Isabelle wondered what Bella had seen or knew about her mother’s drug addiction. It wasn’t Isabelle’s place to interfere or pass judgment. But she did want to get to know this little girl better. “I’m sure your mother loves you and misses you.”
“No she doesn’t. She told me she never loved me. I asked her.”
Isabelle’s hand flew to her mouth. She wanted to scream. “She said that?”
“Uh-huh. She didn’t want Michael and she didn’t want me. She said we got in the way.”
This time, Isabelle reached out to touch Bella’s hand. “Bella, sometimes people say things they don’t mean. Your mother was—is—sick. Maybe now she can get some help. She’ll get better.”
“I don’t care. I don’t ever want to see her. I want to stay with Dad.”
The magnitude of Scott’s quick decision hit Isabelle. Bella didn’t think of him as a foster parent or temporary guardian. He was her world.
And how could one take that kind of security and hope away from a child? She knew Scott well enough to be sure he wouldn’t turn his back on Bella or Michael. He was a generous man. A man of his word.
When he’d taken Bella and Michael home, he’d signed on for a lifetime. “He’s a good dad, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He tells us that we’re special to him.”
“Well, you are special to him. All children are special.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Bella, they should be. You know, I have five younger brothers and sisters. They’re grown up now, but when they were little, they were special to me. They still are.” The words came out of her mouth before she could think them through. Her mother had told her once that when that happened, it was her heart speaking. Isabelle held her breath, wondering if she’d actually meant what she said. Her siblings’ faces floated through her mind. She’d always thought they were a burden. But were they?
“I’m glad you’re not a mother,” Bella said, putting her other hand on top of Isabelle’s. The edges of her mouth turned up, but only slightly. Not enough to show love, but just enough to reveal promise.
“Why’s that?”
“Because maybe you won’t go away,” Bella replied with a catch in her voice that told Isabelle she was clutching at hope. Isabelle wasn’t about to destroy it.
“I’m not going anywhere, Bella. Scott and I have been friends for a long, long time. You’ll see. All our friends here are very close. We take care of each other. That’s the way it is with us.”
Bella shook her head. “I’ve only been here a short time. We came from—another town. There was another before that. I can’t remember.”
“You moved a lot?”
“Yes. But I don’t like walking along the highway much.”
Isabelle realized they must have hitchhiked across the state. She could only imagine what this child had been through.
Isabelle spoke softly and hoped to reassure her. “Everything is going to be okay, now.”
“That’s what Dad said.”
Isabelle wondered what promises Scott had made to Bella. Was he thinking to petition the court for legal guardianship? And how long would something like that last? What about the legal rights of the mother? When she got out of jail, surely she’d want her kids back. Where would that leave Bella and Michael—not to mention Scott?
Isabelle patted the bed with the suitcase. “I think we should get your things packed. You have a new home to go to. That’s very exciting.”
Bella stared at the suitcase. “I don’t like moving.”
“I understand. But you know what? This time it will be different. Scott is there for you. And you have a new grandma—”
“And you, Miss Isabelle? Will you be there, too?”
“Well, no. I have my own apartment and I live by myself. But I’ll come visit.”
Bella shook her head, blond hair ruffling around her stricken face. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Why?”
“I’m sorry you don’t have anyone. I’m an orphan.” She leveled her eyes on Isabelle. “I saw it in a movie. Orphans don’t have anyone.”
“But I told you. I have a big family. Lots of people.”
“Oh.” Bella touched Isabelle’s cheek and peered deeply into her eyes. “I couldn’t tell.”
* * *
ISABELLE SPENT THE REST of the afternoon helping Theresa pack the kitchen, clean it and load boxes onto the truck. She helped buckle Michael into his car seat in the back of Scott’s new minivan and she promised Bella she would follow them to their new house.
Bella wanted to show Isabelle her bedroom, which she would have all to herself. Isabelle got the impression the little girl was anxious about sleeping alone. She’d always slept with her brother, often in the same room as their mother, as well.
Scott’s Craftsman-style bungalow was across the street and a few houses down from Cate and Trent’s place. The paint was faded and peeling in places. The windows were dirty, but Isabelle spotted a lovely beveled glass front door. The concrete front steps had recently been patched along what looked like a crack.
“I see you’ve done some work already,” Isabelle said.
“I did quite a few things. Zoey Phillips sent an inspection guy out here from DCS to go over the place.”
“And?”
“There are a few more repairs, but I showed them the work orders and once the jobs are finished, they’ll run a final check.”
Though the sun was starting to fade in the west, Isabelle could see a few shingles were missing. The gutters were full of leaves and needed paint. The hardy evergreens around the front porch softened the sense of neglect. All in all it still looked like it needed a lot of work.
“Good thing it was a bargain,” Isabelle mumbled, shaking her head. “I’m worried it’s going to be a lot of work. Plus you have the bookshop, the kids, your column...”
Scott came up from behind her, holding Michael in one arm. Bella kept in step with him, never veering more than a few inches from his side.
