“Do you think so?”
“I do.”
She turned to face him. He was handsome as ever, dressed in a dark blue suit, blue shirt, navy silk tie and black cowboy boots.
“How did it go with the client?”
“Bagged ’em.”
“Everything you do, Wes, is brilliant. It’s no wonder you got a new contract. Malcolm must be over the moon about it,” she said.
“He is.”
“Everything that Malcolm has promised about you, you’ve been able to deliver. I admire that. You work better under pressure than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
He touched her nose and winked. “I was until you came on board. Now I feel I have to keep up with you.”
“Don’t start your flattery—”
“It’s the truth. You’re amazing, Miss Isabelle.” They both turned at the sound of Malcolm’s voice calling them.
“I better go.”
Miss Isabelle. How odd.
Even when Wes said her name, all she heard was Bella’s voice, as if the child were calling to her. But that was crazy.
She looked around the gallery at the increasing number of patrons. The place was packed—even more than the spring show—and yet, no one was buying. True, Wes’s works were pricier this time. Hers were up two hundred dollars a unit from the last show. She gnawed her lower lip. Was Malcolm being too aggressive? Had he priced them out of the market? This was a different crowd, he’d said. Unlike last time, this was an American group. No Europeans or South American collectors had been invited. Malcolm said he was saving them for the summer and autumn shows.
With a shock, Isabelle realized that other than Wes and Malcolm, she didn’t know a single person here. Her entire family had come to her last show. All of her friends. Mrs. Beabots.
Scott and the children.
Bella had been intimidated by the experience, but obviously enthralled.
Isabelle remembered their trip to the studio and the kids’ overactive behavior. Scott had been frustrated, but Isabelle had understood their enthusiasm.
It was second nature to her—being a mom. Being the mother Bella and Michael needed.
She looked back at her painting of the faerie on the rocks. She’d always known how to walk through the shoals over slippery rocks. She’d always known how to give love to a child when he or she needed it. She knew how to put her heart and soul on a piece of canvas and stick it on a wall in a gallery for all the world to see...or for a critic to deride.
She was stronger than she’d ever realized.
Malcolm walked up. “Ah! Isabelle, my beautiful protégé. You look fabulous. Like one of our master paintings,” he said, loud enough for the well-dressed couple nearby to hear him.
She knew he was playing to the crowd. It was a bit overdone, but he was a genius at selling art. They air-kissed.
“How’s it going?” she asked. “The sales I mean.”
“Nothing yet. But it’s early.” He raised his hand in answer to the elegant couple’s signal. “I’m wanted.”
Hmm. It’s not all that early, she thought.
A waiter passed Isabelle with a tray of champagne flutes. “Can I get you something, miss?”
“A water, please. Tall. Very tall.” She smiled. Something told her it was going to be a long afternoon.
For the next hour, people came and went, buying little. Wes spent an abnormally long time with a couple who owned a gallery in New York. The woman was fashionably dressed in current Coco Chanel with more jewelry than Isabelle had even seen on Mrs. Beabots. Isabelle guessed her to be around forty. Her hair was professionally colored with four shades of blond, each swirling into the next like spun gold and honey. She was beautiful and she didn’t take her eyes off Wes from the moment they entered the gallery.
Wes laughed and joked. He seemed unaware of the woman’s interest in him. Isabelle wondered what the man with her thought of her intense focus on Wes.
After another ten minutes, the two men were slapping each other on the back and still laughing. Finally, the man turned to the woman and she nodded.
Isabelle lowered her water glass. The woman held the purse strings. Wes beamed as the woman gave Wes a slow and brazen wink.
As if on cue, Malcolm appeared at their side and shook their hands. Closing the deal was Malcolm’s forte. He was overly enthusiastic and laughed along with them all. They walked to the back hall that led to Malcolm’s office as Wes turned and introduced himself to two male buyers who were admiring the gray-and-blue masterpiece he’d named Odysseus because he felt the pain of a solitary man battling life like a sailor in a maelstrom.
As Wes threw himself into his next sales pitch, Isabelle saw a man walk up to her paintings, which were displayed in a group. “Can I tell you anything about the works?” she asked sweetly.
“No.” He twitched his head from side to side, up and down as if he needed bifocals and was too cheap or afraid to seek an ophthalmologist’s help. “I’m not here to buy.”
Though disappointed she said, “Admiring is fine, too.”
He shifted his gaze to her. “I’m observing, yes. Admiring? Not so much. I’m writing an article on this show.”
“Oh.” Isabelle swallowed hard. She’d been wondering where the critics were. For Malcolm’s last show they’d come early for the food and wine and left late. This time, she hadn’t been able to pick any out. “And you write for...?”
“Arttoday.com,” he replied haughtily.
“I’m so sorry, I haven’t heard of you.”
He eyed her like she was a goldfish in a bowl and he was considering flushing her down the toilet. “I haven’t heard of you either, Miss Hawks.”
She swallowed twice. Once to keep her mind focused so that she wouldn’t sink right through the floor and once to bite back the searing retort on the tip of her tongue. She couldn’t say it if she ever wanted to sell anything again. “I’m...just getting started,” she managed and then regretted her apologetic tone.
