by Cara Putman
“Good morning, Laura.”
The mid-forties brunette looked up from her computer monitor at her desk. “There you are. Mr. Tomkins about to go into his late-is-unacceptable dance.”
Jonathan sighed. “Guess it’s good I arrived.”
“You betcha. Go on back.” Her fingers clicked against the keyboard as she spoke.
He followed the pine hallway to the conference room. The door stood open to reveal a battered oak table surrounded by eight chairs.
A whiteboard on the wall had a dozen bullet points with various arrows connecting the ideas.
“Jonathan Covington.” Mr. Tomkin leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed across his chest.
“I told you he’d get here.” Bette Standeford, an older woman with blond highlights trying to cover her gray, leaned back in her chair. She’d been a regular on the island longer than he could remember, making it her year-round residence a couple of years earlier. A few months ago she’d sent her niece his way to plan her wedding. It was good to have her here and on his side. “We’re eager to hear your ideas.”
Jonathan strode into the room with his chin up and messenger bag at the ready. He might sit on the foundation’s board, but the foundation had made it clear he wouldn’t get the work without providing a proposal that wowed them. “Thanks for inviting me to share some ideas with you.”
“Word’s spreading that you’ve got good ideas.” A man in a polo with one of the B&B logos on it studied him. “So what do you have for us?”
“Whatever it is, I hope it’s good.” Bryce Morris, the event manager at the Grand Hotel, studied Jonathan. “You’ve brought a few clients our way. I appreciate it, even if it doesn’t take much effort. . . .”
Polite laughter circled the table, and Jonathan smiled. Moments like this energized him. Those on the island recognized his work. Now if he could get them to send referrals his way, it would help with his plans to expand.
Jonathan met Mr. Tomkins appraising gaze. “Where would you like me?”
“Right there.”
“All right.” Jonathan opened his bag and pulled out the file filled with presentations. “I’ve brought preliminary ideas for a new festival.” He handed out the sheets, and the next five minutes disappeared as he spun his vision for a swing event under the stars. “It’s popular in other locales. Most important, it would complement the jazz festival without competing.”
Gerald shook his head. “I don’t see retirees going for it.”
“Sure they will. It’s music from their childhoods, and the younger crowd has rediscovered it. It’s the perfect mix.”
“Why not something like country?”
“Mackinac Island isn’t exactly a big buckle, ten-gallon hat, and cowboy boots kind of place.”
“Are you stereotyping, young man?” Bette grinned as she lobbed the question.
“I like being called a young man, but no. Not any more than fudgies do.” She smiled at his use of the local term for tourists. “There might be a day to try an event centered on a country theme. But well ease our way there. Think where most people who visit come from—Chicago, Indiana, Michigan. Not exactly cowboy country.” The conversation ricocheted, disagreements surfacing only to have Gerald squash dissenting views. The more time Jonathan spent around him, the more Gerald’s used-car-salesman persona grated on him. Did Jonathan really want to coordinate an event with that man reviewing his every move—because anything Jonathan did for the foundation ultimately had to please him.
“Bottom line, Mr. Covington.” The formal words didn’t elicit much hope. “We’ve got the music festival in August. If you can’t give us new ideas, then we’ll look elsewhere.” Mr. Tomkin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “We need something fresh.”
“Remember, something completely new takes time. It has to be branded and launched well. Otherwise you’ll lose money on something more time could have saved.”
Gerald studied him then looked at the other members. “Well?” Almost an hour later, Jonathan escaped the small building.
While the foundation members liked his ideas, Mr. Tomkin prodded to a point Jonathan didn’t expect. Maybe Jonathan hadn’t pushed enough. Or he’d been too honest. Still, he hadn’t endured a challenge like that in a while.
He inhaled deeply, trying to shake the uncertainty that clouded his mind. Tomkin had made it clear the contract wasn’t his— at least not without some major revisions to his proposal. Now Jonathan wasn’t sure he wanted to try again. Not when it meant pleasing Tomkin—an impossible task. He needed to refocus. Fast. His afternoon calendar overflowed with conference calls for various clients, the kind who actually liked his ideas and paid for them.
When the Painted Stone stood in front of him, he stopped. The lights were on, but the store looked abandoned. A lingering guilt replaced the blasé feeling from the meeting. He’d been too harsh last night. Maybe their summers together hadn’t meant as much to Alanna. He needed to let the past go. Good grief, she disappeared eleven years ago, and he had Jaclyn. The thought didn’t bring the satisfaction it did even a week earlier. It didn’t matter.
Anyone else would have moved on years ago. It wasn’t her fault his attempts had flopped. That he clung to the future he’d imagined for them. He needed to face facts. Real life didn’t measure up to the ideal.
He needed to apologize but limit it to that. He straightened his back and walked into the store.
“I’ll be with you in a minute.” Alanna’s alto carried across the room from the back. Didn’t her mom have a studio of some sort tucked in there? It had been last season since he’d received an invitation to see Rachelle’s latest work.
“There’s no hurry.”
At the sound of his voice, she popped around the corner. “Jonathan?”
He shrugged. “Bet you didn’t expect to see me.”
