Читать книгу Family Of His Own - Catherine Lanigan - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

ISABELLE WIPED THE sweat from her forehead with her sleeve as she hoisted the stack of Christmas plates out of the cupboard in the storage room. After steadying herself, she placed the stack on the counter below and climbed down the ladder. When her mother had designed this storage area, Isabelle had praised her for it. She hadn’t realized that she’d be just about the only family member using this room.

It was always this way on holidays. Isabelle’s family talked for months about these big gatherings, the food they’d buy at the deli, the bakery, the butcher—nearly all premade since her mother, Connie, didn’t have time or the desire to cook for everyone. Neither did Sadie or Violet. All three boys were excellent at ordering takeout. Isabelle was the only one in the family whose culinary skills were self-taught. She was no gourmet, but she could get by. But she drew the line at preparing a feast when no one else seemed willing to lift a finger.

The food wasn’t the problem. Connie ordered turkey, mashed potatoes and green bean casserole from the grocery store. Pumpkin pies came from the bakery. Sadie made stuffing out of a box on top of the stove. Gravy came from a jar and was heated in the microwave.

But as had been the case for nearly all their lives, everyone left the rest of the details up to Isabelle. Today, she’d arrived at her mother’s house to find that not only had the table not been set, but the linens for it hadn’t even been laundered.

Isabelle felt like she was ten years old again, when all the household responsibilities and childcare had fallen on her shoulders.

That was the year her father had dropped dead at the age of thirty-six from a heart attack. The doctors told her mother that he’d had an undetected congenital heart condition. Isabelle had helped her mother dress the younger kids for the funeral. She remembered half the town showing up at their little house off Main Street where there was barely enough room for all of them, let alone guests. Her mother’s friends brought food enough to feed them for weeks.

Within a week, Connie had applied for a position as a receptionist at an architect’s firm. A few months later she bought a used drafting table to tinker with blueprints in the evenings. A few months after that she signed up for night classes at Purdue University. By the time Isabelle was thirteen, Connie’s talent and training had landed her a job as an apprentice architect. Nineteen years after the sudden death of her husband, Connie was now a partner in the firm and had helped finance portions of each of her children’s postsecondary education.

Yet this had come at a cost. Isabelle had become the housekeeper, the nanny, the errand girl, the stand-in parent and all-around Cinderella to her younger siblings. Though Connie often expressed her gratitude for all that Isabelle had done during those years, she’d also told Isabelle that she’d provided her with invaluable preparation for adult life.

Isabelle wished she’d been a little less ready for adulthood, with more happy memories under her belt. Instead, she had spent her teen years worried about her mother working so many hours. Overwhelming herself with extra design classes instead of enjoying summer picnics at the beach. If Isabelle had missed out on a great deal of fun, Connie had had even less.

Isabelle pulled the red tablecloth out of the dryer and brought it up to the dining room. Earlier, she’d clipped an armload of fir, spruce, cedar and pine branches outside. Once she’d spread out the tablecloth, she arranged the pines in the center along with silver and gold beads, red votive candles and shiny red balls. She scattered a bag of cranberries along the length of the table then made the place settings.

From the den, she could hear her brothers shouting as their football team executed another touchdown. They clinked their beer bottles together and high-fived each other.

“It’s beautiful, Isabelle,” Connie said as she hauled a precooked glazed honey ham out of the stainless steel convection oven. It only needed to be warmed. Ironically, when Connie designed this house five years ago, after finding a secluded three acres surrounded by forest and fruit trees, she’d installed a massive, high-tech, cook’s dream of a kitchen.

The house was one story, with red barn siding. Isabelle loved the glass walls that surrounded this section of the house, which contained the kitchen, living and dining areas; the vaulted wood ceilings and three-sixty-degree view made her feel like they were living outside. The only paintings were Isabelle’s water nymphs: one above the fireplace on the south wall and one above the built-in redwood buffet on the north wall.

Connie knew her craft well.

“Thanks.” Her gaze veered to the den. “You’d think just once somebody could help me. Volunteer at least.”

“C’mon, let them be,” Violet said, opening a can of jellied cranberry sauce. Violet was twenty-three and would be graduating in June from the University Police Academy in Bloomington. “They never get to all be together anymore. Football is a male bonding thing.”

