The Bride Wore Denim

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “Don’t listen. I know how busy you are at the ranch this time of year. It’s nearly time to gather the cattle and start the shipping. I’m sure there’s no time to goof off in Chicago.”

  “Not that I wouldn’t love to see what you do,” he said.

  “I teach a bunch of inner-city kids and adults to use paints and brushes. It’s fun for them, but not all that exciting to watch.”

  “I’m sure it’s fun to watch you.” He winked, and her cheeks heated in pleasure. “But I promised not to hide things from you anymore, so I have to admit that I’m not headed straight back to Paradise.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m headed for a conference trade show in New York City. Something called the Atlantic International Oil and Gas Expo. For no other reason than I can gather information from neutral parties without pressure from Mountain Pacific.”

  Her stomach lurched in dismay. She struggled to keep her hand on his, but slowly it slid away. She felt bereft. “I see. So Joely’s made a decision?”

  With swift deftness he caught her fingers again, flipped her hand into his and held it tightly. “You don’t see. And Joely doesn’t seem prone to making any more quick decisions, so no, nothing’s been decided.”

  “What’s Mountain Pacific?” asked Tristan.

  “A gas and oil company that wants to drill on the family ranch,” she said.

  “Ooh.” He wrinkled his nose as if warding off a foul stench. “Bad karma if you go that route, man.”

  “I agree.” Harper left her hand in Cole’s this time. It turned out, even if she disagreed with him, as long as he held her hand, there was safety in her world.

  “Before Joely and your mother make any decisions they want all the facts,” Cole said lightly. “That’s all I’m going after. What exactly is involved in the search for oil or gas? What happens to the land?”

  She knew this was a reasonable business practice. Sound and smart, in fact. It didn’t make her feel any less betrayed by her family. Was she truly the only one who didn’t look at this as a dollars and cents issue?

  But she wouldn’t lose her cool with him tonight. Not when everything had been so perfect, and not with Tristan sitting feet away.

  “Fair enough,” she said. “I wish you good luck getting straight answers from people who want what you have to give.”

  “Harpo.” Cole placed a finger beneath her chin and forced her to look up. “This is fair enough. It’s common sense, that’s all.”

  “You’re right.” The words weren’t as difficult as they’d seemed in her head. “I wish someone besides me would say no just because.”

  “Why don’t you put up some windmills?” Tristan sipped from his glass without looking up, as if he’d spoken absently to the liquid and not the others present.

  Harper sat back into the booth with a thump. Windmills. Solar power. Isn’t that a brilliant idea?

  “Now, hang on.” Cole, peering at her, seemed to read her mind. “One of the big reasons you don’t want oil extraction at the ranch is because it will uglify the landscape. You tell me a whole regiment of those giant, alien-looking windmills isn’t going to spoil the view of Grand Teton.”

  That was true enough. Windmill farms stretched for acres and weren’t exactly natural-looking either.

  “Thing is, man, you can put windmills anywhere, relatively speaking. You aren’t beholden to pockets of dwindling resources in the ground.” Tristan spoke again.

  “Exactly,” she said. “And the bottom line is, it’s more than the ugliness. Windmills won’t spill oil and ruin groundwater. If the view across Paradise land has to be spoiled, I’d choose a hundred acres of windmills over five acres of oil wells.”

  “Well.” Cole sat back in the booth and grabbed his beer. “I gotta admire the way you stick to your guns.”

  She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to discuss this anymore—it had taken the glitter off the evening way too abruptly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t be spouting off at all. I left. I live here. I don’t have a say.”

  “Sure you do. Until Paradise isn’t yours any longer, if that even happens, you get an opinion.”

  “Harper Crockett have an opinion?” Tristan grinned from across the table.

  “You aren’t funny. I’m a mild-mannered little farm girl in the big city,” she said.

  For the first time, the two men exchanged actual looks of camaraderie. “Whatever you say, Mama.” Tris held up his glass again. “Then how ’bout we forget the windmills and toast three sales?”

