After Gigi’s matchmaking and her mom’s change of tune, falling in love with Daniel was beginning to feel like selection by committee and that felt a little weird. It seemed a little forced. Even so, Zelda’s heart was in the right place, and clearly, there was more that she wanted to talk about. Elle followed her into the kitchen.
Zelda took a teabag from the tea chest and held it up. “Is chamomile okay?”
“That sounds good.”
Elle had a distinct feeling that her mother hadn’t waited up to discuss Daniel.
“What’s on your mind, Mom?”
Zelda didn’t answer as she focused on pouring hot water from the kettle into Elle’s cup and then into her own to refresh it. She brought both mugs over to the table and sat down across from Elle, in their respective let’s-have-a-talk places.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she said, staring down into her cup. She paused, silence heavy between them, but Elle resisted filling the void.
“I’m a little ashamed of myself for the fit I threw the other night when Kate was over.”
“Mom, it’s okay. It’s not an easy situation. I’m still trying to figure out if this place is a gift or a yoke. But it is our legacy. We are so very fortunate to have it.”
“That’s exactly why I came to the conclusion that I did,” Zelda said. “I will take my turn running the Forsyth. It wouldn’t be fair to you three girls or Gigi if I skipped out and shirked my responsibility. Gigi has worked long past what she should’ve and that was because of me. I suppose I should’ve spoken up and urged her to retire sooner, but I didn’t want to take over.” She sighed. “I suppose Machu Picchu and the Galápagos and Greece will wait for me.” She laughed. “They’ve waited this long. What’s another twenty years?”
Her eyes looked sad. The truth shone through. It wasn’t what she wanted. Elle didn’t know what to say. Zelda wasn’t the type to play the false martyr and expect her to jump in and relieve her of the burden.
“I keep hearing Gigi say, What do you want me to do? Sell the place?” Zelda had tears in her eyes. “She’s right. There really isn’t another solution. We can’t afford to hire a manager. It’s up to me now, and I’m certainly not going to be the one who gives up on a six-generation legacy.”
“I’ll help you for as long as I can,” Elle said. The unspoken part was, Until the county calls and tells me they have another teaching job for me.
Zelda nodded and a single tear meandered down her cheek.
But what if they didn’t have another job for her? Budget cuts for the school year had been deep.
Elle used a spoon to take the tea bag out of her cup and wound the string around the bag and spoon to squeeze out the excess water. She bit her bottom lip against the phantom feel of Daniel’s lips on hers, against the memory of his hands on her breasts, pushing under her dress. God, she wanted him; it was a need that consumed her more than she could process.
“What do you think about this?” she said as she set down the spoon. “Why don’t we leave it up to fate? If the county calls after the first of the year with another job for me, it means I’ll go to Atlanta. If they don’t, I’ll put off the job search and move back to Savannah and help you run the Forsyth.”
Zelda gasped. Her hand flew up to her open mouth and the tears she’d been holding back spilled out onto her cheeks.
“Would you really do that for me?”
Elle nodded. “I would.”
For you. And for Daniel. Though she wasn’t sure she would mention this wager with the heavens to him.
* * *
When Daniel arrived at the Forsyth on Monday, Elle was in the sunroom working in her art journal and tending to the guests. Because of the construction, they’d closed the dining room and moved the guests’ breakfast into the sunroom.
Monday was generally a slower day. To compound matters, when they had let some of their bookings know that there would be construction happening at the inn, the guests had canceled. So, today was even slower than usual. Since Elle had volunteered to tend the breakfast, she’d brought along her art journal, figuring it would be a good time to reconnect with it.
In Atlanta, she’d been so busy with school—lesson plans and trying out new techniques that were appropriate for elementary school age kids—that she hadn’t allowed herself to indulge in much personal creativity. Now she used matte gel medium to glue down some collage elements that she had collected—a paper luggage tag she’d found in the hallway, a coaster from the Crystal she’d picked up the night of her date with Daniel, a receipt from her purse, a feather she’d found in the park across the street and the tab from the end of a tea bag string.
After the matte medium dried, she would paint and draw over the items and add additional layers of collage ephemera. But first she would have to wait for everything to set. It was an exercise in patience as well as creative expression. She’d forgotten how nice it was to exercise her creative muscles.
She also had an ulterior motive for bringing out the journal. She wanted to see if there was any spontaneous interest from the guests. The way she would gauge it would be by seeing if anyone came over and either asked what she was doing or simply watched as she worked.
Seven people had come down for breakfast and six of the seven had expressed an interest. Of the six, five had said they would be interested in taking a free art journaling workshop.
Five would be a nice number for a beginner class.
Without even asking Gigi or her mother, she made the executive decision to offer the Forsyth Galloway Inn’s inaugural art class on Wednesday. She told her prospective students that all they would need was a journal or a notebook—the size, shape and type was up to them. If they wanted one like hers, they could find it at the SCAD bookstore on Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. She would provide the rest of the materials.
