“Oh, Mom. I love you so much.” Isabelle flung her arms around her mother and rested her head on her shoulder. This time, she didn’t pluck away her tears. She let them flow.
* * *
SCOTT DROVE EAST down the country road toward Connie’s house the next morning. Isabelle had told him that Connie had insisted she spend the past two nights there, instead of her own apartment. It was so rare for Isabelle to stay there, Scott wondered why Connie had been so adamant.
“Hi, Scott!” Connie waved as she came out the front door carrying an insulated bag. Isabelle was behind her, suitcase in hand. Purse and small tote over her shoulder. The woman never traveled light.
He got out of his van and offered to help. “What’s in here?” he asked Connie as he hoisted the bags into the back seat.
“I went to the deli and got some things for Isabelle. She won’t have to cook for a week,” Connie said, glancing back at her daughter.
“Bye, Mom. Thanks for everything.” Isabelle hugged her mother. “This was a good visit.”
“Yes, it was,” Connie replied, smoothing Isabelle’s caramel hair from her cheek and placing a long lock behind her shoulder. “Once that food is gone, you let me know. I’ll have Ross or Dylan drop some more off for you when they head your way.”
“Mom...”
“You’re not eating. Take it.” Her voice dropped an octave; even Scott shuddered when Connie gave orders like that.
“Okay.” Isabelle hugged her again. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. Be careful on that train,” Connie said.
Scott closed the door. “Oh, I’m going to drive her to the city.”
“What?” Isabelle spun to look at him.
He grinned. He wondered if it seemed sincere or phony. “My mom’s got the kids. Violet and Sadie are taking care of the bookstore. You can save your ticket for another time. And you’ll save the Brown Line fare.”
“I take the bus.”
“Better still.” Today, he wasn’t taking no for an answer.
Connie hugged him. “That’s so kind of you, Scott. I always worry about these trains and buses. Isabelle isn’t a city girl, and well...you know.”
“I understand.” He held the passenger door open for Isabelle. “We should go.”
“Bye again, Mom.”
“Bye, honey. I’ll call you tonight.” Connie waved.
Scott honked the horn as they drove away and Isabelle waved one last time to her mother.
“Well.” She turned to him, her voice devoid of the warmth it had held a moment ago. “That was pretty slick.”
“I should’ve called you beforehand and given you some warning, but I had a lot of loose ends to tie up before we left.”
“Take me to the station anyway.”
“No.”
“Scott!” She was mad. Good and mad. And he hadn’t even hit her with the albatross he carried around his neck.
Relentlessly, she pushed on. “What, are you kidnapping me now? This is ridiculous. I’ll be fine on the train.”
“I know you will, but I need to talk to you about something.”
“I know what you want to say.”
“Is that so?”
“I do. You want to talk about me and Wes.” She folded her arms across her chest.
Scott shifted in his seat. He hated feeling this on edge. But then, when hadn’t he been in the dark when it came to Isabelle? She’d turned him down twice for the sake of her art. He supposed he understood that. Sort of. But she wasn’t talking about them anymore. She was talking about another guy.
“Wes.” He said the name flatly, shoved his anger into his foot and hit the gas. It was time they had this talk. He needed to know if she was falling for Wes. If she chose a life with Scott, he would support her artistic side—as he had throughout their friendship. But if Isabelle had chosen her art and chosen Wes, this was Scott’s moment of truth.
“I have to be honest with you, Scott. You’ve always been honest with me.”
He thought of his overnight decision to become a foster dad. The lightning-quick idea to buy a house and redesign his shop. All done without consulting Isabelle. He hadn’t been exactly dishonest. But he hadn’t been open, either.
“Honest.” Scott wondered why the word felt so acidic on his tongue.
“I want you to know that there hasn’t been anything between Wes and me...except for that one kiss.”
“What kiss?” He spun his head to peer at her. The guy was kissing her?
He gripped the steering wheel so hard his fingers turned white. He should have figured on that one. Maybe he just didn’t want to paint that picture in his head. Wes was in Chicago with her. Painting in a studio all day on Saturdays and Sundays. Maybe half the night.
“It was just the one time.”
Apparently, once was enough to turn her head. But what about her heart?
Scott stomped on his temper. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “Look, Isabelle. You’re a free agent. I don’t have a say in your love life.”
“Scott, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I had a long talk with my mother about all this—”
He cut her off. “You told your mother about Wes?”
This was serious. Very serious.
“Yes and she told me not to make any decisions about my personal life right now. I need to focus on my art. I need to learn all that Wes can teach me.”
She went on about Wes and her art and Malcolm’s next showing, but all Scott heard was that she was conflicted about him and another guy. Six months ago, she was sharing pizza with him regularly, painting faeries which looked astoundingly like him.
Isabelle kept rambling and Scott remained silent, trying to make sense of what she was saying.
