Читать книгу For The Love Of You - Donna Hill - Страница 12
ОглавлениеJewel had spent a sleepless night tossing and turning as dozens of unattainable scenarios played in a loop inside her head. Finally giving up on sleep, she rose with the sun, checked on her father to find him comfortably sleeping, and then puttered around in the kitchen, determined to find a solution to her untenable situation.
Making something always seemed to help clear her thoughts. Had it been at an earlier phase of her life, she would have been found in her studio, sculpting her next piece of art or creating her next abstract on canvas. She couldn’t remember when she’d last molded a piece of clay or chiseled granite or stroked vibrant colors with a paintbrush. Instead her hands and her mind realigned themselves and found a new purpose in baking. The same artistry that she’d used in her work transferred itself to create unique and sumptuous cakes, pies, cookies and muffins. She sold some of her confections to a local baker from time to time and had even prepared one-of-a-kind wedding cakes. Minerva, her father’s home attendant and Jewel’s pseudoconfidante, had for the past year been encouraging her to pursue her baking—take it to the next level, build a business, she’d said. But Jewel couldn’t. She was an artist—at one time a renowned artist who traveled the world and held standing-room-only launches in galleries here in the States and abroad. Baking was a poor second cousin, an outlet for her idle hands and nothing more.
Today felt like a blueberry muffin day, she reasoned, and while the house remained under the blanket of slumber, Jewel created her other brand of magic.
By the time the sun was in full bloom, Jewel’s kitchen was filled with the warmth and aroma of a high-end bakery. She eased the tray from the oven and placed it on the counter to cool then prepared a pot of chamomile tea. With her cup of tea, she took and a plate with a muffin and homemade jam to the veranda and picked up the newspaper en route.
Nestled in her favorite spot, she opened the paper and was hit in the center of her being by the virile image of Craig Lawson, whose face graced the cover with the caption New Orleans Prodigal Son Returns.
The two-page article went on to talk about his meteoric rise in the movie industry and of course the iconic Lawson family, of which he was a part. It hinted at a rift between father and son, but the details were sketchy, giving way to more questions than answers. The one steady theme was that his return and the ensuing project would bring business to the city, as the article indicated that Lawson was a staunch supporter of employing local talent for his projects.
“A regular saint,” Jewel murmured around a mouthful of muffin. She washed it down with a healthy swallow of tea.
She gazed off into the distance. Craig Lawson. He was like many of the stars that peppered his films—larger than life. There was a magnetic pull about him, a swagger and self-assurance that was nearly impossible to resist. She’d felt it when they faced each other, when he clasped her hand in his. She’d felt herself become trapped in the undertow of his dark eyes, and it had taken all that she had to pull herself free. But at what cost?
“There you are.”
Jewel glanced up and over her shoulder and smiled. “Good morning.”
“I see you’ve been busy.” Minerva stepped fully onto the veranda.
“A little.” She laughed, but then her expression turned somber. “How’s Dad?”
“Resting. I’m going to get him his breakfast shortly. I know he’ll be happy to get one of your famous muffins to go with it.”
“Hmm.” She lowered her gaze.
Minerva sat down next to Jewel and placed a comforting hand on her knee. “There are going to be bad days,” she said softly. “You can’t let it overwhelm you. And...as hard as it is for us to accept, there will be more bad days than good.”
Jewel dragged in a breath. “I know,” she whispered. She turned to Minerva. “I’m scared, Minny.”
“Of course you are. But it’s going to be all right. It will. What you have to do is remember that and be the strong woman that he raised you to be. That’s what he needs now.”
Jewel slowly shook her head. “I don’t know if I can. We’re going broke, and fast. How will I take care of him, this house—you?”
Minerva frowned. “I thought you were going to let them do the film. They were willing to pay a pretty big sum, from what I remember you telling me.”
“I turned them down.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“After yesterday’s episode with Dad, I realized that it would be too much for him, too much disturbance. I couldn’t risk that.”
Minerva was pensive for a moment. “It that the real reason?”
“What do you mean? Of course it is. What other reason could I have?”
“Maybe it’s because you aren’t ready to reconnect with the world or forgot how. Your father has withdrawn—and not by choice. You, on the other hand, decided to live this life.”
“He’s my father! What choice did I have?”
“Taking care of your father is one thing—not living your own life is quite another.” She pushed up from her spot and looked down at Jewel. “It’s your decision. Make sure you come to it for the right reason. Your father is going to go through what he will go through whether you let them film here or not.” She patted Jewel’s stiff shoulder and walked back inside the house.