His expression had lost some of its previous enthusiasm. “Told you it needed some work.”
“It needs a wrecking ball.”
“I thought of that, too.” He laughed. “But we’ll be fine. As time goes on, I may renovate. I mean, beyond the necessary fixes.”
She gaped at him. “You? Seriously?”
“Why not?” he replied, taking Bella’s hand. “I want the best for my family.” He walked up the porch steps.
His family?
She hustled after him.
While Scott unlocked the front door, Luke, Austin and Trent started unloading the truck.
“I came over earlier and turned up the heat, made sure the lights and plumbing were working, I’ve moved a few things,” Scott said as he led Isabelle inside.
Now Isabelle could see why Scott had chosen the house. The living and dining rooms were large; the wood floors were solid, though they needed refinishing. There were three bedrooms, a large main bath and a master bath at the back. The kitchen wasn’t large enough to eat in, but if Scott renovated it, he could install a banquette cove. There were no appliances, only a marvelous white porcelain sink that was original to the house along with the glass-door cabinets that ringed the room.
Propped on the counter was a framed certificate for First Aid and CPR along with two workbooks from the DCS. Scott had been doing his foster parent homework.
The sound of Michael’s laughter drew her attention to the children. Turning, she saw Bella with her arms outstretched, head thrown back, whirling around in the middle of the living room, laughing and spinning until she was so dizzy she couldn’t stand up. She plopped down in the middle of the floor.
“Where do you want these boxes?” Trent asked, coming through the front door.
�
�Against the wall in the dining room,” Scott said, then told Isabelle, “I better help. Can you watch the kids?”
“Uh...”
“Thanks!” Scott bounded outside.
Bella took off running down the hallway to the bedrooms. “Miss Isabelle, do we get to pick our own rooms?”
Michael shot around Isabelle’s legs and followed his sister. He pointed to the first room as if claiming it. The pacifier in his mouth twitched and jiggled, and his eyes twinkled. “Da!” He shot into the room.
“Looks like you get the other room,” Isabelle said.
Bella frowned. “I wanted that one. It has a tree outside the window.”
“I think Michael should have it,” Isabelle said as she peered into the opposite room. “This room has southern light. That’s a good thing.”
“Why?”
“Because all winter long you can watch the sun climb higher in the sky, and it will warm your room right up. Southern sun has more yellow to it in the winter.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m an artist,” Isabelle explained as Bella considered this.
“Oh.”
Michael toddled up and yanked on Isabelle’s coat.
“He wants you to pick him up,” Bella said.
Isabelle bent down and scooped Michael up in her arms. He put his hand on her cheek and took his pacifier out of his mouth with his other hand. His blue eyes focused on hers in such a way that for a moment Isabelle thought he was trying to communicate with her telepathically. His gaze was intense and eerily unnerving. Isabelle didn’t remember any of her siblings looking at her like this. He didn’t move his little hand, but rather increased the pressure of his fingers as if holding her face still for him.
Short of Malcolm assessing her paintings, she’d never experienced such scrutiny.
“Is he talking yet?” Isabelle asked, both out of curiosity and to break his deep stare.
“He talks,” Bella said. “He learns something new every day.”
Michael leaned closer and pressed his mouth on her cheek.
“He likes you.” Bella offered a smile.
Isabelle smiled back at the baby. “I like you, too, Michael.”
“Love,” he said.
Isabelle felt something warm and liquid in the center of her chest. She thought it was her heart melting.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ISABELLE’S NERVES WERE wound tighter than piano strings as she walked into Whitestone Gallery with the new oil painting Malcolm had requested.
She’d spent far too many hours helping Scott unpack and not enough time tweaking the painting. By the time the rental truck had been unloaded, Sarah had arrived at Scott’s new house with Annie, Timmy and their neighbor Mrs. Beabots, who had brought fresh baked bread, salad and of course her sugar pies. Cate had come over with Danny and a crockpot full of beef and noodles.
They’d sat around on chairs, sofas and the floor, eating from paper plates. Isabelle had noticed that Bella was hesitant around the other children, though they included her in their “kids’ circle” on two rolled-up rugs. Theresa had set up Michael’s high chair and Scott fed him noodles with a plastic spoon like he’d been feeding toddlers all his life.
Isabelle was still astonished at how casually all her friends had adjusted to Scott’s new family. They’d simply opened their arms to Bella and Michael and had drawn them in.
That was it.
Case closed.
Isabelle knew that was the way it should be with friends. Total acceptance. But she couldn’t help her own misgivings and the biting fact that selfishly she missed Scott’s attention. She missed even more than that. When she was with him, she felt a bit more positive and hopeful about everything.
There was no one behind the reception desk.
“Hello? Malcolm?”
No answer.
Then she spotted the sign saying the receptionist would return in ten minutes. She shrugged and carried her painting over to an empty pedestal near the door where it would not be in anyone’s way.
