“I am. Well, I was. I quit my job to move here. And now someone else has the position.”
“You should call Reed Vincent. I don’t know what an artist’s assistant does, exactly, but if you have an eye for art, you should check it out.”
Olivia dug the scrap of paper out of her purse. “Does he live here in town? It looks like a local number.”
Claire nodded. “He has a studio in his home—at least he used to. We’ve never been there…we’ve just seen his work hanging around town. But someone told me he has stuff in galleries all over the country.”
“Really?”
“You should call him, Olivia. Seriously.”
“Maybe I will.” She tucked the phone number safely in the side pocket of her wallet. She was a little intimidated by this guy’s reputation, but she couldn’t deny the spark of excitement that flared at the thought of working in an art studio.
Olivia parked the car at the curb in front of the large Tudor-style house. Her stomach was a churning ball of nerves and she popped another Tums in her mouth as she peered up through the windshield. Though the place had a slightly overgrown appearance, it appealed to her. Spirea bushes grew high around the brick and stucco façade, and their white flowers, now almost spent, made the steep pitched roof even more prominent. The front door had an arched top, with a tiny diamond-shaped window. A giant gingerbread cottage.
Inhaling a deep breath, she got out of the car and followed the lazy curve of the sidewalk to the front door. The door was partially ajar and the doorbell chime sounded back in her ears.
A blue-jean clad, barefoot man appeared in the doorway. He opened the screen door, squinting and shading his eyes against the afternoon sun. “Ms. Cline?”
She stuck out a hand. “Yes… Olivia, please.”
“Come in, Olivia. I’m Reed.”
She followed him into the house, her eyes struggling to adjust to the darkened rooms within.
“Why don’t we go on back to the studio?”
She trailed behind him through a large, rather musty-smelling living room that was nearly vacant of furniture, and on through a lovely state-of-the-art kitchen. Here, sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating sinks and countertops cluttered with dishes, half-empty drinking glasses and jars of murky liquid sprouting paintbrushes. A warning signal buzzed in her brain. His job description for artist’s assistant better not include housekeeping.
But then she caught a whiff of turpentine. The pungent scent was like perfume to her. Her nerves untangled a little.
Without apology for the mess in the kitchen, Reed Vincent led the way through an arched doorway and down three wide steps into a spacious, light-filled studio.
“Oh!” She whirled slowly to take in every detail. “What a wonderful place!”
A pang of envy jabbed at her. The studio was an artist’s dream. The space was neatly organized and tidy—in utter contrast to the kitchen they’d just passed through.
“Thanks,” he said. “It works.”
She went to the gallery wall to inspect the various frames that hung there. This guy was good. No doubt about that. She couldn’t recall having seen his work before, but she hadn’t kept up with the world of fine art after she’d gone to work for Elizabeth. Most of her clients had held definite opinions about the art they wanted to use in their rooms, and she’d always gone with their requests. She’d let her subscriptions to The Artists Magazine and other art journals expire. It was too depressing to read about what she no longer had time to do. But Reed Vincent’s studio brought the passion flooding back. If she ever had a studio like this, she had no doubt she could paint something brilliant.
She turned and started. Reed stared expectantly at her, apparently waiting for an answer to a question she hadn’t heard.
“I’m sorry. I got distracted. Your studio is so… wonderful.”
He gave a wry smile. “If only people had that reaction to my art.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean…” Heat rushed to her cheeks. “It’s beautiful, too. Your work is great. I mean I haven’t really looked at it enough to judge yet. Not that I know enough to judge it, but…” Good grief. She was a bumbling idiot. She was going to blow this interview before he even told her what the job was.
“You must be an artist.”
“What?”
“To notice…to appreciate the studio,” he explained.
“Oh, no… I mean, I used to do some painting, but it’s been so long since I picked up a brush, I don’t even know if I could remember how.”
“You worked with oils?”
