Treasured

by Sherryl Woods

  She was sitting at her desk trying very hard not to look at her half-finished portrait of Ben, when the bell on the outer door rang. Heading into the gallery, she plastered a welcoming smile on her face, a smile that faltered when she found not the expected customer but her mother.

  Shocked, it took her a moment to compose herself before she finally spoke, drawing her mother’s attention away from the most dramatic of Boris’s paintings.

  “Mother, this is a surprise. What on earth are you doing here?” she asked, trying to inject a welcoming note into her voice when all she really felt was dismay. She’d expected that if her mother ever did show up in Alexandria, it certainly wouldn’t be without warning.

  “I decided to take you up on your invitation to visit.” Prudence tilted her head toward the large painting. “I can’t say that I like it, but it’s quite impressive, isn’t it?”

  “The critic from the Washington paper called it a masterpiece,” Kathleen said. She still had the uneasy sense that her mother was merely making small talk, that at any second the other shoe would drop and land squarely on Kathleen’s head.

  “I know,” Prudence replied. “I read his review.”

  That was the second shock of the morning. “You did?”

  Her mother gave her an impatient look. “Well, of course, I did. Your grandfather finds every mention of your gallery on the Internet and prints the articles out for me.”

  “He does?”

  Her mother’s impatience turned to what seemed like genuine surprise. “What did you think, darling, that we didn’t care about you?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Kathleen said. “I thought you all thoroughly disapproved of what I was doing.”

  Her mother gave her a sad look. “Yes, I can see why it must have seemed that way, since none of us have come down here. I’m sorry, Kathleen. It was selfish of us. We wanted you back home, and we all thought this would pass, that it was nothing more than a little hobby.”

  Kathleen felt the familiar stirring of her temper at the casual dismissal of her career. “It’s not,” she said tightly.

  “Yes, I can see that now. The gallery is as lovely as any I’ve ever seen, and you’ve made quite a success of it. You obviously inherited your grandfather’s business genes.”

  Kathleen had never expected her mother to make such an admission. The morning was just full of surprises, she thought.

  “I have to wonder, though,” her mother began.

  Ah, Kathleen thought, here it comes. She should have known that the high praise couldn’t possibly last. She leveled a look into her mother’s eyes, anticipating the blow that was about to fall.

  “Yes?” she said, her tension unmistakable.

  “What about your own art, Kathleen? Have you let that simply fall by the wayside?”

  “My art?” she echoed weakly. Where on earth had that come from? If everyone back home had thought the gallery was little more than a hobby, they’d clearly considered her painting to be nothing more than an appropriate feminine pastime. Not one of her paintings had hung on the walls at home, except in her own room. She’d taken those with her when she’d married, but had soon relegated them to the basement when Tim had been so cruelly critical. Most had gone to the dump even before the marriage ended. She couldn’t bear to look at them.

  She met her mother’s gaze. “Why on earth would you ask about my art? You always dismissed it, just as you have the gallery.”

  “I most certainly did not,” her mother replied with more heat than Kathleen had heard in her voice in years. “I always thought you were quite talented.”

  “If you did, you certainly never said it,” Kathleen pointed out. “Not once, Mother.”

  Her mother appeared genuinely shaken by the accusation. “I didn’t?”

  “Never.”

  “I suppose I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” her mother said, her expression contrite. “It’s a very difficult field in which to succeed. I should know.”

  Shock, which had been coming in waves since her mother walked into the gallery, washed over Kathleen again. “What on earth are you saying?”

  “You never saw anything I painted, did you?” her mother asked.

  “No,” Kathleen said, reeling from this latest bombshell. “In fact, I had no idea you’d ever held a paintbrush.”

  “Actually I took lessons from a rather famous artist in Providence for years,” her mother said as if it were of little consequence.

  “You did?” Kathleen asked weakly. “When?”

  “Before you were born. In fact, once I married, I never painted again. Your father thought it was a waste of time and money.” She gave Kathleen another of those looks filled with sorrow. “I’d like to think that you inherited your talent from me, though. It broke my heart when you gave it up because of that awful husband of yours. I hated seeing you make the same mistake I had.”

  Kathleen suddenly felt faint. Too many surprises were being thrown at her at once. “I think I need to sit down,” she said. “Come on into my office.”

  Her mother followed her, then stopped in the doorway. Kathleen heard her soft gasp, and turned. Prudence was staring at the portrait.

  “You did that, didn’t you?” her mother asked, her eyes ablaze with excitement.

  Kathleen nodded. “It’s far from finished,” she said, unable to keep a defensive note from her voice.

  “But it’s going to be magnificent.” When Prudence turned back to Kathleen, her eyes were filled with tears. “I am so proud of you. You’ve done what I was never able to do. You’ve taken your life back, after all.”

  Puzzled, Kathleen stared at her mother. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do. You’re a survivor, Kathleen. I haven’t been.”

  “Of course you are,” Kathleen replied heatedly. “You’re here, despite everything that happened to you. You don’t have to be a victim ever again. And if painting really did mean so much to you, then do it. I’ll buy you everything you need myself. I’ll pass on the gift that was given to me.”