She sighed. Time really had gotten away from her. It would be easy to blame Scott, his move, the kids, but the truth was, she’d chosen to help him.
Now she was behind schedule, and her painting wasn’t where it needed to be.
There was no way she’d get three paintings finished for Malcolm by the spring show’s opening on the first of March.
Mercifully, Malcolm had offered to critique her work in progress. The only problem was that he’d only been able to squeeze her in today, Valentine’s Day. Olivia’s wedding to Rafe Barzonni was at five thirty at St. Mark’s Church.
She hated that she’d been so immersed in her painting that she hadn’t been available for Olivia. Thankfully, all her girlfriends understood what was at stake for her. They had always cheered her on and told her how much they believed in her.
Her eyes slid to the snow outside. If these bothersome fat flakes didn’t let up, they would impede her return to Indian Lake in time for the wedding.
Isabelle had always prided herself on her preparedness. It would have been impossible to raise five siblings and help her mother without being organized and armed with several backup plans at all times.
Isabelle was almost smug about the fact that she’d packed her bridesmaid’s dress, shoes, jewelry and makeup in the car.
She glanced toward her parking space and gasped at the winter wonderland developing outside the window. “Oh, come on. The weather app said thirty percent chance of flurries,” she groused.
“Those things are never accurate.”
Isabelle whirled around. “Wes!”
She’d said his name with far too much enthusiasm, she realized too late. He was dressed head-to-toe in black, from his wool coat to his black boots. His blue eyes flashed at her and his golden hair gleamed as if burnished with a fresh coat of gold filigree.
How was it possible for a man to radiate this much magnetism? Her heart slammed against her ribs.
I’m acting like a teenager. I need to chill.
“Uh, hi, Wes. How are you?”
“I’m great,” he said, walking toward her with a fluidity that reminded her of a jungle cat. On the prowl.
“I see that.” Had she just said that? Aloud? Her cheeks were on fire. She must be really attractive about now. Burnt to a crisp just looking at him. She wished he wouldn’t give her that look. A person could turn to ash under that kind of scrutiny. Drop dead. Melt.
Then he put his hand on her shoulder, leaned down and kissed her cheek. It wasn’t a light buzz or a peck. He let his lips linger there a moment, and she thought they’d leave a brand on her skin.
Why was she reacting as if she were being kissed by a movie star? A celebrity? It was just Wes.
Then again, he was a celebrity in the art world. She’d read an interview with him in the Chicago Tribune last Sunday. He was articulate about his work, informed, and the rapport he’d created with the interviewer was relaxed and accommodating. She fully expected the journalist to be here the day of the spring opening.
Wes pulled away, leaving the scent of spice, lemon and paint behind.
She teetered in her shoes.
“I’m, um, here to see your uncle,” she choked out.
“I know. He’s been delayed. He sent me.”
She smiled at him.
He smiled back.
She knew she was being obvious.
So much for being professional. He must think I can’t control myself around him. And he’d be right. But what is going on, anyway? Why am I paying more attention to the artist than I am to the art?
He took her arm, cupping her elbow in his strong hand. He held her steady, but his touch was light. Was that how he painted? And what exactly did he paint?
She was dying to see his newest work, but she was too shy to ask. He needed to offer to show her first.
“Malcolm trusts me,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
She pressed her fingertips to her temple. Why was Wes having this effect on her? Maybe it was her precarious balance on this precipice between the life she had in Indian Lake and the art world opening up before her.
Wes seemed to be part of this dream she had for herself, which she’d worked so hard to achieve. An established artist, looking at her as if she had value.
“Malcolm trusts you to...” she prompted him.
“To advise you about your work. Yes. Where is it?”
“There by the door.” She pointed.
He dropped her arm and whooshed past her as if he were saving the painting from a fire. He grabbed it and hoisted it onto an easel then withdrew a box cutter from the receptionist’s desk. He held it up.
“She keeps a drawer full of these.”
After making fast work of unswaddling the canvas, Wes stood back and studied the painting. “You’re strength is your devotion to detail, and I don’t say that lightly, Isabelle. There’s something sacred in each water droplet. Each star. I noticed it in your watercolors. With watercolor your strokes are graceful and fluid, yet the renderings are meticulous. You have an extraordinary gift.”
The improbability of his words caused her throat to close. She was speechless. And humbled. “Thank...you.”
“I mean it,” he said enthusiastically, turning that megawatt smile on to her. “I see what my uncle sees, as well. We also see that perhaps you feel confined by watercolors. That’s why he’s encouraging you to try oils. It’s a new skill set, as any new medium would be. Are you comfortable with it?”
She sighed deeply. “Not yet. I feel like I’ve been thrown into the deep end of the pool and I’m paddling but getting nowhere.”
He put both hands on her shoulders. “That’s just as it should be. If you didn’t feel this way, you’d be terrible at it. You’re a fighter, Isabelle. That’s what I like about you. Admire...” He seemed about to say more, but stopped himself.
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