“Yes, and watercolor. A little of everything really. I…I just dabbled. I really haven’t done anything in a while. Years, actually. My degree is in business administration. Southern Illinois University. But I took a couple years of art school,” she added quickly.
“Oh?”
“Just a few classes. At Columbia College.”
“Really? I graduated from the American Academy of Art in Chicago.” He indicated a small table under the windows. “Have a seat.”
Across from her, the artist straddled the chair backwards, propping his elbows on the backrest. “Well,”—his bare toes tapped out a nervous rhythm on the floor “—I guess I should explain what I’m looking for in an assistant.”
She nodded, hoping to convince him that she did have a longer attention span than a two-year-old.
“It’s a little hard to give you a job description because I’m not sure myself what I’m looking for. I’ve never had an assistant before. I’m having some—” He took off his glasses and kneaded the spot between his eyes before continuing. “I’ve had some problems with my eyes. I had surgery and that helped a lot, but I still have to limit my time. Save my eyes for the more tedious work.”
He hesitated, as if he expected some response from her. She didn’t know what to say, so merely nodded and tried to appear intent on what he was saying.
“I guess mostly I need someone to prepare canvases, organize my paints and supplies, clean up.” He looked up with a rueful grimace. “It’s not a very glamorous job I’m offering.”
She waved away his apology. Though his manner was almost gruff, he had kind eyes—beautiful deep blue eyes—and something in them caused her to want his approval.
“And it’s part-time,” he said. “You did understand that? I can’t promise it will turn into a permanent position.”
“I understand. I’ll take all the hours I can get, but you said in the ad that it was just part-time. I wasn’t expecting more.”
“Good. Have you done any framing? Putting stretcher strips together, mounting canvases?”
She chewed her bottom lip, then caught herself and took in a calming breath. “It’s been a while, but I think I could catch on pretty quickly.”
”Okay. Sure. I can train you.” He raked a hand through his dark hair. The resulting mussed curls made him look vulnerable and boyish. “When could you start?”
“Right now?” Nervous laughter bubbled up. “I really need a job.”
“I can’t pay much. More than minimum wage, but not much. The whole starving artist thing you know.”
She nodded. “I understand.” But she was remembering what Claire had said about the price of a Reed Vincent canvas.
“I usually paint in the mornings. The light is best in here around nine or ten o’clock, so you probably need to come in before that—at least for the first day or two—so I can get you started. You live here in town?”
“Yes. We…I just moved here. From Chicago.”
“I bet this has been more than a bit of a culture shock.”
She shrugged. “A little.”
“So what did you do in the Windy City?”
“I was an interior decorator. I worked for Elizabeth DiMartino at Interior Ideas in Chicago for seven years.”
His eyebrows went up. “What in the world brought you to the Falls?”
She hoped he didn’t see her flinch. She’d wanted to avoid this question.
“My husband’s job.”
“I see. Where does he work?”
She cleared her throat and studied the floor, willing her voice to come out steady. “Derek…my husband died in an accident shortly after we moved.”
Reed seemed taken aback. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”
“No. Of course not.” She scrambled to change the subject. “Do you…do you offer any kind of an insurance plan?”
He shook his head slowly, the lines of his face softening. “I’m sorry. I’ve never had an assistant before. And since it’s not really a full-time position, I’m not set up for that.”
“I understand. I’m still interested,” she added quickly.
He nodded and pushed back his chair. “Well, I’m willing to give this a try if you are. You said you could start right away? How about tomorrow morning at eight?”
She had the job! “Yes. Sure. I’ll be here.”
He pointed in her direction “You, uh, you won’t want to dress up. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.”
She looked down at her crisp pleated black slacks and neatly pressed blouse. “Oh…of course.”
She felt a strange elation as she followed Reed back through the house.
She had a job. In an artist’s studio. A great studio. It was a start.
Chapter 11
Olivia knelt over the toilet, panting to catch her breath. “Lord, please. No! I can’t be sick today.”