She should have walked away. She should have killed him with kindness, but she didn’t. She stood her ground and squared her shoulders. “What can I tell you about the paintings? I’m sure you have questions.”
“I don’t. Not about these, er, yours. But I was wondering if you would introduce me to Wes?”
Isabelle felt as if she were the usher in a large theater, taking tickets and pointing out the proper aisles. She wasn’t the main attraction. She wasn’t even the pre-show. This man wasn’t from Art World or The New Yorker. She’d have to look up the number of followers he had online. He could be a hack himself. And he wanted a favor from her?
She was Malcolm’s protégé and she owed him a great deal. Even if she’d like to escort this man to the front door and kick him to the curb, she could not. “I’d love to,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Gerard Tate.”
The only Tate Isabelle knew was the famous Tate Gallery in London. “Is Malcom expecting you?”
“Not exactly.” He patted his slacks and jacket pockets. “I left my business cards at the hotel.”
“No problem. Come with me, Mr. Tate.”
Isabelle led the way to where Wes was discussing his crimson, gray and amber work. At a break in the conversation, she introduced Gerard Tate.
“Thanks, Isabelle,” Wes said with a nod, indicating she should go back to her station to talk to buyers. Isabelle went back to where her paintings were hanging.
Or had hung.
Two were missing.
Two men rushed up to her. “Are you Isabelle Hawks?” the taller one asked. “Wes said you were here.”
“I am.” She blushed, sensing their enthusiasm. This was a new experience. Someone had asked for her by name.
“We just told Wes we want these three painti
ngs,” the taller man continued. “I love this woman on the rocks. There’s so much movement. I almost can feel the spray on my face.”
“Yes. We’re designing a mid-century modern house in Ogden Dunes overlooking the lake,” his companion added. “We need something incomparable. Something extraordinary. And these colors! You have quite a talent. Your work is perfect for us.”
“I’m flattered,” she replied. “Mr.—”
“How rude of us. Sorry. I’m Andrew Fitzwilliam and this is George Ducaine. We own F&D Design House here in Chicago.” He looked at her as if she should recognize the name.
“Friends of Malcolm,” George added. “We were in St. Moritz during the last show. We heard you sold everything then, as well. What we want to know, Miss Hawks, is whether you’d be willing to create for our clients on demand.”
Isabelle’s jaw dropped open. She wanted to jump for joy, but somehow she managed to keep her feet on the ground. “I could do that,” she said casually, clasping her shaking hands behind her back.
“Here’s our card,” George said, handing a heavy cream business card to her. “Malcolm has all our information.” He took out his iPhone. “Could you give me your cell phone number so we don’t lose touch?”
“George, you’re too aggressive,” Andrew chided.
Isabelle laughed and gave him the number as two of the gallery crew came over and took down the last of the three paintings Andrew and George had just bought. “You’re taking them today?”
“Absolutely. I know Malcolm. If someone offers him more money, he’d give us the boot.”
“No,” Isabelle scoffed.
“Yes.” Andrew cocked his eyebrows.
They finished exchanging information and Isabelle chatted with them as they finalized their purchases.
After saying goodbye, she noticed that there was only one of her paintings left and none of Wes’s.
An hour later the show was winding down. Malcolm walked the last group to the door, making certain they each had one of his business cards and his private cell number.
Wes came up to Isabelle. “I have to run. I’m meeting my new buyers across town for a drink.”
“The man and woman from New York?” she asked, knowing full well which buyers he meant.
“Uh, yeah. Madrigan and Charles are brother and sister and have a place in Soho. They bought three of my pieces. They want more.” He leaned over and air-kissed her cheek. She didn’t feel a thing. “See you later.”
“Ciao,” she said, but he’d already darted out the door, slapping Malcolm on the back as he went.
How odd. He didn’t congratulate me on my sales or my success.
Scott would have.
Malcolm strode toward Isabelle with a brilliant smile across his face. “We should talk, Isabelle. In my office?”
“Certainly,” she replied, following him down the hall.
The gallery was quiet without the phone ringing and the receptionist’s welcoming voice, the clink and clang of dishes and glasses. The busy caterers had vanished and the last of the buyers’ conversations had faded. The party was over.
Oddly, Isabelle’s heart felt like iron in her chest as she lowered herself into the chair opposite Malcolm. This was her moment. She had achieved success, glory. But she didn’t feel like she was on top of the world.
That rush of joy and elation she’d felt when she was painting was nowhere to be found now. The pull of the subjects she intended to paint that kept her awake at night had abandoned her.
“Malcolm,” she said brightly, clasping her hands in her lap. “The show was a success. Wes said he sold three paintings to the people from Soho.”
“We sold everything Wes produced and commissioned several more. I expected that,” he replied, drumming his fingers on the desk.
“I only met one critic this time. A man...”
“Oh, the critics were here. In the first hour. They left early.”
“I didn’t see them. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” Malcolm clasped his hands and leaned back in his chair smiling up at the ceiling. “What I do know is that they loved your work. And they’re touting me for finding you. Isabelle,” he said, sitting straight up, “you’ve made me even more famous.”