  “Hear, hear.” Cole hoisted his beer.

  “Toasted.” She raised her half-gone Long Island ice tea.

  With one last shock for her system, Cole leaned forward and kissed her, slowly, chastely, but hard enough to send her insides tumbling like Jack and Jill down their nursery-rhyme hill, and leave her shaken and confused at the bottom. He raised his head and smoothed the skin beneath her lip.

  “I’m proud of you, Harpo. Really proud. May you end up in the Louvre.”

  “To the Louvre,” Harper agreed, while his hands trailed fire across her cheeks and then fell away.

  HE WOULDN’T STAY overnight with her. After the Champagne, more drinks, the heady sensation of being Queen for a Night, and the sale of her work to people who loved it, Cole’s self-control was probably smart. She’d have thrown all her caution to the wind in the wake of the unfamiliar giddiness of success. It was better one of them remembered they were just friends.

  He came from his hotel at eight o’clock the next morning to say good-bye. The world still felt shiny, and her newly discovered belief in herself hadn’t disappeared. She greeted him at the door of the house she shared with four other people, her emotions a mixture of gratitude and sadness.

  “I still can’t believe you came,” she said. “It means so much.”

  “I’m glad I was here. You are an amazing woman.”

  “I wish you could stay a while.”

  “You know what?” He took her into an embrace. “I do, too. But maybe it’s better this way. We might do something we’ll regret if I stay this time.”

  “Would you regret it?” The innuendo didn’t need to be explained.

  “Honestly?” He pulled back and asked the question with his eyes as well. “No. But you would. I’m not what’s good for you right now. I saw that last night. You’re on the brink of getting exactly what you’ve dreamed of, and what I want is for you to go for it.”

  She didn’t want to admit it was true. “Will you come and visit again?”

  “Will you?” He winked.

  “I’ll come home at Thanksgiving.”

  “Let’s see where we are then. Besides, there’s this sister thing you and Mia have to work out.”

  The reminder of that stung more than waiting until November to see him again. “Does she know you came to see me?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You should tell her.”

  “It has nothing to do with her, Harpo, can’t you see that? And I don’t talk to her. Why would I call her out of the blue and tell her I came to your show?”

  “She might care.”

  He sighed. “I don’t get it. If she cares, she shouldn’t. If you care, you shouldn’t.”

  It was so reasonable. He had to be right. But two sisters and the same man . . . and one of those sisters was the Amelia Crockett?

  “I know.”

  It was all she could say.

  HE HUGGED HER again, this time lifting her off the ground with the strength of the embrace.

  “I’ll be there when you come in November,” he said. “I’ll be in Wyoming until they bury me there, remember?”

  “With the children and grandchildren.” She forced a smile, truly sad for the first time.

  “Yes. But there’ll be none of them by this Thanksgiving.”

  He didn’t kiss her. And when he’d gone, she wept, because he was wrong. She did need him now. And she wanted him. But she couldn’t have
him—not if she wanted to build on the amazing foundation that had been laid the night before. And she did.

  But a brand-new vision of children with Cole’s stunning eyes, lying in the arms of some other woman who Cole would choose to share his dream, lodged in her mind—ghosts from a future she didn’t want to think about.

  She’d pulled herself together by the time her phone rang an hour later. Her spirits lifted when she heard the cheerful voice of Cecelia Markham on the other end.

  “Harper, love, when do you have a free day for lunch with me next week?”

  “Me?” she asked, her brain sluggish. “Gosh, almost any day. Tuesday I have the most free time, since I’m off until evening.”

  “Tuesday it is. Would you like to meet at the Chicago Cut Steakhouse on LaSalle? Unless you’re a vegetarian, dear, in which case, I have a second suggestion.”

  She laughed. “No, my family raises beef. I’m far from a vegetarian. I’d be happy to meet you there.”

  “It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s very nice. Tuesday then, at eleven thirty?”

