THE ART OF LOVE
Chapter 1
The snowflakes fell gentle and unhurried on the pasture, illuminated by the harsh glare of the moon. The scene made for an interesting paradox; the landscape felt forlorn, but the flakes came from Heaven, where life both ended and began. It was a calm and still night, with barely a trace of wind and little more than her thoughts for company. She exhaled on the glass and drew a face with the tip of her index finger, two eyes and a smiling line for the mouth.
Taylor Holt leaned against the window seat and pulled the wool blanket a little more snugly around her shoulders. She was unprepared for this harsh Wyoming winter for many reasons, and few of them had to do with the climate. She pulled herself away from the window long enough to meander around her childhood room, searching for something to control her long, dark brown hair. She found a hairband in the nightstand and made quick work of it, letting it fall down the middle of her back. She’d been born with her father’s hair, eyes, and coloring. Her mother, Alice, was fair-haired and blue-eyed, whereas Taylor had locks that bordered on black, accompanied by deep green eyes. Her mother had oftentimes said that green eyes were the best kind, for they always carried the air of mystery. Taylor didn’t know if that was true, but she also didn’t dispute her mother, who was the only person she had left in the entire world.
As if sensing her daughter’s thoughts via extrasensory perception, Alice Holt placed her knuckles against the door. “Come in,” Taylor prompted immediately.
Alice was nearly seventy, but still moved with the calm poise of a much younger woman, and had retained her naturally pale blonde hair, curled and styled around her face. Her visage was pleasantly lined, sweet and friendly and full of kindness. “I made some tea and I poured you a cup, sweetie. I hope you won’t mind.”
Taylor nodded in the soft lamplight, and her mother walked slowly toward her. She took the teacup and saucer and smiled. “Did you sweeten it?” she asked unnecessarily.
“Of course.” Alice smiled and placed a hand over her heart. The circumstances were less than ideal, but she was glad to have her only child home again. “Are you settling in okay?”
Both women glanced around at the stacks of boxes, some of which had been emptied. Others sat waiting to be opened. A few more that Taylor found painful to even touch. “I guess. I was sitting at the window, watching the snow fall outside.”
“Your father always loved the snow. I couldn’t figure out how anyone could enjoy hiking through knee-deep snow to feed the cattle, but he did.” Taylor smiled in remembrance. The cattle and horses were long gone now. The barn was empty. A neighbor cut the yard as needed. Life went on, with no regard to carefully made plans and handspun dreams. Taylor sipped at her tea and listened as her mother recounted their final Christmas together as a family. “Two feet of snow! I’ll never forget that as long as I live.”
“Me neither, Mom.” Taylor resumed her seat by the window, and Alice joined her. Both women stared outside for a length of time, saying nothing. There wasn’t much that needed to be said. Finally Taylor emptied her cup and her mother took it without preamble. She stood but didn’t make a move to leave.
“I’m glad you’re here, sweetie. I would rather—I mean, if I had the power, you’d still be back in your old life, but I guess things don’t work that way. You can pray to Him, but you can’t bargain with God. I’ve tried.” Taylor barely turned toward her mother and gave her a questioning stare. Alice simply smiled. “In spite of all of that came before, I am glad to have my little girl home again.” She closed the door and left her daughter in silence.
After a few more minutes of watching the snow pile up, Taylor stood, squared her shoulders, and continued her work. Each box required something, and they all seemed to chip away at her resolve, silently taunting her. Open me, open me! The first few were easy enough. Within minutes she’d gotten all of her clothes squared away in the closet, save for a pile that would be better served at the Goodwill donation box. She found her college diploma and hung it on the wall; her mother hadn’t altered her room over the years, and it slotted easily under the one from high school.