She blinked in astonishment. “I did that for you?”
“You did, young lady. I told you I have an eye for talent.” He puffed his chest. “Must be my genius.”
“I’m certain.” She smiled back.
“So, Isabelle, as to what this means...”
This could mean something more? What more could there be? She’d paint on commission for George and Andrew. Produce pieces for Malcolm. Beyond that...
“I want to move you to Chicago full-time. I’ll get you a nice apartment, like I did for Wes. I may look around for a studio all your own.”
“Malcolm?”
He held his palms in the air to stop her. “There’s more. I have a feeling that Wes might pull off this sale this afternoon and wind up with a studio in New York. Now, I know I’m getting ahead of myself here, but if that happens, I want you to consider living there, too. Part-time at the beginning, of course. Then there’s the fact that I haven’t been blind, you know.”
“Blind?”
“I’ve seen the way Wes looks at you. Like there’s no one else on earth but you.”
“Yeah. He does that a lot,” she said.
“No, Isabelle. He doesn’t. You’re special to him. I think he’s in love with you.”
“That’s not true. He’s never said a word.” But then again, Scott hadn’t exactly swept her off her feet, either. Other than New Year’s Eve, when he had told her that he wanted a family and he wanted her help. But he hadn’t gotten down on his knee. There hadn’t been a ring. He hadn’t made her feel loved. He’d needed her to be a mother...but not a wife.
“Perhaps he needs encouragement, Isabelle.” He cleared his throat and his voice became stern. “Both of you have your heads in the clouds, if you ask me. You both think, breathe and live your art, which is great for me, but maybe not so great for you. Don’t get me wrong. He’s my nephew and I love him, but he can be difficult sometimes.”
“I don’t know what to say, Malcolm. This is a lot to think about. Moving here. New York. Even Wes. I’m going to need some time.”
“I understand. And there’s no rush.” He chuckled. “Except for the paintings. I’ll need more for the summer show.”
“When is that?”
“June. It’s a door-buster.” He grinned.
Isabelle rose and walked behind his desk. She put her arms around his neck. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me, Malcolm. You gave me the world I’ve dreamed of. And then some.”
He hugged her back. “You’re welcome, Isabelle. You deserve it.”
She went to the door and opened it.
“Uh, Isabelle. Am I too bold to ask—your hesitation, does it have anything to do with that guy from Indian Lake?” He snapped his fingers, unable to summon Scott’s name.
She held the doorknob. She was passing through yet another door. But what future did it lead to?
She faced him. “It might.”
He nodded. “Ciao.”
“Ciao.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ISABELLE PUT HER brushes and paints in her tote, then stuffed her splattered smock in on top and zipped the bag. She looked around the studio, now devoid of all her paintings. Wes’s murals would be placed in a few weeks. All his paintings had sold.
This studio, which had so much life in it when she’d first come here, seemed empty now. The energy she’d thought was Wes’s and Wes’s alone, she realized, might have been the energy of her dreams.
Maybe she’d been the one to give life to this old place.
> Maybe she’d had it inside her all this time and the only one who had seen it was Scott.
“Hey, there you are!” Wes said, coming down the hall. He was still dressed in his suit, a broad smile on his face. “Malcolm said you might be here.”
“Yeah. I’m going back home. Easter—this weekend.”
“You have plans, then?”
“Yes,” she replied cautiously. She hadn’t heard from Scott since yesterday. She’d thought he might send her a text about the show, but he hadn’t. Still, there was his brunch on Saturday. She hoped she was still invited. “I think so.”
“Malcolm is excited and proud of you,” Wes said, approaching her. “So am I.”
“Thanks.” She hoisted her tote onto her shoulder.
“He told me about his offer.”
“Yeah, I’m still in shock.”
“You should be. He’s never done that before.”
“Never?” She gasped.
“No. He said you didn’t take it.”
“I told him I had to think about it—”
“Look, Isabelle, I know I’ve been distant and we’ve both been under a lot of pressure to meet his demands, and believe me, he can be a taskmaster. But the truth is, I miss you terribly when you’re not here, and that’s never happened to me before. I look forward to seeing you every weekend—can’t wait for Saturdays to roll around, it seems. You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”
What had Isabelle done to make this icon of an artist, this very pleasant and interesting man, actually feel that she added something to his mesmerizing life? “Tell me.”
“You’ve changed everything. I don’t want to go to New York without you.”
“Pardon?”
“This deal for the Soho space is going to happen, and I want it for both of us. With you by my side, I feel, I mean I know I can be better than I have ever been. You bring out something in me that wasn’t there before. I think it’s heart. My uncle says I’ve fallen in love with you. I’ve never been in love, so you need to excuse my slow uptake on this. But I have to agree with him. I’m in love with you.”
Isabelle felt as if she was in the middle of one of her surreal paintings. This was exactly what she’d scripted as the movie of her life. Her art would be renowned. A famous artist would find her irresistible and she would go on to awards and fame all over the world.
Family of His Own Page 23
