Saving Grace (Madison Falls)

by Lesley Ann McDaniel

  “I’ll take it.” She grinned. “But I’m giving you a twenty.”

  “Okay.” Spritz’s look of surprise appeared unrehearsed. “There’s no instruction book, but I guess being from Seattle qualifies you to run it by intuition.”

  Grace felt almost giddy as she handed over the cash. “I’m naming him Salvatore.”

  “Well,” Spritz tucked the bill into her pocket. “I hope you and Salvatore will be very happy together. He’s heavy. Why don’t we find a man to carry him for you?”

  “I can get him.” Grace hoisted him into her arms, her knees folding slightly under his unexpectedly ample weight. “I’m fine.”

  Struggling to see over her new acquisition, Grace took one careful step at a time. Her arms shook and a bead of sweat dripped into her eye, but she focused on the edge of the parking lot. All she had to do was make it to Lucy’s table and ask her for a ride home.

  Just then a whirlwind of child-chasing-child crossed the sidewalk directly in front of her. She put on her brakes, halting her feet but not the rest of her body. Salvatore’s forward momentum continued, and for one awful second Grace felt him slipping from her grasp. There was no way to stop it. She was going down like a bowling pin and Salvatore was leading the way.

  Chapter 14

  Grace braced herself for the awful crack she knew Salvatore’s metal casing would make when it hit the pavement. Without warning, someone grabbed the machine while simultaneously barricading her descent. She gasped, astonished that she had just avoided two skinned knees and a mangled mocha maker.

  She looked up, prepared to thank her rescuer.

  “You okay?” Sam’s eyes were wide with concern.

  “I’m just fine, thank you.” She spit out the words as she attempted to pull free of his grasp.

  His firm grip held on the machine. “Why don’t you let me get this for you?”

  Her mouth froze around her intended retort as her biceps begged for mercy. Reluctantly, she acquiesced.

  He bowed back subtly at the transfer of weight, then set the machine down on a nearby table. “Looks like she’s still in one piece. I hope we can say the same for you.”

  “She’s a ‘he’,” she snapped. “And I’m just fine, thank you.”

  He nodded. “Good. And you’re welcome.”

  She sneered. She had no desire to have anything even remotely resembling a conversation with this guy. The last thing she needed was to invite the attention of an abusive drinker. She flicked him a glance, noticing something odd about his appearance. The area under his left eye resembled a plum, both in color and shape.

  “Get into a fight?”

  He nodded in seeming embarrassment. “My reward for trying to help a friend.”

  “Oh. Well. You are very helpful.” She shook out her quivering arms, then reached for Salvatore. “I’ll just be—”

  Sam put his hand on the top of the machine. “Let me get that…uh…him for you.”

  She firmed her hold. “No, really I…” She stopped, her voice catching in her throat. There on the ground on the other side of the table, propped up against an old wooden barrel, was the painting from the theatre lobby. She sputtered, letting go her hold on the machine. “W…what’s that?”

  “What,” Sam’s voice pitched. “That old painting?”

  The ornate gold frame rested unceremoniously on the balmy blacktop. The opera lover in oil paint seemed to cry out for rescue. Grace knelt down and reached out, but her hand froze a scant inch from the canvas.

  The floodgate broke and a torrent of memories inundated her mind.

  Chappaquiddick. That weekend at Kirk’s cottage.

  “Nice, huh?” Sam stooped beside her.

  Jarred momentarily by his voice, she honed back in on her thoughts. She could be wrong, but all at once it seemed so clear.

  Sam flicked a hand toward the image. “It’s really old. I don’t know anything about art, but the frame is real nice. It would look really good above your mantel.” His tone taunted. “With this opera lady and the water globe, you’d have a whole musical thing going on.”

  Her mind flashed back. Two summers ago, shortly after she’d met Kirk. She’d so needed that weekend in the country to take her mind off everything. She could still picture the pair of paintings prominently displayed on his gallery wall, and the blank space all ready for his next acquisition.

  The same style. The same brushstrokes. The same colors. The same artist.

