"That was high school."
"You're trying to tell us he's changed his mind about us?"
Lacey coughed. "Well…"
"Don't try," Maud advised. "You'll only be lying and we won't believe it. Just come hear us play—and bring him if you have to."
Lacey said she would come—eventually.
The twins shared a significant glance and left it at that.
That evening, Lacey mentioned the idea to Logan. "They play on Friday nights, so I was thinking that maybe we could—"
He was shaking his head before she'd even finished making the suggestion. "I'm not much for heavy metal music, Lace."
She started to set him straight. "The twins' band isn't heavy metal…" But then she remembered that it had been at one time. "Well, maybe it was. Seven or eight years ago. They have changed a lot since then, though. I think you'd like them now."
He gave her one of his irritatingly superior doubtful looks and said that maybe, some evening, in a few weeks…
Wednesday, Fiona arrived right at noon. She held the baby and declared her "an absolute doll."
"Daniel and I have two of our own, did you know? Patrice and Daniel, Jr. Patrice is at Stanford. Daniel, Jr. is at UCLA. I miss them, but I do manage to keep busy." She laughed. "Do I ever. Being a doctor's wife is a full-time job."
And that, as it turned out, was the theme of Lacey's lunch date with Fiona: being a doctor's wife is a full-time job.
Fiona asked her again to join a couple of committees. Lacey said she just might do that. Later. Right now, as she'd already explained, she had her own work to catch up on.
Fiona accepted Lacey's refusal with a dazzling smile. "Don't expect me to stop asking you."
Lacey laughed. She really did like Fiona. "Fiona. You are not going to charm me into doing things your way."
Fiona put on a wide-eyed expression and splayed her beautifully manicured hand against her chest. "Me? Try to charm you? Never. You and Logan will make it to the Health Aid Society's annual banquet, won't you? It's on the fourth of September. Everyone turns out for it. Daniel and I will be there, of course. And Helen and her husband. It's important that the practice be well-represented."
Lacey was able to say yes to that one. "Logan mentioned the banquet. He told me he wanted to go. So when the invitation came, I went right ahead and sent in the check for two tickets."
Fiona beamed. "Good. I'm so glad." She reached across and patted Lacey's arm. "We'll make a proper doctor's wife out of you yet."
Lacey decided she was going to have to be more direct. She pushed her empty plate aside, rested her forearms on the table and leaned toward the woman across from her. "Fiona. Be honest. I'm sure you've heard about me."
Fiona sat back. She was blushing, a blush that looked thoroughly enchanting on her. "Well, now. What can I say when you put me on the spot like this? Meadow Valley has grown a lot in the past couple of decades. But at heart, it's still a small town, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. And if you've asked around, you must have learned that I've never been a 'proper' anything."
Fiona waved a hand. "Oh, now. A childish prank or two…"
"I'm never going to try to be someone I'm not, Fiona. I love Logan and I'm proud to be his wife. But I am not Jenna. I'm me."
"I understand that. I do."
"Good. Then you and I will get along just fine."
Fiona sat forward again. "Of course we will—and you know, the Aid to the Indigent fall rummage sale is almost upon us. September eleventh and twelfth can you believe it? If you could see your way clear to making a few calls next week to ask for donations, and then another set of reminder calls the week of the sale, just to let people know again that we do need their donations—"
"Fiona, don't you ever give up?"
"Never. What about those calls?"
Lacey shook her head—and said yes.
Fiona said, "Wonderful. And if you'd just agree to a few hours on Saturday the eleventh, manning a booth, well, I cannot tell you how grateful I would be."
Lacey suppressed a sigh. "Okay. I'll take a booth—if you promise me that'll be all for a couple of months, at least."
"I promise."
"All right, then."
"Excellent—and where is our waitress? I want a fruit tart, just for a little extra treat."
* * *
"I think Fiona likes you," Logan said later, when Lacey told him about their lunch.
"Maybe she does," Lacey admitted. "She's also determined to show me the way to be a real asset to you and to the practice."
"Don't let her railroad you," he advised. "Just do what you want to do."
That pleased her. Fiona might hope to make her over into the perfect doctor's wife, but Logan didn't appear to be in on the scheme. She winked at him. "Have I ever done anything but exactly what I wanted to do?"
He laughed then. "Not that I can recall."
"I have an idea," she suggested brightly. "How about a visit to the Eureka Lounge this Friday night? You can hear Mira sing the blues."
His expression darkened. "What brought that up?"
"I'm learning from Fiona. When you want someone to do something, you have to ask them. Repeatedly, if necessary."
"I don't think I'm ready to hear Mira sing the blues—not this week, anyway."
"Why did I know you'd say that?"
"I haven't a clue."
"I'm not giving up."
"I'll consider that a warning."
"Please do."
He pulled her close and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. "You have an extremely self-satisfied look on your face, Mrs. Severance."
"That's not self-satisfaction. That's contentment. All in all, even though I've yet to drag you to the Eureka Lounge, I'd still say this marriage of ours is working out pretty well."