She had glued down the last item into her own journal when she looked up and saw Daniel standing in the doorway. Happiness flooded through her at the sight of him standing there, all freshly showered and looking delicious.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning.” He walked over and bent down to look at her open journal.
“How did Chloe do this morning when you dropped her off for her first day of camp?”
“She did great. She has a lot of friends doing the camp. She was happy to see them. She waved goodbye to me and ran inside with them like a big girl. What’s this?” He gestured to her open art journal.
“It’s the first draft of my inaugural art class here at the inn. I’m glad to hear she was ready to have fun. We’re going to miss her around here.”
He gestured at the journal. “Does that make you the first artist in residence?”
“I guess it does. Or maybe art teacher in residence.”
“Artist,” he said. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
Elle shrugged against the thrill that coursed through her at his encouragement. It had been so long—since art school—since she’d thought of herself as an artist rather than an art teacher. There was safety in hiding behind the teacher label. As a teacher, she taught. Students looked up to her, counting on her expertise. There was rarely any judgment from the beginners she taught. Especially not among her elementary students. Tempera paint and modeling clay rarely brought out the kids’ inner critic, except when she tried to sneak in a lesson about color theory or the different styles of the masters. And those were usually groans of constructive learning tainting a good old free-for-all with paint and brush. The kids didn’t care if it was in the style of Jackson Pollock. All they knew was that it was fun to fling paint off a brush onto paper—and each other. Mostly onto each other.
Daniel carried over a chair that one of the guests had moved to another table and sat next to her. He ran a calloused thumb down the fan of completed pages in the front of the journal. “May I look? I just reali
zed I haven’t seen your art since high school.”
Her first reaction was to hide her work, to protect herself. How long had it been since she’d laid herself bare in the form of her art?
“Careful.” But she had been eager to render herself naked and vulnerable at his hands on Friday night when they’d made out in his truck. The memory of that night sent electric currents of longing pulsing through her and pooling in her center. “The matte medium I used to glue down the ephemera isn’t dry yet.”
However, it was set enough to hold. And if she could trust her fragile heart in his strong, capable hands, she could trust him with the various studies that had been closed off in this book, hidden away from critical eyes for years.
A million thoughts went through her head at the same time—Roger. Hurt. Love. Devastation. Vulnerability. Jilted. Nudged. Innocent. Wronged. Cheater. Naked. Hungry. Saved from making the worst mistake of her entire life.
“I’ll be careful,” he promised, and she let him slide the book closer to himself.
Elle held her breath as, with one hand, he carefully held out the page she had been working on when he’d entered the sunroom and thumbed through the rest with his free hand.
He was perfectly silent as he perused. Elle felt exposed and vulnerable, and she looked away and held her breath.
When a good five minutes had gone by and he hadn’t said anything, but was still carefully flipping through the pages—maybe for a second or third time—she said, “They’re just studies.”
As if that made them illegitimate or somehow let her off the hook, released her from the liability and labels that might be slapped on from the opinions he was silently forming his head.
She wished he would say something. And then she hoped he wouldn’t, as a sinking, drowning feeling made her wish she had never brought out her journal, inviting opinions.
But then a funny thing happened. The negative self-talk receded, and it was replaced by a soft voice that reminded her that she didn’t need validation to be whole, to be an artist. A love of art was a gift and the gift she’d been given was hers. No one could take that away from her.
“These are great,” he said, a note of wonderment coloring his voice. “Really great. Have you done any canvases since school? Wait, was that your work that was hanging in the dining room before we started the renovation?”
She suddenly remembered it was her work that he was talking about. Someone, probably Gigi or her mother, had taken the canvases down before the renovation had started so that they wouldn’t get damaged.
“Yes, that’s my work. It’s from when I was in school at SCAD.”
“Elle, why aren’t you painting more? You are so talented. I always remembered that in high school you were so artistic, so well-rounded.”
The thought of going into the speech about teaching being a time and inspiration suck and the whole ugly reality of needing to make a living so she could support herself...and Roger stealing her joy and maybe even a little bit—okay, a whole lot—of her self-confidence when he’d left her seemed exhausting. They were excuses.
So much had changed in the years since then. She already knew it was time to stop wallowing and start using her God-given gifts, even if she had to start with giving classes on art journaling to the guests who stayed at her family’s inn. She’d still have time to paint.
That was the least she could do while she waited for word to come down about a teaching job.
“I have a surprise for you,” Daniel said. There was a light in his brown eyes that hinted that she was going to like what he had to say.
“Chloe’s friend Emma’s mom asked if Chloe could go home with Emma after camp the day after tomorrow and have a sleepover. If you’re free Wednesday night, come over and I’ll fix dinner for you.”