  Sam brushed a coating of dust off the frame’s rim. “I don’t know who it’s by, but lots of people come here to paint so it was probably a local artist.”

  Her mind raced. A contemporary of Van Gogh. Limited body of work. This was almost too much for her to fathom. She leaned in, double checking the signature. Her heart leapt. “Horace Blackthorn.”

  As if her word wasn’t good enough, he bent closer to verify. “Oh, yeah. You’re right. Ever hear of him?”

  She straightened. “Um…no. Not really.” Her throat pinched. This lying thing wasn’t getting any easier.

  If he sensed her duplicity, he didn’t let on. “I’ll give you a good deal.”

  Her excitement mounting, Grace struggled to recall Kirk’s commentary. Most of the artist’s works sold to private collectors, causing their value to skyrocket. His subjects were always opera-related, so it made perfect sense that Kirk would own two of them. He was obsessive.

  Placing an elbow on his knee, Sam took in a breath and rested his chin on his hand. “If you want it, you can have it for five.”

  Her pulse thumped audibly. This guy was actually going to let go of a million dollar work of art for a measly five hundred bucks? She smiled.

  He leaned back on his haunches. “Oh, but I forgot.” His tone dripped of sarcasm. “You’re not staying around long. You wouldn’t have any need for—”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Oh.” His voice lilted with surprised satisfaction as he stood. “Great.”

  She pushed herself to her feet, stunned. He actually thought he’d made a deal.

  He lifted the painting and set it on an already-jam-packed table. She took a fleeting look at the surrounding items while he searched, presumably for wrapping material.

  “Hey…” She puzzled. “Where did you get all this?”

  He tossed his head to one side with a look of lament. “I’m just helping my dad clear out some old stuff.”

  She frowned, running her eyes across stacks of old playbills and sepia photos. “But where did you get this theatre stuff?”

  “Well, I doubt the guy who’s buying the theatre will be interested in salvaging piles of old junk—”

  “You mean before he tears it down to build his casino?” Her antagonism charged ahead of her mouth. “He might as well tear down the whole town.”

  Sam blinked. “How did you—”

  “So you’re helping this ‘Mr. R.’ sell out the town. Great.”

  Sam’s shoulders visibly tensed. “Look, my dad is just doing what he thinks is best—”

  “Your dad?” Her chest heaved. “You’re Mr. R.’s son?

  He lifted his hands. “Just like it says on the sign.”

  “What sign?”

  “The one that—”

  “Sam!”

  His answer was cut short by Sophia’s unmistakable trill. Grace turned to see her approach at a rapid clip with Devon close behind.

  “I have to have this.” Sophia aimed her sinuous arms toward Sam’s table.

  Grace reached down at the very second that Sophia’s hands touched the painting. She lifted the frame, realizing with irritation that Sophia had a grip on the other end. Their surprised eyes locked on each other.

  “It’s mine!” Sophia said through gritted teeth. “I saw it first.”

  “Hardly.” Grace scoffed. “Did you see me standing here?”

  “So you were standing here. What difference does that make?” Sophia yanked the painting toward her, but Grace held fast.

  “All th
e difference.” Grace gave a tug to no avail. That girl was stronger than she looked. “Let go!”

  Sophia’s face tightened. “I’m not letting go. You let go!”

  “Now hold on, Sophia.” Sam stepped in like a referee. “Grace and I already made a deal. I’m letting her have it for five.”

  “Five!” Sophia’s face glazed like a child about to throw a tantrum. “I can give you seven-fifty! Devon, grab my wallet.”

  Devon, clearly amused, threw his hands up with a staying-out-of-this look.

  Sam’s tone remained calm. “Sorry, Soph, but we made a deal.”

  “Did you shake on it?” Sophia pleaded.

  “No—”

  “Then it isn’t a deal. Sam, you know how much the theatre means to me. I deserve to have this.” She shot Grace an icy glare. “She just got here.”

  Grace wrinkled her nose and tightened her grip.

  Sam looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Soph.”

  “Sam, you’re being unfair. Devon, tell him!”