Jewel glanced at the confident face of Craig Lawson staring up at her from the newspaper, almost as if he was challenging her. Was Minerva right? Was it her father that she was trying to protect—or herself from the soul-stirring attraction she felt for Craig Lawson?
* * *
While his team scrambled to get the project back on track and into his good graces, Craig headed out. He was unaccustomed to not getting what he wanted when he wanted it. He never allowed anything or anyone to stop him cold—Jewel Fontaine would not become the exception. Everyone had a price, something that could be bargained for. All he needed to do was find out what Jewel’s something was. He fastened his seat belt, put the Suburban in gear and pulled out of the hotel garage.
As he cruised along the streets of New Orleans, the landscape of his youth unfolded in front of him. A great deal had changed since he was last here. Signs of gentrification were evident everywhere that he looked, from the small neighborhood shops that had transformed into internet cafés and outdoor eateries to the once debilitated homes that were in the throes of restoration. He was sure it was great for business—but whose business, and where did the people that once owned and lived here go? That was the story that he wanted to tell, the real history of his home and the people who made it.
His dashboard lit with an incoming call. He pressed the phone icon, and Anthony’s voice came through the speakers.
“Yeah, Tony, what’s up?”
“Where did you go off to?”
“I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”
“Paul and Diane are out scouting the alternate locations. I should have some news this afternoon.”
“All right. Stay on it. I’ll be back to the hotel in a couple of hours.”
“You’re going to see Ms. Fontaine, aren’t you?”
Craig bit back a smile. He never could hide much from Anthony. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Why are you so dead set on this place? I know it fits the specs, but there are plenty of places to choose from without having to twist the owner’s arm to do it. So I know there has to be another reason.”
“I don’t like being told no. Reason enough?”
“If you say so. Just know that I know you, and I know better. Good luck.”
He snorted a laugh. “’Preciate it.” He disconnected the call.
Anthony was right. It wasn’t as cut-and-dried as being told no, even though that was a big part of it. If he would allow himself a moment of honesty, he would admit that the real reason was that he wanted to see her again. See if on the morning after, she still managed to seep into his pores and flow through his veins. Best way to do that was face-to-face. He took a quick glance at the folder on the passenger seat. The documents inside, once signed, would give him access to the mansion and Jewel Fontaine for the next two months. He had no plans to return to the hotel empty-handed again.
The ride over to the Garden District, where Jewel lived, was about a twenty-minute ride from the center of town. Her home was on the edge of the district, set back and away from the street in a cul-de-sac that separated it from view of other homes in the area, which was ideal for the project.
He made his approach to the Garden District. This historic location was home to the some of the most iconic mansions in the state, all of which had been plantations during slavery. Anne Rice, of vampire fame, had a house there, along with the likes of football giant Peyton Manning, who grew up in the district.
Craig turned onto Prytania Street, which was lined with homes in the Gothic style. He reached the end of the lane and turned down the winding path that led to the Fontaine home. An unexpected knot of anxiety suddenly twisted in his gut when the mansion came into view. Or was it anticipation?
He took the path slowly and came to a stop at the top of the line of trees that umbrellaed the grounds. He turned off the ignition. For a few moments, he sat in the car, staring at the old-world majesty of the home and imagining the rich history that slept behind the walls and wafted among the rafters. What did the beautiful and difficult Jewel Fontaine add to that picture?
Craig snatched the folder from the passenger seat, got out and strode purposefully toward the sweeping entrance. Just as he put his booted foot on the first step of the landing, the double front door opened.
Jewel stood framed in the doorway, a mixture of past grandeur and present-day class.
Craig didn’t realize that he’d actually frozen midstep until she spoke his name.
“Mr. Lawson. I wasn’t expecting you.”
He couldn’t tell from her even tone if her words were a reprimand or ones of pleasant surprise. He climbed the three steps until he was inches in front of her. Something soft and inviting spun around her in the morning breeze—her scent combined with the aroma of fresh baking that drifted to him from the interior of the house.
Craig cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of what he wanted to say. “Um, good morning, Ms. Fontaine. I apologize for not calling.”
She didn’t budge, a sentinel protecting her domain.
“What can I do for you? I thought we concluded our business yesterday.”
“I was hoping that we could talk.”
“About?”
He ran his tongue lightly across his dry lips. “The house.”