“Not after last night.” She crossed her arms over her torso.
“What can I do for you?”
“Look, I wanted to apologize for last night. I was a boar.”
She nodded. “You were.”
“Were you going to explain why you left without a word? Back then?”
Fire flashed in her eyes as her face paled. “Why do you care now? You could have asked then if it mattered.” She glanced around the studio. “It’s not like my parents left.”
He studied her, pondering the right words to diffuse her anger. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so abrupt last night. Now his frustration had transferred to her, and he couldn’t really fault her. Maybe they could find a way to reach a truce and survive their time as neighbors.
Look, I’m sorry for how I acted last night. I never expected to see you back on Mackinac after all this time. Guess I was unprepared.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Sorry to bother you. I’ll see you tonight.”
Some of the stiffness evaporated from her posture. Did he make her feel like she had to protect herself from attack, or did the island do that? He turned toward the door then paused as a painting caught his eye. “You know, there’s something about these new paintings of your mom’s that’s different.”
She frowned and came to stand beside him. “What do you mean?”
The question wasn’t nearly as hostile as he’d expected. How could he explain to her something indefinable? “I’m not sure.”
“You’ll have to be more specific. After all, don’t you think an artist’s style can evolve over time? She’s painted for decades.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? You must have missed art appreciation in college. Just look at Van Gogh. His use of color and technique definitely changed.”
Jonathan cocked his head to the side as he studied the painting. Mrs. Stone’s perspective in her paintings tended to be different from other artists. Maybe because she lived on the island for months each year she saw things others missed. But still, she chose different angles. He studied the painting a moment more. It wasn’t the angles that looked off. Was it the colors?
“See, you can’t explain it.” Alanna seemed happy, almost as if she forced the emotion. “You’re hypercritical.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. You might ask her about it.”
“And when would I do that? In between the doctor appointments and physical therapy? Or when she’s meeting with contractors to try to figure out if they can reconfigure the house so they can return?”
She had no idea how attractive she looked when her eyes flashed like that. The cheeks that had drained of color earlier now had the flush of roses. Her lips parted as if she wanted to launch her next salvo. He placed a finger on top of them, and she froze.
“No need to take out your anger on me, Lanna.” The pet name slipped from his mouth.
She sputtered a moment then stepped back. “Nobody calls me that.”
“Nobody but me.” He leaned closer, his breath catching. What was he doing? He cleared his throat and took a step back. He glanced at his watch. He needed to move or he’d have angry clients to deal with in addition to prickly Gerald Tomkin. “We’ll continue this tonight. My place. Six o’clock.”
“What? You think I want to spend time with you?”
“Yes.”
“What if I have plans?” Something in her expression begged him to keep asking even as her words resisted the idea.
“Change them. We need to talk.” He’d pull out the extra chair. “Six o’clock.”
“I don’t think I can leave here by then.” She brushed her lips, as if still feeling his finger there.
He memorized the moment. Maybe they weren’t through after all. The thought caught him.
“There’s so much to do, and I can’t afford to miss any moment that someone might come.”
“Most stores close by six. Especially this early in the season.” He leaned toward her, closing the space, feeling the pull to get closer to her. “Don’t worry—it’ll be painless. You don’t have to cook, and I promise not to poison the food.” He looked at the wall of paintings again. “And I have a client who might want to commission something by your mom.”
The door opened, but he kept his gaze locked on Alanna.
“Jonathan. Fancy seeing you here.”
He closed his eyes then turned toward Jaclyn. “What brings you here?”
“Need new artwork for the spa.” Her words were light, but she studied him. “Introduce me?”
“Alanna, I’d like you to meet my. . .” What? Friend? Girlfriend? Neither word tasted right. “. . .Good friend Jaclyn Raeder. Jaclyn, this is an old friend Alanna Stone. Her family owns the Painted Stone.”
“Uh-huh. Surprised I haven’t seen you around.” Her smile had a bite to it.
Alanna looked between the two of them, an ah-ha moment crossing her face. She covered it with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Raeder. I’d be happy to help you find the right art for the spa. Where is it located?”
“The Grand Hotel.”
Alanna’s eyes brightened, and her smile grew bigger. “Do you want to pick out some artwork now?”
“It’s why I’m here.”
“Nice to bump into you, Jaclyn. Tell Dylan hi for me.” Jonathan turned to Alanna. “See you tonight, Alanna.”
A small smile twitched Alanna’s cheeks. “All right. If I can get away.”
“If. . . ” He backed toward the door. There’d be no “if” about it. If she didn’t come home, he’d bring the food to her. A woman had to eat, and he could easily grab some sandwiches and salads at Doud’s. She couldn’t hide forever.
“Until tonight.” He caught Jaclyn’s eye and grimaced. He’d have a lot of explaining to do. Something that had to wait until he had a better idea what might develop between him and Alanna. One moment it felt like no time had passed between them, and other times he felt every year of the eleven.
7
Traffic on the street never slowed through the afternoon. A steady flow kept her in the studio in case customers wanted to explore the collection. As a result, hunger gnawed in Alanna’s stomach, but she didn’t think she could leave. Not yet.