  Her mother gave her a quizzical look. “Oh?”

  For the first time in her life, Kathleen felt this amazing sense of connection to her mother. She went to stand beside her and put an arm around her waist. “Ben bought paints for me—just yesterday, in fact. He’s the one who gave me the confidence to try again. That portrait is the first thing I’ve painted in years.”

  “Tell me about this Ben,” her mother said. “Is he someone very special?”

  “Yes,” Kathleen said simply.

  Her mother gazed knowingly into her eyes. “He’s the man in the portrait, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you love him.” It wasn’t a question at all, but a clear statement of fact.

  “No,” Kathleen said at once, then sighed. “Maybe.”

  Her mother tapped the canvas with a perfectly manicured nail. “The truth is right here, darling.”

  Kathleen studied the painting and tried to guess what her mother had seen. Even in the portrait’s unfinished state, Ben appeared strong. Kindness shone in his eyes. Had it been painted with a sentimental brush? Most likely.

  “I don’t want to love him,” Kathleen admitted at last.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s an artist,” she explained.

  To her surprise, her mother laughed. “Not all artists are as unpredictable and awful as Tim was, you know. There are bad apples in every barrel. Goodness knows, I’ve found more than my share in a great many walks of life, but you can’t taint a whole profession because of it.”

  For the first time, Kathleen understood the optimism that underscored her mother’s repeated attempts to find the perfect match. “I just realized something, Mother.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re the one who’s the real survivor. You’ve made some fairly awful choices—”

  “An understatement,” her mother confirmed.

  “But you haven’
t closed your heart,” Kathleen explained. “I did.”

  Her mother gave her a squeeze. “Then it’s time you took another chance on living. I’d like to meet this young man of yours. He has a kind face.”

  Kathleen smiled. “He does, doesn’t he? And the best part of all is that he has a kind soul.”

  And maybe, just maybe she could be brave enough to put that kindness to the test and give him a chance…if he wanted one. Now there, she thought, was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

  “Stay here for a few days, Mother. Meet Ben,” she pleaded.

  “Not this time,” Prudence said. “But I will come again soon.”

  “Promise?”

  “Absolutely. The ice is broken now. It won’t be so difficult next time. Perhaps your grandparents will come, too.”

  “I’d like you to meet Ben’s aunt, too. She’s a remarkable woman, and she’s an artist, as well. I think the two of you would hit it off.” She imagined the two women sitting in the sunshine on the coast of France, easels in front of them. She could see the image quite vividly. It made her smile.

  Her mother gave her a fierce hug. For the first time in years and years, Kathleen felt that she had a real mother again. Not that there weren’t likely to be bumps in the road. They were both, after all, strong-willed people in their own very different ways. But today had given them a fresh start, and Ben, even though he hadn’t been here, had played an amazing part in that. It was just one more thing she owed him for.

  Ben was feeling fairly cranky, and he wasn’t entirely certain why. Okay, that was a lie. He knew precisely why he’d been growing increasingly irritable over the past week. He was growling at everyone who dared to call or come by. Even the usually unflappable Mack had commented on his foul temper and taken a wild stab at the reason for it.

  “Something tells me you haven’t seen Kathleen lately,” Mack had observed in midconversation. “Do yourself a favor and go see her or call her. Do something. Otherwise the rest of us are going to have to start wearing protective gear when we come around.”

  This last was a reference to the mug Ben had tossed across his studio at Mack’s untimely interruption of his work. Not that his work was going all that well, but he was sick of people turning up without so much as a phone call to warn him. Not that Mack had ever called ahead. He just brought food to pacify his beast of a younger brother.

  “My mood has nothing to do with Kathleen,” Ben had all but shouted.

  “If you say so,” Mack responded mildly.

  “I say so.”

  Mack had wandered around the studio, careful to keep a safe distance away from Ben, then asked casually, “Have you slept with her yet?”

  Ben’s gaze shot to his brother. If Mack had been closer, he’d have slammed him in the jaw for asking something like that. Fortunately for both of them, there was enough distance between them that it didn’t seem worth the effort. Besides, Mack still had a few quick moves left over from his football days. Ben probably wouldn’t have caught him squarely on the jaw, anyway.

  He scowled at Mack instead. “Do you think I’d tell you if I had?”

  Mack, damn him, had grinned. “You haven’t, then. I figured as much. You need to make your move, pal. I think you can chalk this black mood of yours up to suppressed hormones.”

  “I think I can chalk it up to an interfering brother who doesn’t know when to mind his own damn business.”

  Mack had shrugged. “That, too.” He’d headed for the door, then. “Think about it, bro. If the woman’s tying you up in knots like this, it’s time to do something about it. Stop sitting on the fence. Get her into your bed or out of your life.”

  Ever since Mack had walked out, Ben had thought of very little else. It was true. He wanted to make love to Kathleen, had wanted to for a long time now. Hell, he’d even started to miss her popping up out here, pestering him, bringing along those delectable baked goods of hers.

  And despite all of her declarations reminding him to keep things professional, he was all but certain she was going just about as crazy as he was.