Her lids lowered ever so slightly over her deep brown eyes, then she looked directly at him. She tipped her head slightly to the side. Her right brow rose. “Have you had breakfast?”
For a moment he was thrown. It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. “Actually, no. I haven’t.”
She drew in a short breath, opened the door farther and stepped to the side. “Come in.”
Craig walked past her. Her scent clouded his thoughts.
Jewel shut the door. “This way.” She led him through the large foyer that was appointed with an antique hall table upon which sat an oversize glass vase filled with lilies. On the walls hung several oil paintings that he recognized as her work. The highly polished wood-plank floors gleamed with their reflections and echoed their footsteps. She made a short right turn, and the space opened onto a kitchen that rivaled any master chef’s.
Every size pot and pan hung from black iron ceiling hooks over a polished-cement island counter that boasted a sink and a six-burner stove with cabinetry beneath. The far end of the island was for seating. The double oven and restaurant-size stainless steel refrigerator were in sharp contrast to the perfectly restored potbellied stove that sat like a Buddha at the far end of the kitchen.
“Coffee or tea?”
Craig blinked. “Coffee. Please.”
“Have a seat.” She went to the overhead cabinets and took out a bag of imported Turkish coffee and prepared it. Within moments the scent of fresh-brewed coffee mixed with the tempting aroma of the blueberry muffins that sat in a cloth-lined basket, waiting to be devoured. She took out a plate and retrieved jam and whipped apple butter from the fridge and placed them both on the table.
“You have an incredible home.”
“Thank you.” She poured his coffee and brought it to the table. “Cream, milk, sugar?”
“I take it black. Thanks.”
Jewel took a seat opposite him. “Help yourself to a muffin if you want. They’re fresh.”
His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t make these?”
“Actually, I did.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. “A woman of many talents.” He reached for a muffin and put it on his plate. “I noticed your artwork out there. Stunning.” He cut the muffin in half and slathered it with apple butter. He glanced up when she didn’t comment. He took a thoughtful bite and experienced heaven. His eyes closed in appreciation. “Wow, this is incredible.” That brought a smile to those luscious lips of hers.
“I learned to bake from my grandmother, right here in this kitchen. It slowly became a passion of mine over the years.”
“So you grew up here?”
“The house has been in the family for almost four generations, dating back to the emancipation. I lived here with my grandmother and my father until I graduated high school.”
Where was her mother in the scenario? He didn’t recall reading anything about her. “You attended the Sorbonne.”
Her eyes flashed. A curious smile curved her mouth. “Have you been reading up on me? I thought it was the house you were interested in.”
Both, he wanted to say but didn’t. “Any time I’m in negotiations with anyone I want to know as much as possible about them.”
“I see.” Her lips narrowed.
“If I remember correctly, the original owner, Charles Biggs, was one of the few owners of these homes that didn’t own slaves.”
“True. My great-great-grandparents worked here and earned a wage. They were free blacks. They lived in the house in the back. When the owner died, he left the house, the land, everything to my great-great-grandparents.” She huffed. “It didn’t sit well with the neighbors.” Her gaze drifted off. “My granddad told me stories about how my greats fought off threats both physical and emotional from the landowners around here. Nothing worked, and eventually they came to respect my family.”
“Lot of history here,” he said respectfully and struggled to contain his surprise and excitement about the eerie similarities of their ancestors.
“Yes, there is.” She stared into her cup of tea. “So why are you here, Mr. Lawson?” She leveled her gaze on him, and something warm simmered in his belly.
“I believe that if you hear me out, you’ll change your mind about renting out your home.”
Jewel seemed to study him for a moment, as if the weight of her reality pressed against her shoulders, and with a breath of apparent acceptance she said, “Let’s talk out back.” She led the way to the veranda.
* * *
“Please, have a seat,” Jewel said, extending her hand toward one of the cushioned chairs.
“Thanks.” Craig sat and placed his plate and cup on the circular white wrought-iron table.
Jewel sat opposite him, adjusted her long skirt and leaned back. She folded her slender fingers across her lap. “So... I’m listening.”
Craig cleared his throat, focusing on Jewel, and for a moment talking about the project was the last thing on his mind. He shifted his weight in the chair. “I believe as an artist you can fully appreciate a project of passion.” Her nostrils flared ever so slightly as if bracing for attack. “That’s what this project is for me. Everything that I’ve done and everything that I have accomplished has led me here—now.” He pushed out a breath. “It’s the story of my family, the Lawsons.”