And it had nothing to do with Jonathan’s invitation. She’d decided not to hide. Not from him.
Okay, maybe she’d look for every excuse she could find to stay away. Once Jonathan left, Jaclyn had straightened her petite frame and turned the full force of her charm on Alanna, but it had felt staged. The woman’s auburn curls had bounced each time she tossed her head, and her smile had the edges of a cobra. Like the woman intended to learn everything she could about Alanna without giving much information about herself. Well, other than the fact she and Jonathan were more than friends.
The hour Jaclyn had stayed had passed with lots of awkward moments, times when Alanna looked up to catch Jaclyn studying her. Intently. Alanna had wanted to assure her she had nothing to worry about. But couldn’t.
Jaclyn had taken her cute self from the studio without a painting. She’d promised to come back with a purchase order, but Alanna didn’t plan on seeing her again. She should have told the twenty-something that she hadn’t seen Jonathan in eleven years. That whatever they might have had disappeared a long time ago. But she hadn’t. So the thick fog of discomfort remained.
Enough.
She shook free of her unease and pulled up Google on the old computer and waited for the server to chug through cyberspace. Then she pulled up the Grand Rapids Press. There had to be a better way to find an employee, but at the moment she couldn’t think of one, especially since she didn’t want to hire a local. The last thing she needed was to answer the questions, Where have you been? Why did you leave?
A woman walked by arm in arm with an older man but pulled him to the window. She pressed her nose to the glass as she looked in. Alanna considered waving, but would that invite or intimidate her?
Instead, she clicked to the classified ad section of the paper and scanned a few for inspiration. She tried to frame an ad in her head. Studio on beautiful Mackinac Island seeks summer help. E-mail your resume to:
To where? She entered the studio’s general e-mail address then looked up as the bells danced.
So the woman had talked her escort into entering.
Alanna did a double take as the woman gracefully swayed across the floor. Her escort looked familiar. So familiar, Alanna fought the urge to dive into the back room and stay there until the couple left. After all, they wouldn’t buy anything. Too bad her mama didn’t raise a coward. Alanna raised her chin and squared her shoulders.
It wasn’t every day the opposing counsel on the case that had splattered her image across every newspaper in the state for more than a month walked into her parents’ studio.
He leaned against the door, his posture indicating he’d rather be anywhere but here. His gaze traveled the room, sliding over her before coming back. He pushed from the wall, a wolfish grin on his face. “Alanna Stone?”
“Hello, Bennett.” She tried to hold a pleasant smile but couldn’t.
“So this is where you ran. The legal grapevine’s gone crazy wondering where the conquering heroine disappeared. Glad to see it’s not a nervous breakdown.”
Sure he was. “Nothing like relaxing here. Can’t get much slower paced.”
“Too much so if you ask me, but Tabitha likes it.” He shrugged. “After the trial, I owed her.”
“You sure did, baby.”
Bennett smiled at Tabitha then turned to study Alanna. “Why are you here?”
“Having that nervous breakdown.” She winked, even though it killed her to be nice to the man. He’d made her life miserable for the duration of the pretrial and trial. Anytime he could make an argument, he did. The annoying part came in the way the judge allowed him to do it. She’d fought so hard for her clients.
“Really? After that win—which I’m appealing.”
Alanna stifled the groan that rose at the thought of more battles with him.
“Ready, Tabitha?”
“Not yet. I think I want this one
.” The blond, who looked a bit like a poodle with her bouncy, curly hair, pointed at one of her mom’s largest paintings. “This would look amazing behind the dining room table, don’t you think?”
Bennett rolled his eyes. “If that’s what you want. . .”
“You promised I could have anything. This is it.” She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the explosion of color. “The fall shades are perfect.”
“Fine.” He turned to Alanna. “So how much is that beauty?”
Alanna forced back a grin. This could be the perfect payback for all the trouble he inflicted. “Let me look it up for you.” She clicked a few keys on the keyboard to pull up the database. “Could you tell me the name?”
“Watercolor Sunsets.”
“Really?” Interesting title since Mom only used oils.
Tabitha leaned closer to the small block of card stock next to the painting. “Yes.”
“All right.” Alanna clicked on Find then entered the name. When the information popped up, she added five hundred dollars to the amount. “Five thousand five hundred dollars.”
Bennett flinched. “For that piece of canvas and a bit of paint? I could make that in my sleep.”
“You’re welcome to try, but this artist’s work sells quickly. I wouldn’t wait too long, or it might disappear.”
He led Tabitha into the corner and chatted for a moment, but by the set of the woman’s jaw, Alanna knew the painting would leave with them. Five minutes later, she wrapped the painting like a mummy in bubble wrap before sliding it into an oversized box. “Be careful carrying this. The paintings are always heavier than you expect.”
“My wallet’s certainly lighter. We’ll send a courier. Come on, Tabitha.”
The woman sidled up next to him and practically purred. Alanna released the joy that had built inside. A sale—and to a man like that. She couldn’t believe it.
“Thank You, Lord!” She breathed the words as she disappeared into the storage room to find a replacement. A few minutes later, she returned lugging a new painting. Jonathan scanned a wall of paintings. A picnic basket sat at his feet.