  “This is awfully nice of you,” Harper said. “Is our meeting about anything in particular? Can I do anything for you before then?”

  “No, but I definitely hope you’ll do something for me after we’ve met. I’ll explain it all next week. Congratulations on a lovely show last night.”

  Once they’d hung up, Harper looked around at the large, old living room in the house she shared with her roommates. Her sisters would call it a commune, but it wasn’t—even though all of the five who lived there contributed to the finances, the food, and the household needs. Her sales from the gallery opening would net her five thousand dollars—a fortune. Harper couldn’t remember the last time she’d had an extra five hundred dollars. Heck one hundred dollars. The deep secret she kept from her family, from Cole, from everyone but the people in this house, was that in every sense of the word, she was a starving artist.

  She made barely enough at her community education teaching jobs to pay her share. The newly gained money would allow her to pay Tristan back for the plane ticket to Wyoming, for the funeral, and her housemate Sally back for the loan to buy last night’s outfit.

  She danced with glee at the idea of taking her full turn filling the fridge and the pantry rather than offering her usual occasional pizza and paltry handful of groceries. What a blessing it would be to have relatively unlimited travel money for work. And maybe she’d splurge on a new easel—not that her ten-year-old faithful friend with the splints made from wooden spoon handles didn’t do the job serviceably enough.

  If there was money left, she’d actually put it in her bank account. She still had one although anything she put in would have to compete with moths and cobwebs.

  WITH A NEW skirt and vest, a pretty scarf, and her bills paid, Harper rode to the restaurant on Tuesday with no mass-transit hiccups, no unruly passengers, and no delays. She arrived with fifteen minutes to spare and was waiting for Cecelia when she arrived. The woman greeted her as if she were royalty, showered her with more praise for the paintings she’d purchased, and described where they were already hanging. She went on to extract every detail she could about Harper’s jobs at the three community centers where she worked and the kinds of students who took her classes.

  By the time they’d each consumed every bite of their exquisite steaks, Harper had shared more with Cecelia than she had with anyone besides Tristan. She set her fork down for the last time, set her napkin on the plate and groaned as politely as she could. She truly didn’t need anything more from this lunch.

  “That was delicious. And I’m kind of a steak snob after growing up with prime Wyoming beef cattle.”

  “You’ve had a fascinating life, my dear. It’s no wonder you have such a variety of inspiration for your work.”

  “Thank you, but it’s simply the way I’ve chosen to express my experiences. Everyone has a life full of inspiration. Not everyone likes to paint.”

  “Not everyone can paint, Harper. You must know that.”

  “I do. I feel very fortunate. I thank God every day that I can express my visions this way.”

  Cecelia leaned back slightly as if to take in more of Harper’s frame and demeanor. Cecelia’s long jacket of ecru silk flowed richly over a striking brown-and-black African print blouse. Black slacks fitted her slender frame like custom couture—which, Harper figured, they probably were. Her brown, black, and off-white, bone-and-stone jewelry was chunky but tasteful, her shoulder-length bob classic and elegant. She oozed wealth but dripped charm.

  “Have you ever thought of treating your art as a vocation?” she asked.

  “Do you mean paint full time?”

  “Exactly.”

  Harper held back a sigh of longing. Her entire life she’d wished for more time to paint.

  “I wish I could even fantasize about such a thing.” She smiled. “I paint whenever I can, but it’s never enough.”

  “Have you ever heard of an arts patron?”

  “Sure.” She narrowed her eyes warily.

  “Most commonly, in this day and age, people who support the arts do so by giving to museums, art collections, and the like. I have done that in the past. But there are also a few old throwbacks to the days of private patronage. Harper, there’s a reason you’ve heard my name and knew who I was. I have made myself the biggest pest at art shows and galleries in and around Chicago. I love art. I love new artists.”

  “And I’m so grateful.”

  She smiled. “I’ve been trolling.”

  “Trolling?”

  “For an artist I could, to be crass, buy.” She laughed, a fun, musical sound.