* * *
“How did the inaugural Forsyth Galloway Inn art class go?” he asked as he handed her a glass of Malbec on Wednesday evening.
It was the first time she’d been to his house. Actually, it was the first time in a while he’d spent any time there. He hadn’t even put up any Christmas decorations. Since Aidan was still in the hospital and Daniel had been staying with Chloe at Aidan’s house in the Habersham Woods area, his own house off Skidaway Road wasn’t exactly convenient for dropping in or swinging by with Chloe in tow.
After Elle had agreed to have dinner with him, he’d gone by the hospital to check on Aidan—who was still improving, but not quite enough for them to ease up on the Propofol that was keeping him in deep sleep. Then he’d gone to the grocery store to pick up a couple of filets and lobster tails. He wasn’t a chef by any means, but he did have his easy go-to meals. This was about as easy as they went, because he had no intention of spending the evening in the kitchen.
This was their first night alone: wherever it led, he wanted to spend as much time as possible with her.
“The class was a lot of fun, actually,” she said. “Everyone who signed up—all five of them—” she laughed and rolled her eyes, as if the whole thing was no big deal “—showed up and they all seemed genuinely interested.”
He touched his glass to hers. “That’s fantastic. Do you think this could be an ongoing thing?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, we’ll see. I forgot to tell you that my mom has had a change of heart. For the time being, she has agreed to take her turn running the inn. She’s not happy about it, but she realized it’s the right thing to do.”
His stomach sank and he turned his attention to the asparagus spears he’d washed and set on the cutting board so she wouldn’t see his disappointment. “So, this lets you off the hook, then?”
He glanced up to gauge her reaction. She was chewing on her bottom lip, looking contemplative.
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “We will have to see what happens.”
He had to remind himself that this thing between them had only been going on for two weeks. Sometimes it seemed as if they had been together forever, when in reality they weren’t together, but what was together? Was it more than spending time together, seeing each other every day? Did they have to spell out that they were a couple? He wasn’t good at this because he didn’t know how to do this. All he knew was that now that she was in his life, he didn’t want to lose her.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her what would happen to them if she did get another position in Atlanta and moved back, but he didn’t want to pressure her. He didn’t want to seem needy and vulnerable. He thought about how many times he had been on the other side of this situation and a woman that he’d liked well enough had expedited the end by initiating the “where do we stand, where are we going” conversation.
So, he let it drop because he didn’t want to spoil their time together. He chopped and grilled and she asked about Aidan as she set the table. She hadn’t been able to go to the hospital with him today because of the art class.
It dawned on him that this was the first time that he’d been in a hospital and hadn’t been on the verge of a panic attack.
He filled her in and said Aidan’s medical team was going to meet tomorrow and evaluate whether it was time to discontinue the Propofol.
Her mouth fell open and her blue eyes were huge and hopeful. “Should we be there? I’ll go with you. Chloe will be so happy. We will finally be able to give her some good news. She might get to see her dad soon.”
She genuinely cared about his family and what happened to them. She seemed emotionally invested in them. How could she not be emotionally invested in the two of them?
They stared at each other as the truth dawned clear and unmistakable. When they let down their guards, intimacy came so naturally. A closeness that was so profound and powerful it was all-consuming.
They’d trusted each other with their most intimate secrets. They knew the best and the worst of each other. Even though it scared him to think of caring for
someone so deeply, he couldn’t not care for her. This was Elizabeth—Elle. He’d already passed the point of no return. He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t own up to the truth. He’d fallen for her. And hard.
The only question was, where did they go from here?
He knew what he wanted, but she still wasn’t sure what she was going to do. He didn’t want to pressure her.
So, now what?
But he swallowed the question and enjoyed her company and the delicious meal and the chocolate mousse he’d purchased for them to have for dessert. And focused on the positive when they moved into the living room and talking turned into touching, which morphed into kissing.
He responded by wrapping his arms around her and pulling her in close to his body as if he’d never let her go.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said. “Wait here.”
He went into his bedroom and returned with the small, rectangular package he’d gift wrapped himself in Christmas paper.
He handed it to Elle.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Your Christmas present. I thought you could use it now.”
“Daniel, you didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I wanted to get it for you. When I saw it, I couldn’t not get it for you. Open it.”
He sat down next to her and she leaned in and kissed him.
He smiled. “You haven’t even seen what it is.”
She pulled the paper away, revealing an antique box which was designed to hold her brushes.
She gasped. “I love it, Daniel. Thank you.”
When she opened the wooden box, there was another, smaller box inside.
“Daniel?”
“Open it,” he urged.
She opened the small, square box and found a gold necklace with a tiny gold paintbrush charm.
A Down-Home Savannah Christmas (The Savannah Sisters Book 1) Page 15