He drove through town, circled around the lake and drove up to the Lodges, finding a space in the far parking lot reserved for employees. The lot was nearest to the thickest grove of lily pads and cattails. Spring daffodils poked their heads through the weeds and reeds.
“What are we doing here?” she asked.
“I have to drop off a big order of coffee that Edgar wanted. Just be a minute.” He turned off the engine, but didn’t move.
He crossed his arms over the steering wheel, laid his chin on them and gestured out the windshield with his forefinger.
“I remember the first time you showed me this place. It was spring then, too. We were young—just teenagers. You said it was magical and I didn’t believe you.”
“I’d been going there since I was seven.”
“You told me that,” he said.
She stared out the window but remained silent.
He hoped she was remembering.
“You told me how you would walk out there barefoot and peek between the lily pads and reeds. You said you saw a water sprite just the day before. You took my hand and showed me where to look, but I didn’t see a thing. But you did. That’s when I knew that the magic was in you, Isabelle. You were born with that gift.”
“I’ve seen them since I was a child,” she said softly, not taking her eyes from the view.
“I know. I never doubted you for a minute.”
She turned slowly to face him. “And now?”
“Nothing’s changed. Whatever you’ve wanted to do, you’ve done. I still want you to stretch and grow like you always have. And yet, everything has changed. Now another man is encouraging you, too. Maybe he knows more than me—I mean, I know he knows more about art. But I’m not sure he knows more about Isabelle.”
Scott realized he’d been wrong not to press her for a commitment years ago. He hadn’t told her how much he wanted a family and then he’d made huge life decisions without including her. His actions had broadcasted one thing to Isab
elle: she didn’t matter to him.
But nothing was further from the truth. He wanted her, loved her more than ever, and now she was slipping away. One brush stroke at a time. “Isabelle, all I ask is that you remember who you are.” He gestured to the lily pads. “You’re a part of Indian Lake that no one else can claim.”
“I know.” She lowered her head. “But I’m better than this. You’ll see. I can be so much more.”
“I believe in you, Isabelle.” Without another thought in his head he placed his hands on her either side of her face and kissed her. He wanted this to be the kiss that seared through her dreams at night. If she ever kissed Wes again, he hoped it was this kiss she’d remember.
When he pulled back, she kept her eyes closed.
“Scott...”
He kissed her again, as if he were going off to war and might not come back alive. It was a kiss filled with all the love in his heart. A kiss that words could not describe.
This time when he withdrew from her, she pierced him with her smoky green eyes.
“Scott. Take me to the station. Please. I need to clear my head.”
You need to clear your heart of Wes.
“Sure. I’m very happy for you, Isabelle. This show will be your ticket to stardom.” He started the engine. “Maybe it’s best I do take you to the train station,” he said.
“It would be best,” she agreed.
Scott had meant what he’d said. He would always, always want the best for her. He loved her enough to let her go. If she came back to him, then he would know she would never stop loving him.
He pulled up to the South Shore.
“Isabelle, there’s one last thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Promise me that I’m the last guy you’ll kiss today.”
She smiled softly, leaned over and kissed his cheek. “What a silly promise,” she said, opening the door. “Bye, Scott.”
“Bye,” he replied and watched her race to meet the incoming train.
She got on board without looking back. The train pulled away quickly. It had schedules to keep.
This train was taking Isabelle toward her future. He sensed that the gallery show would be successful for her. She was about to achieve all she’d worked so long and hard for.
The train had sped away and was now a speck disappearing into the horizon.
Scott felt the moments of his life with Isabelle funnel into the hollows of his heart where they would become memories of what he once had. And had lost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TUESDAY AFTERNOON MALCOLM made a surprise visit to the studio, interrupting her work. As far as Isabelle was concerned, nothing good could come from an unscheduled critique.
“Isabelle. Lovely to see you.” Malcolm rushed toward her, his suit coat open and flapping in the wind he created with his always-theatrical entrances and exits.
“Malcolm. How was Barcelona?”
“Enchanting. Paris was riveting and Florence—ah!” He clasped his hands in front of him. “I lost my shirt on the Florence deal.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am.” He walked around her. “Now, Wes tells me you’ve been busy. By the way, where is my nephew?”
Isabelle had just started a new piece, one she’d felt a particular inspiration to paint.
Spring fever had caused Isabelle to think about her faeries again. But she wanted to push open that door to her own mind and communicate the love and freedom she’d felt when she first envisioned her water sprites years and years ago. She wanted to capture their green-and-blue eyes. Happy eyes. Hope-filled eyes. That’s how she liked to look at life, but she’d lost that perspective lately. She hoped the painting would help her regain it.
“Wes is with his prospective client,” she replied, placing a tube of azure blue paint on the bench. “We didn’t expect you.”