  “Buy an artist?”

  “Of course not literally. But I would like to sponsor you. I’d like to commission several paintings, perhaps a dozen or eighteen. Then I’d like to pay you a small stipend so you can concentrate exclusively on painting.”

  The world spun, even though Harper sat securely in a thick, comfortable banquette. Never in her wildest imagination had she pictured this being Cecelia’s reason for lunch today. Or any day. Or anybody’s reason ever to invite her anywhere. A patron?

  “I’m not sure I completely understand.”

  “It’s all right. This is a highly unusual request, I know, but I’ve thought about it a great deal, and I have lots of time to explain it. You have plenty of time to think about it.”

  Harper forced herself to hold back the questions bubbling in fast-rising, disbelieving effervescence. Think about what? A stipend? Twelve paintings? What kind of—?

  “What?” She focused again when she realized Cecelia had spoken again. “I’m sorry, my brain is trying to take this all in.”

  Cecelia smiled.

  “I’m sure it is. But it shouldn’t be. You completely deserve this. I want to see you go places, my dear. All I said was I’m talking about a rather substantial time commitment from you. I want to make sure you know exactly what that entails.”

  “All right.” Her stomach rocked and danced. This was real. An honest-to-goodness about-to-be offer of something she’d never imagined. “I’m all ears.”

  “First of all I have two homes, one here in Chicago, the other quite a large place I recently purchased on the ocean in South Carolina and hope to use for winter entertaining. That home is in the process of being renovated, and I have always dreamed of having it decorated thematically by one very special artist. That artist is you.”

  “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Nothing yet.” She laughed. “There’s more. I also have a bed and breakfast I inherited from a cousin who passed away several years ago. It’s a Northwoods lodge along the Canadian border in Minnesota. It’s dated and needs fresh décor. I don’t need to spend much time there, but it is a thriving business, and I do send a lot of my friends to visit.

  “So, you see, I think I can start out by giving you exposure as a very up-and-coming new talent through people who spend time at my properties. And, w
hile all this is going on, I’d like the world to meet you.”

  “If this doesn’t sound too rude,” Harper said, “what are you getting out of this?”

  “Not rude at all. I’m getting a lot of very valuable artwork, for starters. Second, I’m getting the pleasure of calling myself the person who discovered you. In two years, that will be worth a lot.”

  Heat from excitement as well as embarrassment rose in Harper’s face. She longed for a cool breeze, yet dreaded the thought of this all being a dream she might blow away with the slightest stray breath.

  “That’s a lot of faith in someone completely untested and unknown,” she said.

  “But I have that faith.” She patted Harper’s hand. “That’s why I’d like you to think about a commission of thirty-five thousand dollars, which I’d pay over the course of the first year. For that you’d agree to the first twelve paintings. The only other thing I would require from you would be a promise to be available on occasion to attend social gatherings where I could introduce you as my artist.”

  Harper’s ears buzzed with the white noise of utter disbelief. Her brain had clicked off after the words “thirty-five thousand.” She couldn’t comprehend such a stratospheric amount of money for her crazy paintings. Paintings that didn’t yet exist. She’d heard of such things, in fairy tales and circles far removed from the ones in which she traveled.

  “Oh, Cecelia.” It took a moment for her to form a coherent thought. “That can’t be right. Nobody does this—it’s far too generous.”

  “Harper, in my world now and my late husband’s world before he died, of course people did this. They did this kind of thing all the time. And it is a very good thing to do with one’s money. It’s not a real estate takeover or a high-stakes gamble. It would cost me three times as much to buy a top-of-the-line car or boat or horse or any of the million things wealthy people buy for pleasure. Your talent is my pleasure. It’s that simple.”

  “My heart is pounding; I have no idea what to say. Again. This is the most incredible thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “Well, I want you to think about it. Think about it very hard. It’s going to put us in each other’s pockets for the next year. You may come to hate me.” Her smile said she didn’t really see that happening.