by Regina Duke
“And you’re staying with Rose until you find a place of your own?”
Zinnia made a face. “I’m staying with Rose until her parents get tired of me. My job is part-time. I can’t afford a place of my own.” She played with the straw in her coke. “Sorry to ruin the mood,” she said, forcing a note of cheer into her voice. “I guess I’m more upset than I thought.” Then she remembered what he’d said earlier in his car. “You think you can help me find a better job?”
Bart had forgotten all about his promise of a job. Now, after spending a lovely hour getting to know Zinnia—longer, if he counted their trip to her parents’ house—he was stymied. He couldn’t tell her that he wanted to hire a woman to play his wife. He was afraid she’d think he didn’t really like her. And even though it was turning out to be a bit inconvenient, he really did like her. She was sylph-like, sweet, funny, and real, and he was intrigued by what he’d seen so far of her talent.
When he realized she was watching him expectantly, he cleared his throat and thought fast. “Oh, yes. Um…well, I came to Colorado to visit my sister, Taylor, and my brother, Don. Now that I’m here, I’m falling in love with the scenery.” He let his gaze linger on her face for several seconds. “So, um, I’d like to hire an assistant. Someone who knows enough about art that she won’t use my water color brushes for acrylics.”
Zinnia tipped her head to one side and smiled. “Why didn’t you mention this yesterday?” She sounded suspicious.
“Because you were busy telling me not to touch anything.”
“I did not!” Then she realized she was being teased.
Bart grinned. “It’s okay.”
“So, you’re offering me a job?”
“Yes. You can keep your morning gig at the Gallery, if you like. That way, I can spend the obligatory time with the family.” He took out a pen and scribbled a number on a napkin.
“How does this sound?” He slid the napkin toward her.
Zinnia gawked. “Every week?”
Bart frowned and double-checked what he’d written. “No,” he said, a bit confused. “This would be daily.” He did some quick math. “Per week would amount to this.” He showed her the revised figure.
“Oh my gosh,” said Zinnia. “You haven’t spent a lot of time working for hourly wages, have you?”
“Is it enough?” He pretended to be clueless, but the truth was, he wanted her to be so impressed with the money that she wouldn’t be able to turn him down.
“Definitely enough,” said Zinnia, silently adding on her fingers.
Bart suppressed a smile.
“Is this for real?” she asked. “I mean, you don’t plan on making me do anything…you know?”
“Never,” said Bart. “You’ll be perfectly safe with me. Besides if I ever besmirched the family name, my father would have me drawn and quartered.”
“I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds horrible.”
“It would be, believe me.” After several seconds he realized that he was staring into her eyes and she wasn’t looking away. He cleared his throat and used his phone to check the time. “Oh wow, we’ve been talking quite a while. It’s almost four. Why don’t we start tomorrow after your shift at the gallery?”
“That sounds perfect.” She looked suddenly uncomfortable.
“Is something wrong?”
Zinnia seemed to pick her words carefully. “Would it be possible to be paid on a daily basis? I’ve been broke for so long…” She let the sentence trail off.
“No problem. Is cash okay?”
Zinnia giggled. “Yes, cash would be great.”
Bart smiled and gestured to the waitress. “Lunch is on me. Let me drive you home.”
“I’ll give you directions,” said Zinnia. “I’m staying at Rose’s.”
Bart was happy to learn where Zinnia was staying. It occurred to him that he’d never been so broke that he couldn’t afford a hotel room. In Paris, he was playing a part, but at the back of his mind, he always knew he could whip out a credit card and get a suite at the Hilton. Before Zinnia got out of the car, he pulled a couple of twenties out of his wallet and handed them to her.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said. “I haven’t started working yet.”
“Recruitment bonus,” said Bart. “Go on. Take it. You and Rose might want to see a movie or something. I’ll pick you up at the gallery tomorrow at one.”
Zinnia took the money with a bashful dip of the head, and Bart watched her until she was inside the house. Then he plugged his brother Don’s address into the GPS and backed out of the driveway. His phone pinged with a text message and at the first stoplight, he took a peek.
It was Woodsy. “Please tell me you’ve hired a bride! If the Chens back out of the show, I’ll be forced to sue you!”
Bart laughed for so long that the car behind him honked to make him move. Woodsy was to be pitied. She had no idea who his father was. In fact, it occurred to him that such an attack on him might actually be the key to bonding with his father. On his way to Don’s house, he thought of a dozen comebacks, but in the end, he just turned his phone to silent mode. Woodsy was hurling threats in a panic. To lash out at her now would be a cruel self-indulgence. However, if she was foolish enough to pursue her pesky lawsuit, Pembroke would show no mercy. At the very least, Bart should give her some kind of warning. He pulled the SUV into his brother’s circular driveway and killed the engine. Before getting out of the car, he replied to her text with three words: “Google my father.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next day, Zinnia was filled with excitement about her new job, so much so that the morning dragged by. She had lots of time to rerun the evening before at Rose’s. Chester was upset that Rose had gone back to work, and although the drama took place over the phone, she was privy to Rose’s end of the argument.
Rose had begun in apologetic mode.