“I like football as much as anyone. What if I wanted to watch the game and not help with the food, set the table, do the laundry...”

“Oh, Isabelle.” Sadie walked into the kitchen. She was wearing a University of Notre Dame sweatshirt, her dark hair in a ponytail. Sadie went straight to the stuffing that Violet was making and pinched a taste. “Yum.”

Isabelle poured heavy cream into a bowl and turned on the mixer. “And where have you been all day? You could have been helping, as well.”

Sadie’s green eyes matched Isabelle’s spark and brilliance. Isabelle always had a hard time staying mad at Sadie.

“I was with a client,” she replied haughtily.

“What, how? You only just started law school,” Isabelle countered.

Sadie tilted her chin defiantly. “I have an internship already. A prestigious Chicago firm. Actually, the job doesn’t start until next semester, but I’ll be working on real cases.”

Isabelle looked at her mother. “Seriously?”

“Dylan arranged it. Apparently, he has a lot of connections. He’s so proud of Sadie getting into Notre Dame,” Connie gushed. She put her arm around Sadie’s shoulders and scrunched her to her chest. “We all are.”

“This is great news!” Isabelle was thrilled for her younger sister. There was no question. Sadie was smart and quick and honest. She would do well as a lawyer. She threw her arms around Sadie and gave her long hug. “They must have you on a very fast track.”

“I put me on a fast track. That’s why I asked Dylan to help. If all goes well, I can test out of more classes and finish up law school sooner than the three years I’d planned.”

Then Sadie leaned over and whispered, “I’ll save Mom a bundle. Then I’ll pay her back for everything.” She winked.

“Sadie, you are the best,” Isabelle said. Though her mother’s job paid well and Connie had garnered a stellar reputation throughout the Midwest for her design and structures, paying tuition for her children had strained her bank account. Her brothers had already paid Connie back, and Isabelle had never borrowed from her, even when she’d taken art courses at universities across the region. Still, Isabelle was in awe of her mother’s generosity, the way she always just “made it work.”

And as much as Isabelle admonished her siblings for not helping with chores, she wanted the best for them. She wanted them to succeed. Though she sometimes wished her childhood had been different, she also believed she was doing what her father would have wanted her to do for her younger brothers and sisters. And once they were all fully fledged, which wouldn’t be long now, she could finally focus on herself.

“So,” Violet said, scooping the stuffing into a pretty aqua serving dish. “Is Scott coming to dinner?”

Isabelle looked at her watch. “Yes, he said he’d bring ice. Nearly an hour ago...”

“Uh, oh,” Sadie teased. “You better watch it, Isabelle. Maybe he got a better offer.” She laughed and stole a Christmas cookie out of the white bakery box.

Isabelle sucked in a breath. Scott with another woman? Impossible. Wasn’t it? “No, he was at the shooting range with Trent and Luke.”

“Wow.” Violet was now placing parsley sprigs around the turkey.

“‘Wow’ what?”

“Trent Davis? He’s the talk of the academy right now. Before break, half the people in my class asked me to get a selfie with him. He’s a legend,” Violet said, respect and awe thrumming through her voice. “Hey, maybe Scott could introduce me. I’d love to talk to him. Pick his brain. Absorb.”

“I’ll ask Scott, if you want me to,” Isabelle offered.

“Absolutely!” Violet’s eyes filled with anticipation.

The sound of tires crunching against cold gravel and the slam of a car door signaled Scott’s arrival.

“That’s him!” Violet squealed and raced past Isabelle. “I’ll ask him myself.”

“Sure,” Isabelle said as the timer went off in the second oven. “The dinner rolls.”

Connie handed her a pair of oven mitts and then breezed past her. “Scott! How lovely to see you. And you brought the ice.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle saw her mother give Scott a big hug.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hawks.” Scott handed her a gold foil-wrapped box.

Isabelle suspected they were chocolate turtles made by the confectioner who had just opened in town. They were the best Isabelle had ever tasted.

She took the rolls out of the oven and placed them on top of the stove. She waved at Scott as she took off the mitts.

Sadie shouted, “Isabelle! The whipped cream! You forgot. It’s probably butter by now.”

Isabelle reached over to the mixer and turned it off, took off the towel and inspected the firm peaks. “It’s fine. I’ll add the sugar.”

“Give it extra for me,” Sadie said, taking two casseroles to the table.