The box filled with albums and framed photos was harder. Many of them depicted a family in happier times and stirred up a hornet’s nest of emotions. She placed a large photo of Riley near a photo of her father. To the arrangement she added one of herself along with Liam and Riley on the latter’s third birthday. That was a happy time, and she felt warm inside when she remembered their life together. It had been a great one; even if it wasn’t what she’d expected or planned, she had been joyful beyond her wildest dreams. She placed the rest of the photos in a drawer; three was enough for now, situated atop the bureau.
A few of the boxes confounded her; she wasn’t quite sure why she’d saved her college textbooks. What a heavy thing to drag cross-country, her brain muttered. She lifted a well-worn American History textbook from the pile and thumbed through its pages. Pressed into the binding for the past ten years, nearly stuck to the page, was a forgotten image: Taylor with her high-school boyfriend, her first love, at the Labor Day Rodeo. Her Western shirt was patterned with red and blue checks, designed to match his chaps. They complemented each other in every way possible, and his arm was so tight around her that they might as well have been a married couple. It was hard to believe they’d ever fallen apart. And that was her fault, of course. Years after the fact, she regretted the way she’d lost her golden-haired, blue-eyed cowboy. It was worth the guilt, she reminded herself, to have known Riley’s love.
She surveyed the clean room, praised herself, and said goodnight to Alice before hitting the shower and climbing into bed. She dreamed of Liam, of Riley, and of the life she’d had back in New York. The dream ended the same as it always did, with an intense pain twisting her guts inside out.
She didn’t cry, though. And that was a welcome change.
***
“Perfect.”
Chandler Adams stared at his reflection in the glass, breathed on it, and wiped it clean again. He’d spent every spare moment lately on his storefront. He’d devoted hours to removing the unnecessary doors and partitions, leaving only an office and washroom in the back. Everything had been given a fresh coat of white paint, bright enough to hurt his eyes. It would undoubtedly make a great backdrop for his artwork.
The past several months had been the most prolific of his young life. He didn’t have much free time between ranch and family, but prior to buying the building he’d expended a lot of energy creating paintings of varying shapes, sizes, and subject matters. He’d pushed himself to work harder at portraits and candid images rather than his usual landscapes. Those landscapes had served him well, and would continue to do so, but lately he’d completed a series highlighting his nephew, Max, as well as more than a few animal studies. He’d dragged them out of the storeroom at the bunkhouse and carted them to town. The piles covered his office, leaving a pathway wide enough to access the stairs to the second-floor apartment, which ran the full footprint of the building. It was spare and simple, just the basics needed to live while he got this place in order. He also had a house waiting for him back at the ranch, and it required some of its own renovations. He shook his head; another project for another time.
In the meantime, the stack of paintings had shrunk. A few tourists who remembered him from the rodeo circled back through town and called him up immediately, taking off his hands a room-sized portrait he’d painted up at his family’s lake house. They’d passed his name along to some of their friends and he quickly realized the importance of networking. It was amazing, he thought, that subjects so close to his own heart—the land, the people, and the subtle ways God show
ed His influence over both—could speak so clearly to others when rendered on canvas.
He was staring out the window, into the oblivion of his mind—or, more accurately, Main Street—when boot heels clicked the floor behind him.
“Falling in love with your reflection, Narcissus?” He glanced back over his shoulder and grinned at his sister-in-law, Alison, whom he’d convinced to inhabit the space next door. Alison was married to his older brother, CJ, and his sister, Christa, was married to Alison’s brother, Mark. Chandler loved telling people about his in-laws and watching their eyes go crossed. Alison had pushed aside her dream of running a store for her entire marriage, but with both kids in school CJ had been actively encouraging her to follow her heart.
If Chandler’s space had been designed as a blank canvas, then Alison had intended the opposite with hers. It had been painted in a warm series of hues, designed to welcome in the outside world and encourage customers to shop awhile or even sit and chat. If Alison had been in it for the money rather than the pleasure of running a business, she might have discouraged loitering. Instead she designed it as a family-friendly, kid-friendly space, which was apt since so many of both would be running around there. It was identical to Chandler’s space, save for the middle dividing wall. A door connected the two offices in the back, and a staircase led to a basement storeroom.