  He’d eaten every last muffin, every scone, the rest of the blueberry pie and all those raspberry tarts, all the while mentally grumbling that if she kept it up, he was going to gain twenty pounds before Christmas.

  And yet, when no further pastries had appeared, he’d felt oddly bereft. The running he’d been doing to burn off calories suddenly had to burn off the restless frustration that plagued him.

  Mack was right. He needed to do something and he needed to do it now.

  As if Kathleen were once more attuned to his thoughts, he heard her car tearing up the driveway, taking it at a reckless speed that only she dared. He’d mentioned that more than once, his heart in his throat, but she’d remained oblivious to his entreaties. Because he hadn’t wanted to get into why her driving terrified him, he let it pass each time. Today she seemed to be in a particular hurry.

  Ben stood up, but hesitated rather than going outside to wait for her. When she skidded to a stop mere inches from the side of the barn, he bit back another lecture and counted to ten instead, waiting for his thumping heartbeat to slow down to normal before going to greet her.

  She bounded out of the car with long-legged strides, then tossed a bag in his direction. One whiff and her driving no longer mattered. He’d reminded her of a particular fondness for blueberries over dinner the other night, and he knew exactly what he’d find in the bag…homemade blueberry muffins this time.

  She handed him a cup of his favorite latte as well, acting for all the world as if it had been only yesterday when they’d last parted. He wasn’t sure whether to be charmed or annoyed by that.

  “I can’t stay but a minute, but something amazing happened earlier this morning and I couldn’t wait to come out to tell you about it.”

  “You could have called.”

  “Not about this. And since I was coming, I stopped long enough to bake the muffins so I wouldn’t arrive empty-handed. I wanted to get them out here while they’re still warm from the oven.”

  “And that’s why you drove like a bat out of hell?” he asked testily.

  “No, I drove that way because I enjoy it,” she replied, undaunted by his disapproval.

  “If you slowed down, you might enjoy the landscape.”

  “I do enjoy it.”

  “How? It must pass in a blur.”

  She gave him an innocent smile. “All I have to do is think about that painting in your dining room and it all comes back to me.”

  Ben shook his head at the sneaky way she’d brought the conversation right back to the same old point. “We’ve been over this more than once. Flattery, muffins and latte are not going to get you inside the studio, sweetheart.”

  “What will?” she asked curiously. “Is there some trick I’m missing?”

  “Just one. A sincere promise to forget about trying to talk me into selling what’s in there.”

  She shrugged. “Sorry, no can do.”

  “Since you knew that would be the outcome even before you asked that question, let’s not belabor it. Why don’t you tell me about this amazing thing that happened this morning.”

  “My mother came to my gallery.”

  He regarded her intently, looking for evidence of the simmering outrage that usually followed any contact with her mother. He saw none. In fact, her eyes were shining. “I take it that it went well.”

  “Better than that,” she said excitedly. “I think we’re finally starting to communicate. For the first time in years, I can actually see a woman I could like, not just the mother I’m supposed to love.”

  “What brought on this astonishing turnaround?”

  “Believe it or not, your portrait had a lot to do with it.” She told him about their conversation, about her discovery that her mother had once painted, too. “And I never knew. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Amazing,” he agreed, enjoying the fire in her eyes and wishing somehow that he’d been the one
to put it there.

  “Well, that’s all I came to tell you,” she said. “Since you still won’t let me into the studio, I guess I’ll be off now. One victory is probably the best I can hope for in a single day.”

  “Aren’t you getting tired of driving all this way just to have me rebuff you?” he asked curiously.

  “Not really,” she said, then added with a wink, “Catching a glimpse of all that scenery is worth it.”

  Ben shook his head. “I have no idea what to make of you.”

  “I’m a pretty straightforward woman. When I see something I want, I go after it.”

  Ben noted the accompanying gleam in her eye. It made him wonder once again if what she wanted was still his art…or him. There was one way to find out, a way he’d been avoiding for some time now, because he was terrified to go down that particular path again. Each time he had before had left him rattled and uneasy. He struggled with himself once more, told himself it would be foolish to tempt fate by taking his brother’s advice and plunging into a relationship that was bound to butt headlong into the brick wall around his heart.

  But when he couldn’t stand it one second longer, he kissed her, a hard, demanding kiss that drove his senses crazy and made his heart pound.

  Big mistake. No, huge mistake. If she’d been in his head all morning long, now she was in his blood. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her.

  When he finally released her, she stared at him, clearly dazed.

  “What? Why?” She shook her head, then asked more steadily. “What was that for?”

  “It was a long time coming,” he said, then raked his hand through his hair.

  “You’ve kissed me before,” she reminded him.

  “I remember.”

  “But not quite like that,” she admitted. “As if you wanted more.”

  Because he couldn’t deny it, he said only, “I think you should probably go now.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You don’t kiss me like that and then dismiss me as if nothing important happened,” she retorted.

  He heard the exasperation in her voice and smiled. “Do you want to talk it to death?”

  “Yes,” she said stubbornly. “That’s exactly what I want.”