Her lashes fluttered, but her features remained unreadable.
“Of course, I’ve changed the names, to protect the guilty,” he said, not in jest. “The story of a family that came from nothing, with a history of rising up from slavery, starting a business in a shack and building a legacy that led all the way to the seats of power in Washington.” He leaned forward, held her with his gaze.
“More important,” he continued, his voice taking on an urgency, “is that now is the time. With all that is going on in the world, with all that is happening to black lives, this is a story not only of history but of hope. It’s about resiliency, about who we are as a people and all that we can be.” He took a breath. “From what you told me about your family, we—” he flipped his hand back and forth between them “—have a helluva lot in common. This house, this land and the history of it is the ultimate backdrop for the telling of this story. It won’t only be my family story, but your family story as well.”
Jewel pushed up from her seat and walked over to the railing to gaze out at the rolling slopes. “I know about your work. I’ve read the reviews and the write-ups.” She turned to face him. “They all say good things—that you are brilliant.” She smiled faintly. “And that in an industry that is utterly jaded, you still keep your integrity intact and you never work on a project for the money but for the passion.”
Craig took the comments in stride. He got up and stood beside her. He felt her stiffen. “I’ve read all about you, too.” Her eyes widened for an instant. “You’re one of the most influential artists of your generation. But suddenly you all but vanish from the public eye. Don’t you miss it? Do you still paint, sculpt?”
“In answer to all of your questions, no, I don’t,” she practically whispered.
He watched her throat work as if she would reveal more, but she didn’t. If he knew nothing else about artists of any medium, they weren’t fulfilled if they didn’t do what they were born to do. But instead of saying what he thought, he said, “If it’s about the money, we are more than willing to pay twice what we offered, and I—”
Jewel spun her body toward him so quickly that it forced him to take a step back. Her eyes narrowed in fury.
“You think because I’m not in the limelight that I’m some kind of charity case and that I need your money!”
He reached out and gently placed his hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. All I’m saying is that I understand that it is an imposition, that strangers would interfere with your regular routine for weeks and you should be duly compensated, not to mention that your home would be the centerpiece of an amazing film. That’s all worth something, and for me, having this film made at this location is more valuable than you could imagine.” A slow, endearing smile curved his mouth while his eyes danced across her face.
Jewel, by degrees, seemed to relax her body. She lowered her head for a moment then looked directly at him, and the connection was so intense that he felt as if he’d been hit in the gut.
“Okay,” she finally said. “You can shoot your film here.”
A smile like hallelujah broke out on his face. He totally kicked protocol to the curb, grabbed her around the waist and spun her in a circle. She laughed like a kid at Christmas, and it was pure music.
He finally set her on her feet, and they were but a breath apart. He saw the flecks of cinnamon in the irises of her eyes, felt the warmth of her body, the beat of her heart. He wanted to know what her lips felt like, to taste her...just a little.
“Sorry,” he said.
Jewel gazed at him while the shadow of a smile hovered around her mouth.
“Thank you,” he said, “and I swear we’ll make this as painless for you as possible.”
“I’m going to hold you to that, Mr. Lawson.”
“I think maybe you can call me Craig.”
The tip of her tongue brushed across her bottom lip. “Jewel.”
“I’ll have some new paperwork drawn up and sent over first thing tomorrow,” Craig said as they walked to the front door.
They stood side by side on the landing.
“Fine. Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything,” he said, still euphoric over the positive turn of events.
“If this place and your family’s legacy are so important to you, why did you stay away for ten years?”
The question seemed to take him off guard. For a moment he didn’t respond, but he quickly regained his composure. “How about this... I promise to tell you all about it if you agree to have dinner with me, to thank you.”
Jewel swallowed and took a small step aside. “I don’t think so.”
“Lunch?” He covered the step she’d given up. He faced her. “Starbucks on the corner of wherever,” he joked.
Jewel laughed. “Fine. Lunch,” she conceded.
“Tomorrow. One o’clock. I’ll come and get you.” He jogged down the three steps. “Enjoy your day,” he said over his shoulder.
Jewel stood on the porch landing until the Suburban was long out of sight. Why had she agreed to have lunch with him? Why had she agreed to have his film crew in her home? Why was her heart racing as if she’d run a marathon, and why did she feel as if the lights had suddenly come on after much too long in the darkness? She turned and walked back inside. Craig Lawson was the answer to all of her questions.
