Family Of His Own. Catherine Lanigan
“Tonight?”
“Well, I should...”
“Isabelle, I can tell when you’re feeling guilty that you aren’t working, and the lilt of your words when you’re inspired. You’re just nervous. Admit it.”
Isabelle’s shoulders slumped as his truth settled over her. “I am. Time passes so quickly when I’m working. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep tonight, so I thought—”
“You called me so I could tell you stories.”
“Oh, Scott. You don’t have any stories.” She laughed.
There was dead silence on the other end, and she felt the cold between them stretch from her apartment to Scott’s shop.
She backtracked. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. We just know each other so well that—”
He cut her off. “No, actually, you’re right, Isabelle. I don’t have any stories. Stories should be my life, and they aren’t. Look, I have a customer. I need to go. Good luck tomorrow.” He hung up.
Isabelle held the cell phone to her ear as the call disconnected. She hadn’t heard the bell over the door ring or any other voice on Scott’s end. He’d never faked a reason to get off the phone with her. If anything, she was the one who usually had to go first.
She had hurt his feelings.
They’d been doing that a lot lately, but she couldn’t seem to figure out why they both were so on edge.
Earlier, Scott had told her that he admired her for raising her own bar. Challenging herself. Just how deep were his regrets about his past work as a journalist? All these years, she’d thought he was happy in Indian Lake running his coffee shop, selling books and writing for the local newspaper. Most men would be thrilled to have their own business, especially a successful one.
Edgar was more than fulfilled by running the Lodges, she mused. He often remarked how busy he was, and he’d never said he wanted to do anything else with his life.
But then, Isabelle hadn’t exactly asked.
Isabelle sank into her 1940s club chair, a realization taking shape.
She’d worked for Edgar for ten years, yet she barely knew the man at all. She suddenly thought of dozens of questions she’d never asked Scott, despite their years of friendship.
Was she so immersed in her own needs and aspirations that she didn’t take the time to learn what mattered to others?
Tears filled her eyes as she stared out the window at the falling snow.
“There’s one word for you, Isabelle Hawks. Selfish.”
She was so desperate to be recognized that she put her ambitions ahead of everyone in her life. She never made time to see her siblings or her mother on a consistent basis. She was either working at the Lodges or she was at the easel. And Scott. It was amazing the guy still spoke to her. Other than meeting him at her mother’s for their Christmas dinner, she hadn’t made time for him since before Thanksgiving.
If things went well with Malcolm tomorrow and if she was lucky enough to have even a single painting hang in his gallery, she would have no one with whom to share her joy. She needed to start giving more attention to the people she claimed to love.
She picked up her cell phone and punched in Scott’s number.
“Hi. It’s me. I’m ordering a pizza. When you close up would you like to come share it with me?” she asked.
“I...” He hesitated.
“Please?”
“I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Uh, okay. You’ve got plans. I understand.”
“It’s unexpected and unplanned, if you want to know,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You never ask me over for dinner....er, pizza.”
“I’m just nervous about Malcolm, and...”
He broke in. “Isabelle. I’m covering a story. I really have to go.”
“Oh, sorry. Sure. Later, then.”
“Later.” He hung up.
Disappointment rattled through Isabelle like an old locomotive. Seldom had Scott turned her down if she asked a favor. She needed to be with someone tonight to help quell her anxieties. Though they hadn’t spent much time together lately, she could usually count on him to find just the right words to help when she felt low and small. Scott was good at things like that.
Tonight was different, though. Yes, she wanted comfort, but she also wanted to explain that she was beginning to see herself in a new light, unflattering as it was. She wanted to make up for hurting his feelings.
But now she’d have to wait. She supposed there would be time when she got back from Chicago. Scott would want to see her then. He always did. For so long, she’d relied on his loyalty and friendship.
Chicago. Isabelle put her cell phone on the small kitchen table and rushed into her bedroom, where she flung open the walnut door to her walk-in closet. Tomorrow could be the turning point of her life. She had to dress for it.
Twice, she ran through her wardrobe. Because she was the hostess at the Lodges, she had over a dozen black sheath dresses for every season and weather condition. Tomorrow would be a conservative black sheath day. With her white wool coat with the black buttons, she would present a picture of a serious artist to Malcolm.
She held up a jersey wool dress with long black sleeves and turned and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
“Serious artist,” she whispered. Once her work was in Whitestone Gallery, she wouldn’t be a fledgling anymore. She would no longer be overlooked. Even if she was never famous, she would always be able to claim her day...her moment.
She stared at the woman in the reflection. Unafraid, nearly audacious. Isabelle felt a change happening inside her and around her. Her own green eyes gazed back at her. She imagined she saw them twinkle.
NORTH OF DOWNTOWN CHICAGO, a half mile from Lake Michigan and centered in a block of shops, cafés and boutiques stood Whitestone Gallery. Its massive black awning, white Greek key design fringe and a bold white W stretched imperiously over the beveled glass door, which was executed in an art deco design that reminded Isabelle of the water spray in her nymph paintings. It was the first sign that perhaps she was meeting her destiny.
Isabelle gathered her paintings, which she had carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, out of the back of her SUV. Apparently, Chicago had not been the recipient of any of the lake-effect snow that had been dumped on Indian Lake last night. The sidewalk here was so pristine, it looked as if someone had used a blow dryer to remove any hint of dampness. Along the wall of glass that formed the front of the gallery was a window box holding perfectly shaped boxwoods. Two more English box planters on either side of the front door held round topiary trees. As she walked up the red carpet, also meticulously devoid of dirt, slush or leaves, she couldn’t help but reach out and touch one of the plants.
She shifted the bubble-wrapped canvases under her left arm and pushed the polished brass door latch. A waft of fresh pine and cedar scent drifted through the air. Mellow classical piano music put her instantly at ease.
Framed and unframed paintings, from impressionist, cubist, abstract impressionist to contemporary, hung in strategic patterns against putty-colored walls.
A tall man emerged from behind the center partition. Thick, pearl white hair ringed his handsome face. He walked toward her, his hands outstretched. “You must be none other than Isabelle Hawks.”
“I