“Oh, Sadie.”

“Hey, Scott!” Dylan, Christopher and Ross got up from the game to greet him.

Isabelle moved the ham to the pineapple-shaped wood carving board. Dylan was less than a year younger than Isabelle, and when she was very young she’d liked telling kids at school they were twins. Now, Dylan was as immersed in his career as she was in her art. He never talked about his cases until they were over, but she knew his stance against the drug dealers that had infiltrated his district consumed him. He was passionate about delivering justice and keeping schools and streets safe.

Though Chris didn’t live far from town, it was amazing how little he got out to the country to see his mother. He spent even less time in Indian Lake. Honestly, if it weren’t for holidays and special occasions, Isabelle didn’t think she would see him at all.

Ross was the most private of the bunch, even though he lived here. Everything about him was top secret. He didn’t talk about work, and none of them knew if he had a girlfriend—or any friends, for that matter. Ross was observant, quiet and pensive. Isabelle often worried about him, though he assured her he was fine.

She went up to Scott and took the two bags of ice from him. “I was hoping you’d be here sooner,” she said pointedly.

“I’m sorry. Trent had...well, I couldn’t get away earlier.”

“That’s so cool!” Violet said. “You were with Trent Davis. What’s he like?”

Isabelle took the ice to the kitchen. She filled the water glasses and put them on the table. Of all the days for Scott to be late, he had to pick this one.

Today was important to her. She’d been bursting with good news, and had wanted to tell Scott first. Not even her mother knew. She had planned to tell the whole family at dinner, but now that plan was flushed.

She was irritated with him, but also frustrated with everything about this holiday. She didn’t know why today’s party should bother her more than any other. She was always the one to put all the final pieces together at family gatherings. She surveyed the food waiting for her to put out on the table.

While everyone greeted Scott, teasing and joking about his lack of skills with a gun, Isabelle continued getting the dinner ready. She placed the turkey at one end of the table for Ross to carve, while the ham went to her mother’s place at the other end. Connie would say the blessing and serve the ham.

With the rolls, vegetables and stuffing steaming hot and two bottles of wine on the table, Isabelle called everyone to supper.

Isabelle sat opposite Scott. They bowed their heads, said a prayer, toasted Christmas and began the meal.

Everyone in the family asked Scott questions about his article and the drug bust, and Violet peppered him with questions about Trent until Scott told her he was buying Cate Sullivan an engagement ring. Isabelle stayed silent as Scott stole glances at her.

“I want to talk to you after dinner,” she said, when Violet was distracted by passing the stuffing to Dylan. “Alone.”

“Sure,” he replied and took a deep slug of wine.

* * *

SCOTT CARRIED TWO heavy wool serapes and followed Isabelle out to the patio where Ross had started a fire in the brass fire pit earlier. Isabelle had made hot buttered rum for everyone, another of their Christmas traditions.

Scott remembered last year when the whole family sat around the fire beneath falling snow, sharing stories. Laughing. Living.

He glanced inside. Everyone had pitched in to handle the cleanup. “I’m surprised we got out of doing the dishes,” he said. “As I remember, you and I are usually the last ones out here.”

“I told them I wanted to talk to you privately.”

“Oh,” he said, placing the red-and-white serape around Isabelle’s shoulders. She lifted her thick, caramel hair for him. Then settled back into the chair.

With the firelight dancing across her face and her green eyes glimmering like bits of emerald, she looked like one of the water sprites she painted. “You’re beautiful tonight,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s probably because I’m so excited.”

“Excited?” He took a sip of his drink. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because of that clipped text you sent me. And then you didn’t even hug me when I came in. Frankly, I was a bit put off myself.”

“To be fair, you were late. And when you got here you were mobbed by my family and I was busy putting the meal together. My mother gave you a hug,” she added petulantly.

“Not the same thing.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” He glanced at her, then at the fire. Then back at her. He felt his insides untwist just looking at her.

She smiled at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually been mad at you,” she countered. “Anyway. I’m not now.”

“Good.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was wrong about the firelight. It was her own incandescence. She was glowing. “Tell me why you’re so excited.”

“I’ve had some good news. Fantastic news. I was hoping you’d be here earlier so I could tell you. I wanted you to be the first to know. I haven’t said a word to my family.”