  Devon stepped forward and all eyes turned to him. As he looked from Sophia to Grace, his expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

  His eyes met Grace’s, causing her unguarded heart to pound out a staccato passage. Why would she react this way to his piercing gaze?

  She held her breath and awaited the verdict. Her nerves pinched with the understanding that as important as the painting was, something else was also at stake. Sophia had asked him to choose, and Devon was evaluating the candidates.

  Winner take all.

  “I’m sorry too.” Devon’s eyes lingered on Grace before grudgingly shifting to Sophia. “The court rules in favor of the new girl.”

  Sophia sputtered like a motor boat. The anger in her eyes dissolved into hurt and she released her grip on the frame. Lip aquiver, she took a few dramatic steps backward.

  Grace’s insides reeled with twofold victory. Surprised by the flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with the painting, she shifted Devon a glance. A smile played at the corners of his lips. Then his eyes lifted, and his look grew shadowy.

  Grace’s gaze flitted toward Sam, who was pinning Devon with a stare that could melt iron. A palpable tension hung in the air between the two men.

  “Devon!” Sophia huffed.

  Devon’s eyes remained steady. He reached into his back pocket, removing a thick, Dior-embossed leather wallet. “The least I can do…” He held out a crisp bill and steadied his gaze on Sam.

  Sam’s mouth tightened. “I’m not taking your money.”

  “Take it.” One corner of Devon’s mouth pulled upward. “On behalf of the lady.”

  Grace withered in puzzlement as Sam worked his jaw. After a moment, he reached out and took the money. Grace caught a flash of the bill as he wadded it in his fist.

  Devon slanted Sam a look as he stepped away. “You can keep the change.” He tossed Grace a wink and met up with the retreating Sophia.

  Sam turned away, darkness overshadowing his demeanor.

  Looking at Sam’s hunched shoulders, Grace measured her words. “Uh…Sam?”

  He kept his back to her, barely turning his head as he spoke. “You really don’t have to take the painting, you know. I wouldn’t want you to feel like you’re contributing to the selling out of the town.”

  She bristled, mystified and disturbed by his dark mood swing. “No, I still want it.” She reached for the frame slowly, as if he might snap it away. “So, can you take a check?”

  He lifted his head slightly. “Why? Did you want to grab some more stuff?”

  Grace furrowed her brow, wondering if he had even bothered to look at the money. “No, but he gave you a ten.”

  His shoulders lifted in a sardonic chuckle. “You’re right.” He turned to face her. “You know what, I’ll give you a deal.” He bent down and picked up an empty box. “You can fill this up with whatever you want and we’ll call it even.”

  She tried to shake off her mental whiplash. “Sam, I don’t get it…”

  He let out a sigh, pressing his fingers onto the bridge of his nose. “I can’t explain. That guy just…” He waved a hand over his head. “You don’t need to know.” His face lifted and he turned back to the table. “There’s some great old theatre stuff here. I don’t know what you’d do with it, but hey, for five bucks—”

  “Five bucks?”

  He quirked a confused look. “Ten minus five. Such a deal.”

  Realization spread through Grace like a cool breeze. He’d given her the painting for five. Such a deal, indeed.

  Chapter 15

  “One for dinner?”

  Grace inhaled the intoxicating bouquet of roasted garlic as she followed a young man with a large menu. He led her to a table by one of the elongated windows at the end of a surprisingly elegant dining room. She had a lot to celebrate, and it was time she treated herself to a nice dinner.

  As she opened the menu, a warm rush of emotion pervaded her being. The Fountain Restaurant. She couldn’t believe this little jewel had been hiding all along just a block past Main Street. After five days in Madison Falls, she had yet to find any real take-out and had been mainly relying on cold sandwiches from the display case that passed for a deli at the Peach Basket Market. Now, her mouth watering, she hoped the gastronomic options lived up to her expectations. If their Sauce Mornay turned out to be Velveeta, she might just lose it.

  Scanning the bill of fare, she mentally reviewed her new To Do list as she took a sip of icy water to quell her fluttery stomach. Reality was setting in. Soon she’d be going home.