“I like to surprise my protégé.” He smiled greedily as he looked from the canvas to a half dozen wooden painter’s palettes smeared with the oils she’d been combining. “Did you mix these?” he asked, walking over to the bench and inspecting them.
“I did.” Isabelle felt the same barbed nerves she’d experienced the day of the gallery showing. Malcolm was not there as her friend, but as her investor and her biggest critic. She braced herself.
“Interesting hues. You’re painting water again?”
“No. The eyes of the water sprites.”
With his hands clasped behind his back he straightened. The gaze he leveled on her felt like a blast of autumn wind off Indian Lake. “I love it already,” he cried. “L-O-V-E! My nephew has helped you turn a corner, hasn’t he?”
“Yes. He has,” she said, the joy of accomplishment leaping inside her. The last time Malcolm had inspected her work, he hadn’t been all that pleased. Of course, at this point he was only looking at the colors she’d mixed. Not the finished product. It was probably best not to let her joy go to her head.
“Wes suggested that I concentrate on surrealism for this piece rather than expressionism. And I’m doing it in oil. I have a raw sketch—”
Malcolm waved his palms in the air as if warding off a swarm of gnats. “Goodness no. I have to experience the finished product. Let your genius flow. Hmm?” His eyes were round with anticipation.
He put his hand on her shoulder and with a grave expression, he said, “Isabelle, I’m counting on you tomorrow. I have clients who are known to support emerging talent. They can’t afford Wes anymore, and honestly—” his chuckle was laced with arrogance “—who can?”
Realization struck her like a strange kick in the head as she listened to Malcolm talk. So, this was what he had in mind all along? For her to be a poor man’s Wes? She was intended to be his clone. Was it like this for other unknown artists in her position? It didn’t matter. She’d seen through the illusion and now she had to make a choice.
She was here. All she had to do was bring the vision in her head and the emotion in her heart together in a symphonic blend of color on a canvas.
She could do this, and she didn’t give a hoot if the buyers were looking for rummage sale bargains; she’d give them prestigious collectors’ items.
“I won’t disappoint you, Malcolm.” She flashed her green eyes confidently.
“I believe you won’t.”
* * *
FIRST SHOWINGS WERE nerve-wracking, Isabelle realized, but this second show was a mindbender. The first time around, she’d displayed work she’d been creating for years. This show was all about her advancement and her ability to produce on deadline. Unfortunately for her, Malcolm had been praising her abilities to clients, critics and the social media. She felt like a monkey in a zoo.
She was about to jump out of her skin.
She wore a pearl gray sheath dress with a chambray duster over it. In her ears were long narrow slivers of Arizona turquoise and sterling silver. She’d washed her hair twice and conditioned it with a protein pack. She wanted it to shine like one of her faerie’s tresses. But all her attention to her attire did nothing to quell her nerves.
It didn’t help that Wes was late. She could have used some encouragement.
Malcolm was reserved as he, too, wove through the crowd of art buyers, explaining Wes’s new commissioned paintings, expounding on the bargain prices for his smaller canvases at only ten thousand dollars each.
“Oh, Isabelle,” she grumbled. “You are so naive. This isn’t about you. This is about you making money for them. They care about the overall show. Get a grip. Toughen up.”
This time, Malcolm had allowed her to hang her new work in the same room, but to display them as she pleased. She was happiest with the painting of lifelike swirls of blues and greens that depicted the ripples in the lake on a summer day, a dragonfly darting
over the surface. The artistic stretch was groundbreaking enough that, even now, chills shot down her spine.
Malcolm had pressured her to produce as many pieces as possible, and when she’d first started, she’d been so unsure of herself. Wes had told her he actually couldn’t work without deadlines. Now she knew what he meant. She’d painted five works. Four were in acrylic. One in oil. The oil would command a higher price and was the one Malcolm had the most enthusiasm for. However, Isabelle knew that in the very commercial art world, acrylic paintings like hers could sell well over a thousand dollars. Granted she didn’t have a name in the marketplace yet, but she would.
She cocked her head as she inspected her painting of a water sprite swirling inside a funnel of aquamarine water as she rose above the lake. This painting was important to Isabelle because the faerie’s heart was broken.
Just like mine.
Each time she’d seen Scott, and then left him, their parting had been bittersweet. She knew she’d come back for his party or see him again around town.
Wouldn’t she?
What if this new life didn’t allow her to split time between Chicago and Indian Lake? What if she was offered an opportunity that would take her to the East Coast? The West? Would she go with it?
Or would she stay?
Right now, she felt like her faerie, dancing on slippery rocks, with high winds of change swirling around her.
Yes, she’d been painting her broken heart.
And Scott had broken it.
Or had he?
Up till now, all she’d focused on was a gallery showing. She hadn’t explored the possibilities for her life after her acceptance into the art world. That was the rock that tripped her.
“Don’t you look anxious?” Wes said, slipping up behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked at her display. “Great job. They’ll love it.”
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