There were boot marks on the steps.
A chill of unease ran up her spine as she looked at the unmistakable imprint of boot treads on the wooden stairs. She never wore boots inside, but Hudson did.
She dashed up the attic stairs, calling his name. She nearly banging her head on the slanted ceiling at the top. She took several steps into the center of the studio space, turning around in bewildered circles.
Her paintings were gone.
She swallowed and closed her eyes, praying that when she opened them the paintings would reappear and she could breathe again.
The paintings were gone.
All her canvases, the ones Hudson had liked so much, the ones that were her very own heart’s blood on the page, had been removed from where they leaned against the walls. At least twenty paintings had vanished. She gasped, sucking in air as her mind whirled.
Robbed?
But the front door had been locked.
She turned around. Izzy’s big painting was also gone. The only things left were her landscapes and still life paintings that Hudson said were boring. There was a note pinned to her easel.
“It will be ok, trust me. No more playing it safe. Don’t be mad.”
She ripped the note off the easel and stared at it.
Printed carefully at the bottom was his signature.
“Love, Hudson.”
She tried to slow her breathing, to calm the riot of emotions coursing through her nerves.
“I am going to kill him.”
ROBIN FLUNG OPEN THE front door of Two-if-by-Tulips. The cow bell over the door clanged alarmingly as Neil rushed out of the back room, a fistful of pinks in his hands.
“What’s happening? Robin, what’s wrong?” He put the flowers down and came around the counter. He held her by her shoulders and shook her gently.
“I’m going to kill him,” she hissed, the twist of fear in her stomach having curdled into rage. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “I have to call Auntie.”
“Oh.” Neil let her go and stood wringing his hands.
“I need your help, but hang on—I have to call Auntie.” She paced around the small shop, glaring at her cell phone and jabbing at it. Neil chewed his lip and retreated behind the counter.
“Auntie, please.” She was trying not to yell, but she was losing the battle. “Can you pick Izzy up at daycare? I’m having an emergency.”
“Whatever is wrong, dear?” Auntie’s voice sounded tinny on the cell phone and Robin was suddenly overcome with a need to cry.
“Hudson has stolen my paintings,” she gasped, choking on the words.
“Yes, I know dear.”
“Wait, what?” Robin froze. She turned her head toward Neil who shrugged and looked guilty. Her eyes widened. “What do you mean you know? You both know?”
She glared at Neil, speaking to them both as she held the phone away from her ear.
“Well, he asked for the key to your apartment,” Auntie explained. “And he had such a marvelous plan, I simply couldn’t say no, could I?”
“A marvelous plan,” Robin repeated flatly.
“Oh yes, dear. You’ll be ever so pleased.”
“I am not pleased, Auntie. I am so far from pleased I’m not even on the same continent as pleased.”
“Now darling, one must be willing to dive into adventure when the opportunity arises. Why, just this morning, Mrs. Crawley said to me—”
“Can you get Izzy for me, please?” Robin cut her off, her hand shaking.
“Of course, dear,” Auntie said. “I’m on my way.”
Robin lowered the phone and advanced on Neil who raised his hands in surrender.
“Neil.” She spoke in measured tones, her mind running over the possibilities and repeatedly coming up with the worst one. “Where are my paintings?”
Silently, he reached under the counter and brought out a flyer. He placed it on the counter between them and slid it toward her with one finger.
“The Prophet Mansion Art Show and Sale.” Her voice shook as she read it. “He didn’t?”
“He did.” Neil smiled nervously. “He’s trying to help.”
“By stealing my work? By putting it on display when I specifically said I didn’t want anyone to see it, ever? How is that helping?”
“Let’s go.” Neil closed the cash register and pulled out his keys. He took Robin by the elbow and lead her out the door, turning the open sign as they went. “You’re in no state to drive.”
CARS WERE PARKED ALONG the edge of the road leading to the Prophet Mansion, so Neil had to park a fair distance from the house. Robin trudged down the side of the road, trying to decide what she would do to Hudson when she found him.
Evisceration had a nice ring to it.
“I just can’t get over the nerve.” She turned and grabbed Neil by the sleeve so he would keep up with her. “Who does that? Who sneaks into a woman’s apartment and steals her very private work and then just goes ahead and shares it with the world, without asking?”
“Would you have said yes?” Neil asked, panting as he tried to keep up.
“I already have work in this show.” She was a champion at not answering questions, and she was determined to continue with the not answering until her work was safely rescued and restored to obscurity in her attic, where it belonged. “I have landscapes. I have still lifes. He had no business submitting work I did not want anyone to see. I haven’t seen the man for two weeks and he just waltzes right into my home—correction, my renegade great-aunt lets him into my home—”
“He said you were hiding your best paintings.” Neil dragged on her arm to slow her down. “Why haven’t you shown anyone this work?”
