, surprising her.
“You look amazing,” he said as she turned toward him, his hands still on her waist.
She shrugged, sending ripples through her iridescent silver crepe de chine gown. “I thought I’d blend in. Match the décor.”
Scott’s lips quirked into a rascally grin. “You couldn’t blend in any more than fireworks in a midnight sky.” He pulled her closer. They were nose to nose. “You’re a knockout.”
“I could say the same about you,” she said, glancing down at his blindingly white tuxedo shirt, black silk bow tie. He wore his immaculately cut tuxedo every New Year’s Eve.
Scott in a tuxedo was nothing short of a woman’s dream. His wide shoulders were enhanced by the jacket, though she noticed that this year, his biceps seemed to be straining against the sleeves. But all that was eclipsed by his ease and manner when he wore his tux.
That first New Year’s Eve when Scott had moved back to Indian Lake, she’d commented on the fact that he owned a tux. He told her then he’d bought it his first year at the Tribune and had intended to wear it when he won prizes for his journalism.
She lingered on the gold flecks that sparkled in his eyes. Did he think about those days anymore?
“I aim to please,” he said, holding her gaze.
Isabelle didn’t know what was happening, but she could swear Scott wanted to kiss her. Not one of his friendly pecks on the cheek, but a real kiss. Suddenly she felt uneasy. Why was she noticing how handsome Scott was? He was just Scott. He would dance with her at midnight and she’d finish her chores like they always did on New Year’s Eve. Wouldn’t they? She looked around nervously and gave him a wide, friendly smile.
“Scott, I have to get back to work. I was just checking the champagne glasses.”
His eyes never left her lips. He lifted his hand to her neck and touched her tenderly. “Right. The glasses.”
His thumb traced the line of her jaw. She was melting and she never melted. Everything about this night was orchestrated for romance, including a torchy love ballad being played by the Milo Orchestra in the background.
“Glasses,” she repeated, trying to recover her composure and remember her job. What had she been doing before she’d slipped into this dreamy state?
“Isabelle.”
She’d never paid much attention to his voice before, but now, when he said her name, her stomach fluttered. Why was she reacting to him as if she had a crush on him? She didn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks were flushed.
All she could feel was his hand on her waist. The sound of Scott saying her name echoed in her head.
She swallowed hard. She had to snap out of this. It was this kind of romance that lured women into domesticity.
She had to force herself to focus. “Yes, the glasses. Uh, for the midnight toast.”
He brushed his lips against her cheek. “And I’ll find you for my kiss to ring in the New Year.”
Isabelle hadn’t realized she’d shut her eyes, immersing herself in the moment with Scott.
She felt a whoosh of air, the temperature dropped and she blinked, returning to the