“I know you prefer that I not work, honey, but we’re going to need to build a nest egg if you want to start a family…Yes, but I should keep working until we’re ready.”
It quickly went downhill after that. By the end of the conversation, Rose was in tears, Chester was threatening to call off the wedding, and Carl Stigliano got on the phone and blasted Chester with all the epithets that a loving father could muster on his daughter’s behalf.
By bedtime, Rose’s parents were advising her that she was wise to go back to work and if Chester really loved her, he would understand her concern and everything would be fine.
There hadn’t been any appropriate openings for Zinnia to announce her good news, so she kept it to herself. During her ride to work with Rose, faced with the need to let her friend know they could not meet up for their usual afternoon rendezvous at the library, she began hesitantly.
“By the way, I’ll be working all day and can’t meet for lunch.”
Rose seemed relieved. “Oh, good. I mean, after my shift, I’m driving out to talk to Chester.”
“I thought your folks suggested that you stay away for a while.”
“Yep.”
“Oh. Okay.” Zinnia fiddled with her backpack, trying to think of something supportive to say. All she could come up with was, “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. I’ll see you at the house tonight.”
As Zinnia got out of the car, Rose added, “Don’t worry, Zinnia. I just have to see his face while we discuss our relationship.”
Zinnia could understand her friend’s desire to look into Chester’s eyes and get an up-close idea of what he was feeling. But as a result of all Rose’s drama, she still hadn’t told anyone about her afternoon job.
She prayed for a busy morning to help pass the time, but the wall clock appeared to be trapped in some kind of stasis, it moved so slowly. At one point, Zinnia got on a step stool and checked the battery.
Ashley was busy arranging an event for one of her committees and barely gave Zinnia a glance all morning. That was common enough, and after two days without her nanny, she was rushin
g to catch up on her phone calls. With no demands on her time, Zinnia was bored silly. She finally extracted one of her small sketchbooks and practiced reproducing the designs she’d found in one of her books. Rose’s parents were very thoughtful, and every time they visited relatives in San Francisco, they brought Zinnia a little gift—a book or a CD or some other souvenir—so she could feel that she was sharing in their adventure. When things were especially difficult at home, she would lose herself in the exotic designs she found in the little guide book.
At last, Bart Hazen appeared at the gallery entrance.
“Ready to work?” he asked.
“I thought you’d never get here!”
“So…yes?”
Zinnia giggled. “Let me put my costume away.” She took the cardboard box from under the counter and scampered to the restroom. When she emerged, she stumbled into the middle of a conversation between Bart and Ashley going on inside Ashley’s office. Zinnia paused against the wall, caught up by the worry in Ashley’s voice.
“…and I need her to help me keep the Gallery open.”
Bart’s voice was much more confident. “I understand. I’m just paying her to be my assistant while I’m here.”
“And when you leave?”
“Look, whatever Taylor told you, don’t worry.”
Zinnia realized she shouldn’t be listening and shifted her hold on the cardboard box, causing the contents to jangle.
Bart stepped out of Ashley’s office. “There you are,” he said heartily. “Ready to become an artist’s pack mule for the afternoon?”
Zinnia nodded eagerly, hoping her face didn’t show that she’d overheard. “Ready when you are.”
Ashley called out to Bart as they headed for the door. “We’ll talk about this again tomorrow.”
Zinnia picked up her backpack, her forehead wrinkled in a question.
“Are you two arguing about something?” she asked as he held the door open for her.
“Not at all. Just a family conversation.” He smiled reassuringly as they headed for the SUV.
* * *
Bart closed Zinnia’s door and circled around to get in the driver’s side. “I’m thinking we can take advantage of the sunshine and do some landscapes,” he said. “Is your jacket sufficient for a few hours outdoors?”
“Definitely, unless those clouds in the west blow in. But you’ll have to tell me what you want me to do. I’ve never been an artist’s assistant before.”
“Not a problem,” said Bart, pulling away from the curb. “I’ve already located a meadow with a view of the mountains.”
Twenty minutes later he parked the SUV between two huge blue spruces. “Here we are.”
“This is wonderful! Is it okay for us to be here?”
“Yes. This property belongs to my brother, Don. You can almost see the roof of his house through the pines behind us. Our target is those snow-covered mountains cupped by the tree tops. Can you carry both of these easels?”
“Two?”
“One for me and one for you.”
“Me?! Oh, gosh.” She packed the easels in over her shoulder and set them up as he directed. “What next?”
“Help me set up my work bench and paints. I’m doing acrylics today.”
Zinnia worked silently, and when Bart was ready to wet his first brush, he asked, “Do you have your sketch book? That new one you’ve been lugging around?”
“Yes. In my backpack. But all I have with me are pastels.”
“Are those what you used to copy scenes from the Gaugin?”
“Why, yes.” She looked away shyly. “There’s not a lot of money for art supplies.” She looked up and said brightly, “But I love pastels. One of the artists in the gallery creates the most amazing life-like pictures of dogs—Labrador retrievers are her specialty—and she sells two or three a month at craft fairs and special events. She’s an inspiration to me with my nubs and castoffs. She even leaves her stubby pieces in a box for me to collect.”