  Her head still reeled from her amazing purchase that morning, but now there was much to be done. First she’d need to take the painting to an appraiser. According to the online yellow pages, there were two in Missoula—both of whom specialized in real estate appraisal, but that would have to do. She’d spent the afternoon researching auctions. Online was out. She needed to go to a reputable auction house with something of this caliber. EBay—no way!

  Shipping it to the auction house would be easy enough. All she needed were the right wrapping materials and a wooden crate. Surely someone in town would be qualified to build one for her.

  As for getting to Missoula…should she ask Lucy for a ride? No, too complicated. It would be tricky to explain her need for an appraiser without revealing the painting’s value. Her niggling guilt about letting Sam sell it to her for the price of a latte was bad enough. She didn’t need anybody’s judgment.

  How could anyone else understand? For two years, her battle against Kirk had been like jousting using a toothpick. Now, at last, she could face her opponent properly armed. The money would allow her to build a fortress around her life in New York, surrounding herself with guard dogs and bodyguards. So what if she had to live like a reclusive rock star? At least she’d have her life back.

  A quiver of fear shot through her. Was this really going to work? It was all she could do. Her only other choice was to stay hidden, and that was out of the question.

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  Her heart skipped. Slowly, she lowered the menu and lifted her gaze. Devon stood next to her table in a tasteful cerulean blue suit that set off the hue of his eyes. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a French film. Museums had been built to commemorate lesser works of art than his striking form.

  “Oh, hello, Devon.” She flashed a coy smile.

  He cocked his head with a teasing gleam. “I have to admit I’m confused.”

  Her stomach bobbed slightly as she set down her menu. “And now that makes two of us.”

  “I know I stopped by on a whim.” He gestured toward the empty chair opposite her. “I can’t think why a beautiful woman like you would be dining alone.”

  She drew her mouth to one side. “And how do you know I’m not waiting for someone?”

  Raising an eyebrow, he looked at her sideways. “Optimism.”

  A demure smile escaped her lips as she nodded toward the chair. “No sense in
both of us dining alone.” She was grateful for the dim lighting. At least he wouldn’t see the color rush to her cheeks.

  She admired the way he guided the chair back and sat, as if every fluid movement was designed to reveal a deeper subtext.

  “Your first time here?” His gaze pricked her nerve endings.

  She nodded, not wanting to explain her lack of a dining companion.

  “In that case, may I recommend the Tartiflette?” His finger expertly found the item on her menu.

  Her mouth tingled in anticipation. “Sounds delicious.”

  “Or the Pieds Paquets.”

  “Ooo, no thanks. I try to stay away from lamb’s feet.”

  His smile illuminated the scene like a well-focused Fresnel. He raised a hand. “May I?”

  She nodded as the waiter appeared like a genie out of a bottle.

  Devon cleared his throat with an ease that made even that act seem appealing. “We’ll start with the Coquilles Saint-Jacques. The lady will have the Tartiflette, and I’ll enjoy the Pansette de Gerzat. Then two Salades Nicoise. Also, a bottle of Shiraz and for dessert,” his vibrant eyes met hers. “Mousse au Chocolat?”

  She smiled assent. Was she really still in Montana?

  The waiter took her menu and made his exit.

  Devon settled back in his seat, his eyes resting easily on her. “It’s been a red letter day for you. Congratulations on winning the war of the watercolor.”

  “Thank you.” She beamed. “But it’s not a watercolor, it’s an oil.”

  “I know.” He smiled. “I just couldn’t resist the alliteration.”

  She twisted her hands in her lap. “Is Sophia very upset?

  He tipped back his head with a faint smirk. “Who knows with Sophia? She’s always got a burr under her saddle over something. She’ll get over it.”

  Resting her elbow on the arm of her chair, Grace casually touched her fingers to her chin. “Are we still talking about the painting?” Her hoped-for patina of flirtation was just glossy enough for him to take a shine to if he so chose.

  He took a sip of water, pausing just long enough to achieve the proper effect. “That, and more.”

  Her heart took off at a sprint. It was all she could do to keep her smile from overtaking her entire face. Sure, the last thing she needed was a romance, but the promise of a mutual attraction made her spirit sing.