For days—weeks really—she’d been feeling queasy, as though she were trying to come down with the flu. But today, of all days, it had finally hit her full force. Maybe it was just nerves over starting this new job, but she could not call in sick her very first day.
She struggled to her feet and wobbled to the sink. The splash of cold water on her face only made her feel worse. She dried her face and stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. Ugh. The clock was zipping toward eight o’clock. She didn’t have time to put on makeup, but if she didn’t, Reed Vincent would probably send her packing before she even got through the front door.
She swallowed a couple of Derek’s prescription-strength ibuprofen, then opened the drawers beside the bathroom sink one by one, searching for her makeup. She still felt like she was living in somebody else’s house. She located the blush and lipstick in the back of the second drawer and dashed a puff of peach-colored powder across each pasty cheekbone. She examined her reflection. A little better. The peach offset the green tinge of her complexion.
She’d always tended to have a nervous stomach, and it didn’t help that she’d been existing on bananas and cold cereal since she’d thrown out the last of Derek’s meager grocery supply. She hadn’t unpacked the bathroom scales yet, but she could tell by the way her clothes fit that she’d lost a few pounds. Not that she couldn’t afford to lose them, but why couldn’t the weight have come off her thighs instead of her cheekbones?
Sighing, she went through the house flipping off lights. If she didn’t leave the house this minute, she was going to be late for her first day of work.
Reed glanced at the oversized clock beneath the clerestory windows. He hoped his new Girl Friday wasn’t going to bail on him before she even worked one day. He’d thought the interview with Olivia Cline went well, and even though he was a little skeptical about how it would be trying to work with someone else in the office, he had left a whole laundry list of odd jobs for her to do. If she didn’t show up, he was going to be a day further behind his deadline. He needed to get three new pieces to the St. Louis gallery and he’d promised to change out the art he had hanging in the Breadbox, a local eatery that showcased his work.
The doorbell chimed and he hurried through the house to answer the door. Olivia stood there with a wan smile, wearing jeans and a baggy denim shirt over a white t-shirt. Good. She’d come prepared to get dirty.
“Come on in,” he said.
“Thanks.”
She stepped inside, an expectant lift to her eyebrows. Even dressed for work, she was prettier than he remembered.
“Well, come on back and I’ll get you started. You want a cup of coffee?” he asked as they passed through the kitchen again.
“No thanks…maybe later— Ooooh!” That same expression of awe Reed remembered from her first visit spread over her face when they stepped down into his studio. “The light is wonderful here this time of morning.”
He smiled. “That’s why I like to paint this time of day. I thought I’d have you prepare some canvases first. UPS delivered the supplies yesterday and I haven’t even had time to open the boxes, but I think everything you need is here. You can work on the worktable over here. I think I’ve got all the tools you’ll need laid out. The stretcher boards are in here.” He gave some boxes a little shove with his big toe, and reached for a utility knife in the pencil holder on the table. “You’ve done this before?”
She nodded. “Here…I can do that.” She took the knife from him and went to work slicing through the paper tape that sealed the smaller box. He watched as she pulled bubble wrap from the stretcher boards and began fitting pieces together.
Good. She was a self-starter. His sigh of relief came out louder than he intended and she looked up, a question in her eyes.
“All right then…I can see I’m not needed here.” He motioned toward the box. “There should be enough for six canvases there.”
“Okay.”
“Well…” He turned hesitantly. “Just let me know when you’re ready for the canvas.”
She nodded and he resisted the temptation to go to the other side of the worktable and help her. He’d hired her so he could get some painting done.
He went to the small refrigerator where he’d stored yesterday’s palette so the paints wouldn’t dry.
He adjusted the easel and selected a brush from the pottery urn on the tabouret beside him. But he was reluctant to dive in. He’d probably just get his brushes wet and she’d need his help with something. He stole a glance over the large canvas resting on the easel. Olivia labored over her project, seemingly unaware of him. He was all too aware of her. He hadn’t thought about how ill at ease he would feel trying to work with someone else puttering around his studio.