Scott moved forward. She’d never acted like this before. She almost always discussed important stuff with her mother and sisters first. He wasn’t quite sure how he should take this. He held his breath. “Go on.”

“You, of all people, know how many queries I’ve sent to gallery owners, buyers and collectors, hoping I’d get my break.”

“I do.” In fact, Scott had spent countless hours working his journalism contacts to help Isabelle get placed. Each time a rejection came, he felt her pain.

He’d spent many a summer’s night sitting on a towel at Cove Beach with his arm around her shoulders while she sobbed. He’d been with her fireside at the Lodges as she cried into a glass of wine. One year, he’d brought her to the annual Halloween hay ride thinking to cheer her, but all she’d done was lay her head on his shoulder and talk about “what ifs.” Several Christmases and Valentine’s Days had been ruined by the arrival of another rejection.

He didn’t know what kept her going. How she found the strength and courage to pit herself against the brick wall that the art world threw up. Time after time they all told her the same thing: her work was commercial, but not exceptional. Her attempts at Impressionism lacked the “je ne sais quoi,” that special something that would make curators or art dealers give her a chance.

“Well, I finally got some interest,” she said now. “A gallery in Chicago. He said he loved my work.”

And that’s what Isabelle wanted. Recognition. She craved it. She was obsessed with it.

Now she had it.

He leaned over and took her hand. “I’m really happy for you, Isabelle. Truly.” He kissed her palm.

Her smile was bursting with energy, and he leaned closer, so their lips almost brushed. All she had to do was tilt her head slightly, and they’d be kissing.

Instead, she took a deep breath and kept talking. “It’s happening, Scott. My dream. I’m going to get my dream,” she whispered so low he barely heard her, but he saw the tears slip down her cheeks. “I’ve waited so long.”

“And worked very hard for this. You deserve it all. Now give me the details. Who is the owner? What are his credentials? Have you looked him up on the internet? Is this one of the galleries you approached?”

“Okay, Mr. Reporter. One question at a time. Yes, I did approach him. Malcolm Whitestone, that’s the owner. Whitestone Gallery is in Evanston.”

Scott was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ve heard of him, haven’t I?”

“Possibly. Maybe when we were making lists of potential galleries a couple years ago. Anyway, he wants me to branch out. You know I’ve always thought my impressionistic water sprites were fine for the tourists here, but I can do better.”

“I’ve always liked them,” he mused, tracing the rim of his glass. “Some are so fantastical I want them to be real.”

“That’s sweet, but the critics want depth and bold ideas.”

He studied her. She still amazed him. She kept digging inside herself for something that he didn’t know if he would ever understand. She was never satisfied. She always kept reaching.

“So what’s the next step?”

“He wants me to pick out more pieces and send them to him. This was just an initial introduction.”

“So you don’t have a show lined up,” he said, a bit surprised she was this excited when it could all fall apart in a subsequent email.

Her jaw tightened and her face turned to stone. “It’s a chance, Scott. Can’t you see that?”

“I do see—”

“This is just like you. Always negative.”

“Isabelle—”

Her voice rose as she continued. “I shouldn’t have told you. I should have waited until I had everything wrapped up. A contract signed and in hand before I said anything. You’ve always doubted my art.”

“That is not true!” His tone was harsher than he’d intended, but Isabelle’s words were like a punch to the gut. “I’ve always supported you. I adore your mermaids and nymphs. Wasn’t I the one who said we should go to Paris and see the impressionist and art nouveau paintings that inspired them?”

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You think I’m only capable of my water sprites.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with them,” he said. “They’ve brought you a second income, a loyal following and admiration from practically everyone who meets you. And I love them. Why isn’t that enough?”

She shot to her feet. “Because it’s not, Scott. It’s just not.”

Isabelle stormed into the house and slammed the door. He watched through the glass walls as she marched through the kitchen past the den and disappeared down the hall to the wing of bedrooms.

He looked down at his drink. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Scott.”

Going after her would get him nowhere. He was floored. He’d always been there for her. He’d truly believed he was supporting her. But clearly Isabelle didn’t agree.

He’d wanted to kiss her and she pulled away. Her rejection cut deep, and he wasn’t sure how he would heal from it.

It was time for him to reassess things.

He dug in his pocket for his car keys and went inside to say goodbye to Isabelle’s family.