“That’s decent of her. Great. See what you can do with those mountains. We should have a couple of good hours before the light changes too drastically.” He gave some thought to his empty canvas, then moved around the meadow, studying the view before he got started.
Zinnia stood stiffly before her easel. She fumbled when she opened her pastel case and they spilled all over the grass. She dropped to her knees to collect them.
Bart watched her out of the corner of his eye. She could be full of sass one minute, then completely rattled the next. He decided to focus on his canvas and pretend to ignore her. Maybe she was nervous, especially if most of her work was done in an empty gallery with no one around.
An hour flew by as he painted, and he only stepped back from the easel when a dark cloud covered the sun. “Well, the weatherman was wrong again. We may only have half an hour left before it rains, or worse. How are you doing?” He stepped carefully in the thick grass until he could peek over her shoulder.
Disappointment knocked a hole in his heart. The sketch book page was covered with stiff lines and an amateurish attempt to fit the entire horizon onto the paper. Zinnia dropped her chin to her chest and blushed hotly.
“I’ve never understood perspective,” she said. “My art teacher used to hold up my efforts to show the class what not to do.”
Bart’s disappointment edged toward understanding. “So you thought you had to recreate a failure from art class? Where’s your little sketch book, the one I saw that first day?”
Zinnia pulled two out of her back pack. She opened the first, then dropped it back in. “Here’s the one I use to practice in the gallery,” she said softly, squeezing the second one.
Bart could tell from her voice that she was near tears. He softened his tone and added a touch of brotherly teasing. “Well, you can still work for me without perfect perspective. I mean, you saw the finger painting in the magazine that sold for half a million? I guarantee there wasn’t a speck of perspective on that whole canvas.”
Zinnia’s posture relaxed a bit and she smiled. “Really?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said, adding conspiratorially, “but don’t tell the buyer I was drunk when I painted it.”
Zinnia laughed and flipped her small sketch book to the copy she’d made of a corner of the Gaugin. “I have perspective in this?” she asked.
Bart smiled in appreciation and admiration. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You reproduced a tiny section of Gaugin’s world with stunning accuracy, and you did it in pastels.” He touched her shoulder. “What you did here? Can you reproduce the mountain view the same way?”
“Even if my technique is all wrong?” she asked feebly.
He cupped the small sketch in one hand. “However you managed this? That’s the way I want you to do the mountains.”
Zinnia seemed at a loss. “It helps to work with a frame,” she said.
Bart wasn’t sure what she needed a frame for if she hadn’t even begun yet, but he trotted back to the SUV and returned with a large dark portrait frame, ornately carved. “I bought it for the carving,” he said, as if he needed to explain his purchase.
Zinnia didn’t even look at the delicate carving. She moved her sketch book off the easel and propped one edge of the frame against its leg. Then she sat crosslegged on the ground and stared at the patch of landscape that was visible through it. The frame was so large, she could see part of the sky and the tops of the trees. Her right hand hovered over her pastel nubs, moving as if it had a mind of its own, until her fingers dipped in and selected a pale blue piece.
Bart put a hand over his mouth to keep from blurting out a question. He feared that any conversation would ruin her moment. Peace in the gallery. Silence in the meadow.
With her left hand, she positioned the large sketch pad securely on her lap as her hand moved toward the paper. He wasn’t even certain of exactly when the color began to transfer to the page. Her hand moved faster than he could follow, changing colors without
pause, layering the powdery pastel on the paper. She worked as if in a trance.
As the first raindrop fell, Bart slumped to his knees beside her and stared in awe at the stunning landscape she’d produced. When the second raindrop struck his face, he carefully closed the sketch book. “This is amazing,” he murmured. “Take this to the car so it won’t get wet.”
Zinnia did as she was told. Bart sat staring at the view through the empty frame. When Zinnia returned, she said, “I’ll pack up your paints, unless you like them a special way.”
Bart rose to his feet and held her gently at arm’s length. “Never let anyone tell you that you have no technique. That old fart of an art teacher should be kneeling at your feet, begging for forgiveness.”
“Gosh, I don’t think he’d do that. He has bad knees and wouldn’t be able to get back up.”
Bart laughed and pulled her close for a hug. “In that case, let’s pack up together, before it starts to pour. Don’t let your pastels get wet. If we head straight back, Ashley may still be there. And if they gallery is still open, you may want to spend some of your first day’s earnings on some more pastels.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Zinnia gathered up the easels, along with Bart’s unfinished canvas, and carried them to the car. Bart stood and watched her, full of wonder at the natural talent walking around in Zinnia’s slender form.
The rain began to pound down, and he returned his paints and brushes hastily to his carrier. He’d have to clean them later. He strode toward the SUV, mouthing under his breath, “Ashley may have to hire a new clerk, because I’m taking Zinnia to New York with me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zinnia was beside herself with excitement. “You really think I have talent?” she asked for the tenth time.
Bart grinned from ear to ear. “No doubt about it.” He pulled the SUV up in front of the gallery. The rain pelted down steadily. “I think she’s still here,” he said. “Put your hood up so you don’t get soaked.”