“I was just trying to make this place look perfect,” he explained gratuitously.
She grabbed her long brown hair in one hand and pulled it over her right shoulder. “It looks great,” she responded with a smile. “The only problem is that you haven’t hung up one single painting. For all anyone walking by knows, this place is abandoned.”
“I hung up my shingle.”
“Yeah,” she joked, “and now you gotta build a house to go with it. Listen, I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
He shook his head. “You’ve got plenty to keep you busy.”
“Please.” She aimed her thumb at the wall. “I’m fully stocked and ready to open. I’m just waiting on you to pull the trigger.”
“I’d really like to hire a salesperson first, someone to handle the front door.”
“How long’s that ad been in the paper?”
“Two weeks.”
“And still nothing?”
Chandler cleared his throat. “I’m looking for some previous experience here. Someone who actually knows how keep tabs on things.”
“Most men would enjoy the attention, the flirtation,” Alison teased. “You seem to hate it.”
“A man would be crazy to hate it.” He winked at her. “It’s just not that good for business. I don’t want to look like an amateur here. This is my career, and my future that I’m banking on.”
Alison moved close and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to worry so much, kid. Everyone’s proud of you.” She scanned the bare walls again. “Want me to send CJ down this way to help you out?”
He laughed and shook his head. “No, Alison, I’ll get it straightened out.”
“Okay.” She nodded in acceptance. “Don’t be such a stranger on the ranch. The kids miss you already.”
“I miss those little monkeys, too. How is Little Chase liking first grade?”
Alison lifted an eyebrow. “Some days are better than others. He doesn’t understand why there’s no unit devoted to studying horses.”
Chandler laughed. “Sounds about right. And Bree?”
“Smartest kid in the history of preschool.” She frowned. “Sorry, that sounded prideful. She’s doing well. They both are.”
“I’ll try to drop by this weekend. Weather permitting.” He looked out the window at the dirty snow that had been plowed away from the streets. “CJ didn’t have a problem with you coming in today?”
“Please.” Alison walked toward the middle room of the gallery and glanced back at her brother-in-law. “If necessary, he would have scraped the road himself.”
Chandler laughed at the mental picture he conjured and wished Alison a safe trip home. He was alone again, with all of his thoughts, anxieties, concerns—and, as always, his brushes and paints. He cleared the room of his cleaning supplies and headed back to the office to close out the day. Alison was right, of course—and tomorrow would be the day he’d stop fooling around and finally stick some paintings on the wall.
***
Taylor awoke from her slumber and yawned. She felt rested, refreshed, but no less anxious as it hit home one more time that she was back in Wyoming. It wasn’t the worst place in the world to be, but sometimes reality hit hard. She slipped from under the covers and into her robe—she was still habituating to the cold mountain air—and ambled into the kitchen, where Alice was sipping coffee and completing her crossword puzzle for the day.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she said, smiling but not removing her eyes from the paper. “There’s ham and eggs on the stove.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Taylor grabbed a warm plate from inside the oven and served herself. She ate quietly while her mother finished the crossword and smiled, satisfied with her work. She took a drink from her coffee and glanced across the table at her daughter.
“Plans for today?”
She chewed and thought on it for a few minutes. “I was thinking about looking for a job. Do you know if there’s a temp agency in town?”
Alice shook her head. “I don’t think there is, but I have been perusing the newspaper for listings these past few weeks, since you first told me you were coming back home.” She smiled, somewhat warily, as though she worried the expression might be inappropriate. “I circled one that seems perfect for you, T.”
Taylor grabbed the paper carefully and looked down at the classifieds. She read aloud what her mother had circled, dissecting the words as she spoke them. “Help Needed: Someone with extensive computer knowledge and customer service experience to help run small-town gallery. Résumé preferred but not a prerequisite; apply within.” This was followed by an address and a set of phone numbers. “It’s right on Main Street,” she murmured, “so that’s good. Is it a new business?”
