Family Of His Own. Catherine Lanigan
Читать онлайн книгу.
would you think that?”
“Because of that clipped text you sent me. And then you didn’t even hug me when I came in. Frankly, I was a bit put off myself.”
“To be fair, you were late. And when you got here you were mobbed by my family and I was busy putting the meal together. My mother gave you a hug,” she added petulantly.
“Not the same thing.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” He glanced at her, then at the fire. Then back at her. He felt his insides untwist just looking at her.
She smiled at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually been mad at you,” she countered. “Anyway. I’m not now.”
“Good.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was wrong about the firelight. It was her own incandescence. She was glowing. “Tell me why you’re so excited.”
“I’ve had some good news. Fantastic news. I was hoping you’d be here earlier so I could tell you. I wanted you to be the first to know. I haven’t said a word to my family.”
Scott moved forward. She’d never acted like this before. She almost always discussed important stuff with her mother and sisters first. He wasn’t quite sure how he should take this. He held his breath. “Go on.”
“You, of all people, know how many queries I’ve sent to gallery owners, buyers and collectors, hoping I’d get my break.”
“I do.” In fact, Scott had spent countless hours working his journalism contacts to help Isabelle get placed. Each time a rejection came, he felt her pain.
He’d spent many a summer’s night sitting on a towel at Cove Beach with his arm around her shoulders while she sobbed. He’d been with her fireside at the Lodges as she cried into a glass of wine. One year, he’d brought her to the annual Halloween hay ride thinking to cheer her, but all she’d done was lay her head on his shoulder and talk about “what ifs.” Several Christmases and Valentine’s Days had been ruined by the arrival of another rejection.
He didn’t know what kept her going. How she found the strength and courage to pit herself against the brick wall that the art world threw up. Time after time they all told her the same thing: her work was commercial, but not exceptional. Her attempts at Impressionism lacked the “je ne sais quoi,” that special something that would make curators or art dealers give her a chance.
“Well, I finally got some interest,” she said now. “A gallery in Chicago. He said he loved my work.”
And that’s what Isabelle wanted. Recognition. She craved it. She was obsessed with it.
Now she had it.
He leaned over and took her hand. “I’m really happy for you, Isabelle. Truly.” He kissed her palm.
Her smile was bursting with energy, and he leaned closer, so their lips almost brushed. All she had to do was tilt her head slightly, and they’d be kissing.
Instead, she took a deep breath and kept talking. “It’s happening, Scott. My dream. I’m going to get my dream,” she whispered so low he barely heard her, but he saw the tears slip down her cheeks. “I’ve waited so long.”
“And worked very hard for this. You deserve it all. Now give me the details. Who is the owner? What are his credentials? Have you looked him up on the internet? Is this one of the galleries you approached?”
“Okay, Mr. Reporter. One question at a time. Yes, I did approach him. Malcolm Whitestone, that’s the owner. Whitestone Gallery is in Evanston.”
Scott was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ve heard of him, haven’t I?”
“Possibly. Maybe when we were making lists of potential galleries a couple years ago. Anyway, he wants me to branch out. You know I’ve always thought my impressionistic water sprites were fine for the tourists here, but I can do better.”
“I’ve always liked them,” he mused, tracing the rim of his glass. “Some are so fantastical I want them to be real.”
“That’s sweet, but the critics want depth and bold ideas.”
He studied her. She still amazed him. She kept digging inside herself for something that he didn’t know if he would ever understand. She was never satisfied. She always kept reaching.
“So what’s the next step?”
“He wants me to pick out more pieces and send them to him. This was just an initial introduction.”
“So you don’t have a show lined up,” he said, a bit surprised she was this excited when it could all fall apart in a subsequent email.
Her jaw tightened and her face turned to stone. “It’s a chance, Scott. Can’t you see that?”
“I do see—”
“This is just like you. Always negative.”
“Isabelle—”
Her voice rose as she continued. “I shouldn’t have told you. I should have waited until I had everything wrapped up. A contract signed and in hand before I said anything. You’ve always doubted my art.”
“That is not true!” His tone was harsher than he’d intended, but Isabelle’s words were like a punch to the gut. “I’ve always supported you. I adore your mermaids and nymphs. Wasn’t I the one who said we should go to Paris and see the impressionist and art nouveau paintings that inspired them?”
“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You think I’m only capable of my water sprites.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with them,” he said. “They’ve brought you a second income, a loyal following and admiration from practically everyone who meets you. And I love them. Why isn’t that enough?”
She shot to her feet. “Because it’s not, Scott. It’s just not.”
Isabelle stormed into the house and slammed the door. He watched through the glass walls as she marched through the kitchen past the den and disappeared down the hall to the wing of bedrooms.
He looked down at his drink. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Scott.”
Going after her would get him nowhere. He was floored. He’d always been there for her. He’d truly believed he was supporting her. But clearly Isabelle didn’t agree.
He’d wanted to kiss her and she pulled away. Her rejection cut deep, and he wasn’t sure how he would heal from it.
It was time for him to reassess things.
He dug in his pocket for his car keys and went inside to say goodbye to Isabelle’s family.
THE DAY AFTER Christmas was always a good business day for Scott. Kids had Christmas money to spend on the books, games, puzzles and toys he stocked in his children’s section. Parents were always in need of the hot coffee, cocoa and extra whipped cream that he served up while they browsed his extensive classic literature and bestseller sections.
Scott’s espresso bar was not in the same league as Maddie Strong Barzonni’s Cupcakes and Cappuccino, but then he’d never intended it to be. His shop was about the books with hot beverages served on the side for convenience and to get the customers to stay longer and buy more books.
After he’d moved back to Indian Lake and his mother had recovered from her surgery, she’d insisted on loaning him the money to open up his shop. Scott had hired Luke Bosworth, the best carpenter in town, to renovate the historic but demolition-ready building he’d bought for a song. Between having a mortgage and investing in his coffee equipment and inventory, Scott now felt tied to the shop, to Indian Lake.
Throughout