"I couldn't agree with you more," he said, and kissed her again, this time on the mouth.
They went up to bed not long after that and made slow, delicious love. Lacey thought, as she dropped off to sleep a little later, that she'd never been happier. She had her love and her baby and little by little, she was getting back to work.
Xavier Hockland called the next day.
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
"I got your number from Barnaby," Xavier said in that slightly bored, thoroughly arrogant tone Lacey remembered so well. "I asked him if I could just drop by his loft and show Belinda Goldstone the work you did last winter. He said I had to check with you first."
Belinda Goldstone. Lacey's pulse accelerated. Belinda Goldstone was one of L.A.'s premiere art dealers. She owned a gallery where she hung only the works of top contemporary artists.
"Lace. Are you there?"
Lacey swallowed. "I'm here."
"I heard you had that baby."
That baby. What was the matter with him? "Her name is Rosie."
"And you adore her." Xavier sighed.
"Yes, I do. She's one of the two best things that ever happened to me."
"The other being?"
"My husband, Logan."
Xavier said nothing. Lacey waited him out. Finally, he asked, "Have you done any work at all in the past few months?"
"Xavier. Let's not get started on that. What I'm working on, or when, or how much time I'm giving to it is no longer your concern. What's this about Belinda Goldstone?"
He let a few seconds elapse, just to show her he was controlling the conversation, before he said, "I had lunch with her yesterday. She asked about you."
Lacey was frowning. "I hardly know her. I've met her at two or three openings, that's all—just to shake her hand and say, 'How are you?' Why would she ask about me?"
Xavier sighed again. "Until you decided to throw it all away, you were my protégée."
Lacey knew that wasn't all of it. "Okay. So she asked about me. And you told her I'd thrown it all away. End of conversation."
Xavier made an impatient sound. "All right, all right. Word gets a
round. There has been some buzz about that series of figure studies you were working on before you took off to … complete your gestation period in the wilds of Wyoming."
"So she asked about the series I was working on last winter, is that it?"
"Yes."
"And you told her…?"
Another pause, then he gave out grudgingly, "That they were fabulous. Sensual. Arresting. Powerful. I laid on the adjectives. They were only the truth."
Lacey's heart had started pounding hard again. "And she asked if she could see them?"
"Yes. I told her I'd check into it. Will you call that damn Barnaby and tell him it's all right if I show them to her?"
Lacey resisted the urge to throw back her head and let out a long, loud yelp of glee.
"Lace? Will you call Barnaby?"
"Yes, Xavier, I will."
"Thank you."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," Xavier said. "And there's one other thing…"
"Yes?"
"Perhaps I was a little out of line, about that baby."
"Her name is Rosie. And yes, you were out of line."
"You're happy."
"I am."
"And Barnaby said the man's a doctor. That he has money."
"What are you getting at, Xavier?"
"Happiness and money. These are good things for an artist. Some opt for struggle—they buy into the myth that suffering will somehow improve the work. This is delusional. Struggle only wears one down. The work gets done in spite of suffering, not because of it. A place to work, and few outside worries. That's what an artist needs. Happiness and money can help a lot in that regard. When you told me about the baby, I understood you were going to be dealing with it on your own. Now I can see that isn't the case, so perhaps I was too quick to offer my advice on the subject."
"Xavier, is this an apology?"
"I never apologize. I'm just pleased to hear you're doing well. Have Barnaby call me."
"Yes. Yes. I will."
* * *
At first, Lacey told no one about Xavier's call—except Barnaby in L.A. It was her little secret she kept just to herself.
Belinda Goldstone had asked to see her work.
It might mean nothing.
Or it might mean a great deal.
She wouldn't know until Xavier—or Belinda Goldstone herself—called back. If one of them called back.
Until then, well, she certainly did feel terrific about herself. She found it easier to concentrate when she went into her studio. Her confidence had just gotten a big boost, and that did wonders for her ability to focus when she worked.
And beyond progress in her work, it was pure self-indulgent delight just to fantasize a little about what this might mean. To imagine her paintings hanging in Belinda Goldstone's gallery.
In her fantasy, of course; the show would sell out before the opening. And her beautiful paintings of Logan would…
Logan.
That did give her pause. She had yet to tell him that there were nine nudes of him—his face carefully disguised, of course—stored in Barnaby Cole's L.A. loft.
She probably should have told him before now.
In fact, she realized, she couldn't afford to put off telling him any longer. If anything did come of Belinda Goldstone's visit to Barnaby's loft, she wanted her husband to be reasonably prepared. It only seemed fair that he should know about the existence of the paintings before she sprung the news that Belinda Goldstone wanted to hang them in her gallery.
She told him two nights after Xavier called, over a dinner of roast beef, baby carrots and new potatoes—a meal that was one of his favorites. She'd decided it wouldn't hurt to coddle him a little before she hit him with the information she probably shouldn't have kept from him in the first place.
He took the news amazingly well. He seemed surprised, but not offended. And he had a number of questions.
"You say it's impossible to tell that I was your…" He frowned, seeking the right word.
She provided one. "Inspiration?"