“I think so,” Alice rejoined. “I’m not sure it’s even open yet, if they’re still in the market for someone to work the front desk. My computer is hooked up and the printer is full of paper if you need to work on a résumé.”
“I believe there’s a current one in my email,” Taylor postulated. “I just hope I have enough experience.” She frowned. “A gallery? Here?”
“Small-town folks love arts and crafts, too,” Alice responded. “And appreciate their value more than most, I’d imagine.”
Taylor smiled at her mother, who never failed to surprise her with the depth of her insight—or her kindness, for that matter. She only wished she’d been so blessed. “Thanks, Mom. You’ve taken the guesswork out of this already. I’ll get dressed and head down there as soon as possible.”
She stood and kissed Alice on the forehead as she raced from the room. “Good luck, dear,” she called after her daughter. “Although I don’t think you’ll need it,” she added under her breath, smiling softly to herself.
Taylor showered, dried her hair, and rummaged in the closet until she found a navy skirt and matching jacket. She looked herself up and down in the mirror and paused. Maybe it was too soon to pursue a job. Should she take the time to rediscover herself first, spend extra time with her mother? What was it that she truly wanted?
She sighed. Life was too short to second-guess anything, even something as simple as a job interview. She headed straight for the computer, appreciative that her mother had taken the effort to scan the classifieds that morning. She’d have to stand on her own two feet soon, but for now it was nice to have someone to give her a slight push.
Chapter 2
Chandler spent the morning eyeballing measurements and securing fasteners to the walls. He hung up one large canvas, checked it with a level, and stood back, satisfied with his work. He worked steadily, performing the same checks with each canvas, until hi
s pile shrunk down to nothing. His diligence paid off; he finally had something to present, if not to the public, then at least to family. He clambered back to the office, making a mental note of how many canvases were left, and wondering whether or not they’d all fit in the front room. Of course, they would all be available for viewing online. Hmm, he deliberated—do I need to paint faster?
If demand exceeded supply, well, he figured that wasn’t a bad problem to have.
Taylor stopped on the sidewalk outside and looked up at the sign—simple, with red letters spelling the word ART on a white background. Through the large glass windows she saw nothing but a stark white interior, devoid of anything but a reception counter in the middle of the room. Yeah, she thought, Help Needed was the right thing to post in the classifieds. She inhaled deeply, gave herself a pep talk, and opened the door. It closed silently behind her but for whatever reason, the owner was quickly alerted to her presence. She moved to the counter and stood rigid and upright, feeling as nervous as a fat hog at a barbeque.
“Just a minute!” she heard a familiar, purely masculine voice call out. She chewed on her lower lip. Why would that voice sound familiar? She caught the sound of something clattering to the floor, a sliver of an expletive, and watched him emerge into view.
Chandler froze when he saw her, and noted that she did the same. The world seemed to turn sideways as he took in her face, the first woman to ever break his heart, the woman he’d never really expected to see again.
“Taylor Holt,” he said in reverence. His mouth hung open inanely as he stood there, and Chandler quickly yanked off his hat and circled the brim nervously between his fingers. “I mean, McCook. Taylor McCook.”
“Chandler.” Her face reddened and she found herself at a loss for words. He’d always had that effect on her, the boy whose face seemed to have been carved on Mount Olympus. Why he’d ever taken notice of her in high school was beyond her comprehension. He could have had any girl in their class, in the school. Yet he’d chosen Taylor, or, more accurately, they’d chosen each other. They had each dated others but their relationship was the first serious one of their lives. She hadn’t thought about him much over the years, moving so far away from that life and never expecting it to resurface. But here it was—here he was. A sudden rush of memories warmed her and she swallowed back a surge of emotion. “It’s Holt again,” she clarified after an uncomfortable silence. “I’ve divorced.”
The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) Page 1