Especially someone as attractive as Olivia Cline. Her dark blond hair framed delicate features. Her creamy skin was smooth except for her forehead, which was furrowed in concentration.
She glanced up and caught him watching her. He quickly looked away and prayed the heat rising in his face wasn’t visible. He turned the knob on the easel, raising the mast and work tray enough to block his view of her.
Ten minutes later, after he’d gone through the motions of tightening a canvas that was already taut as a Marine’s bed sheet, and mixed a blob of paint that was possibly the homeliest color ever created by any artist anywhere, he blew out a breath and headed to the kitchen for coffee.
Halfway up the stairs, he remembered his manners. “I’m getting coffee. Would you like some now?”
She laughed. “I’ve only been here fifteen minutes and it’s already time for a coffee break?”
Did she know how uncomfortable she was making him? He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll bring it to you. You can keep working.”
Her smile faded and she turned all business. “Sure. I’ll take a cup. Thanks.”
He must have sounded rude. He tried to think what he could say to smooth things over, but nothing witty popped into his head, so he simply asked, “Do you take anything in it…cream or sugar, I mean?”
“A little cream would be wonderful.”
“Oh…um…is milk okay? I guess I don’t really have cream.”
She gave him a look he interpreted as well-then-why-did-you-offer? before smiling sweetly. “Sure. Milk is fine.”
In the kitchen, he pulled two chunky mugs from the cupboard over the sink and poured the dark brew. He uncapped the milk jug and sniffed, deciding it had a day or two to go before it was officially sour. As he stirred milk into one mug, it hit him that s
omething was wrong with this picture. He’d hired the woman so he could spend more time painting, and here he was, making her coffee?
This was not going to work. He’d made a huge mistake. There was no way he could work with this distraction. He was going to have to fire her before she’d even worked a day. He picked up the warm mugs. Well, the least he could do was let her drink a cup of coffee before he broke the news.
He set the milky coffee in front of her and was rewarded again with her warm, twinkly smile. Twinkly? Where had that come from? Since when did Reed Vincent even think the word twinkly? Good grief.
“Thank you.” She took the mug from him and took a sip before setting it on the far corner of the worktable. “Does this look okay?” She held up an assembled stretcher frame.
He took it from her and held it close, examining her workmanship. She was a perfectionist. “Looks good. Where did you learn how…?”
She dipped her head. “Like I said yesterday, I used to do a little painting… Emphasis on the ‘little’… I haven’t done anything for a long time, but I learned to frame my own stuff because I couldn’t afford to have it done.”
“So you are an artist.” He moved back to his easel, picked up his palette and balanced it on his forearm.
Her gaze lifted and panned the gallery wall behind him. “I wouldn’t dare stand in this room and call myself an artist.”
Though her face was a little blurry from across the room, he thought her cheeks had taken on a rosy flush. “I’d like to see your work sometime.”
Her hand flew to her neck and she gave a warbly laugh. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t inflict that on you. Like I said, I just dabble. It’s a hobby, really.”
He ignored the comment and dipped a brush in paint. If they stood around chitchatting all morning he’d have a hard time justifying paying for an assistant. “Let me know when you have those finished.”
“Oh…sure.” She turned her back to him and reached into the box for another set of stretcher boards.
Chapter 12
The nausea was back, and with it, a terrifying suspicion. She’d felt fine when she went to bed last night, but now, for at least the third morning in a row, Olivia had awakened with a sour stomach. And along with it, a host of other symptoms she’d never experienced before, but had heard enough about from her girlfriends. It couldn’t be. She and Derek had barely had a night together once he’d made the move to Missouri. And they’d been careful. She’d been careful. Her doctor had advised them to wait several months after going off the pill before they tried to conceive. She’d been grateful for that advice. She wasn’t ready to jump into anything, and they’d both wanted to get settled in Hanover Falls before they got serious about starting a family.
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