"Okay. I'll go with that. Will anyone be able to tell that I inspired you?"
"Well," she hedged. "People who know you might guess. But I promise, they won't know for certain. The face in each painting is hidden—with a mask, or by shadows, or because the figure is turned away from the viewer."
He was still frowning. "Exactly how nude is nude?"
"Logan. What is that supposed to mean?"
He tried again. "I guess I'm asking, are they … tasteful?"
She had to laugh. "Tasteful wasn't exactly what I was shooting for."
He set down his fork. "Let me put it this way. What shows?"
She understood. And laughed again. "How can such a sexy man be such a prude?"
"Just answer me. What shows?"
"No genitals. How's that?"
He picked up his fork again. "A relief." They ate in silence for a minute or two. Then he said, "There are nine of them?"
"Uh-huh."
"How long did it take you to paint them?"
"I painted the first one here in Meadow Valley, when I was staying with Jenna, at the beginning of October."
He glowered at her. "Right after you sent me away."
She let the implied accusation pass and stuck to the issue. "Yes. And I finished the ninth one in L.A., in early April, about a month before I left for Wyoming."
He drank from his wineglass and set it down. His expression had softened. "I guess that means I was on your mind a lot, all those months."
"Yes, Logan, you were." She cut a bite of meat, concentrating on the small task, then glanced up through her lashes at him. "You know that you were."
His eyes were very dark. "You were on my mind, too."
"I'm glad." She waited, thinking, It's going to happen now. He's going to actually get the words out. He's going to say that he loves me.
But the moment passed. He watched her with desire, with tenderness, with a hint of exasperation—and with what she knew to be love.
He just didn't say it.
"Why are you telling me now?" he asked quietly. She poked the bite of meat into her mouth and chewed, thinking, Well, what did I expect? The man is hardheaded, but he's certainly no fool.
So what now? She could lie and keep her little secret to herself. He might never have to know.
But if Xavier or Belinda Goldstone did call…
So much for her secret.
She finished chewing. He waited, his eyes never leaving her face.
She swallowed. "You remember the artist I went to L.A. to study under? I think I talked about him a little, last September."
Logan thought for a minute. "Hockland, right? Xavier Hockland."
"Yes, Xavier Hockland. He called, the day before yesterday with some good news … or it could be good news."
Logan had set his fork down again, but he didn't speak. He was waiting for her to tell him whatever it was she had to say.
She sucked in a breath. "Xavier had lunch with a certain very well-known art dealer, Belinda Goldstone, a few days ago. She'd heard about the paintings—through the grapevine, you could say. She asked to see them. He wanted my permission to show them to her."
"Xavier Hockland has the paintings?"
"No, they're at Barnaby Cole's. I've told you about Barnaby, haven't I? He's a friend. He has a big loft. Downtown. And Xavier wanted to take Belinda Goldstone there, to see them."
"And?"
"And I said yes, that it was fine with me if Xavier showed her my paintings."
"What else?"
"Nothing else. Yet."
"A reputable art dealer wants to see some of your paintings. You gave Xavier Hockland permission to show them to her. And that's all."
"Yes," she said. "That's all. As of now. Naturally, I'm hoping more will come of it."
"Like what?"
She realized she couldn't read him. He seemed distant. Or at least he had in the past few moments. Distant and a little bit cold. S
trange. She'd anticipated that he might be distant and cold, even angry with her, when he learned of the existence of the paintings. But she never would have guessed that this other bit of news would upset him.
"Logan. What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Just tell me. What exactly are you hoping for?"
His disdainful tone grated. She answered with heat. "What do you think I'm hoping for? That Belinda Goldstone will want to hang my paintings in her gallery, that I'll have a major show and that the show will sell out. What do we all hope for, Logan? Appreciation. Acceptance. To get paid and paid well for the work that we've done."
He was sitting very still. "You're angry," he said.
She pushed her plate away. "No. Yes. It means a lot to me, that's all, that someone like Belinda Goldstone wants to see my work. I'd like to think that you're pleased for me. But you don't seem pleased. You don't seem pleased at all."
"I am pleased."
She stared at him across the table, wanting to believe him, but not quite able to.
He slid his napkin in at the side of his plate and pushed his chair back. "Lace…" His eyes pleaded. His tone was gentle again.
Her heart went to mush.
She let her shoulders droop. "I guess I am a little sensitive about this."
In two long strides he was beside her, taking her hand, pulling her up and into his waiting arms. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he stroked her hair. "I didn't mean to hurt you…"
She wrapped her arms around him, pressed herself close. "It's okay. Never mind. You're right. Nothing's really happened yet, anyway. And it could very well turn out that nothing will."
He tipped her chin up and his mouth came down to cover hers. With a low moan, she slid her arms around his neck.
A few minutes later, they went upstairs.
* * *
The next day was Sunday. Logan didn't have to work. They spent a long, lazy morning reading the Sunday papers in bed, with Rosie between them, gurgling and cooing and waving her tiny, plump hands above the blankets.
THE M.D. SHE HAD TO MARRY Page 13