“And furthermore,” she said. “You knew! You knew he was doing this, and you let it happen.”
“Why didn’t you put some of this work in the show?”
“And Auntie knew, too! I can’t believe you people. Everyone knows that Hudson is a low-down stealing art-thief, and no one tries to stop him!”
“You’re dodging the question,” he said as they finally turned to enter the driveway. “Hudson just forced your hand, and you’re mad that you weren’t in control.”
“I’m mad that he stole from me.”
“Control freak.”
“What if some stupid guy smashed his way into your life and then stole your... flowers... and showed them to everyone... against your will? Huh? How would you feel?”
They crunched their way up the driveway, the gravel laughing under their feet.
“If it made more people love my flowers, I’d probably say thank you.”
Robin grunted, her stomach plunging into a dark hole as they approached the Prophet Mansion.
She stopped abruptly, yanking Neil to a standstill as she stared at the imposing façade of the huge house. A wide staircase swept up from the driveway to impressive double doors bookmarked on each side with huge decorative vines and shrubbery in ornate flowerpots. Several other couples were arriving and making their way up the stairs. A butler opened the door to usher them into the sparkling hallway beyond the entrance. A fancy sandwich-board beside the steps showed the Gallery poster with Prophet Mansion Annual Art Show and Sale in huge scripted letters.
“Oh my God,” she moaned. “I can’t go in there.”
“You’ve been here a million times.” Neil patted her on the shoulder. “It’s just an art show. And everyone knows you.”
“Everyone will be judging me, which means there is no one in there who is my friend.”
“I am your friend, you idiot.” Neil bumped her with his hip. “And Hudson is your friend, although I think he would like to be more than that.”
Robin took a deep breath, blowing the air out noisily through her nose.
“I am going to kill Hudson.”
“THE DISPLAYS LOOK LOVELY, Mrs. Prophet,” Hudson said to the hostess, Iris Prophet. He worried that he was babbling, but he couldn’t relax as he waited anxiously for Robin. Surely, she
would come to see her own work? She wouldn’t be angry when she saw how fantastic her paintings looked against the black fabric displays he had created to highlight the vivid colors of each canvas. “I appreciate you allowing me to submit Robin’s work on such short notice. I hope you agree that it was worth the inconvenience?”
Hudson had arrived the night before, bearing an acre of fabric and wooden easels which he constructed into a striking display, with various canvases at different levels, drawing the eye across the space both horizontally and vertically. He thought Robin would be pleased. He had watched Robin leave her apartment that morning, then used Auntie’s key to sneak in and lugged the stolen canvases to the Prophet Mansion. He had spent several hours moving them around and finding the exact placement for each piece.
He stepped back to appreciate the colorful expression of a journey. A woman and a child moving with grace and power through various stages, poses and emotions. Her work didn’t shy away from fear and anger, and each canvas spoke with a unique voice about the challenges of life, with beauty and honestly. Each piece was the antithesis of a still life, breathing vitality into the room with every bold stroke of color.
Mrs. Prophet nodded her head at several people across the room, turning a frosty smile on Hudson as he gestured toward Robin’s paintings.
“They certainly are striking,” she said. “I had no idea she had such talent. Robin and my daughter Zoe have been friends for years, but I thought she only dabbled in those boring landscapes she submits each year.”
“She’s incredibly talented.” Hudson smiled. “And beautiful.”
Mrs. Prophet looked at him sideways. “Is she?”
“Inside and out.” He ran his fingers through his hair as he scanned the crowd. She simply had to show up.
“I hope her work is as well appreciated, Hudson, dear.” The older woman patted his arm. “The display is already catching attention.” She nodded toward the crowd gathered in front of Robin’s canvasses before turning away to speak to her other guests.
The hallway sparkled with chandeliers catching the evening sun pouring in from the full-length windows that ran down the length of the corridor. Paintings and sculptures and photographs graced the space, as the subdued crowd mingled, stopping to appreciate the variety of mediums on display. Hudson felt certain Robin would sell some work tonight, as well as building her reputation as a skilled artist.
And hopefully relax a bit of the constant restraint that had her so tightly wound all the time. But most of all, he hoped she would forgive him.
Chapter 35
Robin spotted him the moment she entered the wide hallway. His blonde head rose above the crowd like a beacon. The rush of blood to her cheeks and the pounding of her heart was due to her anger at him. Nothing more.
“It’s a shame he’s so good-looking, isn’t it?” Neil spoke at her elbow. “I mean, for being such a jerk you would think he’d at least smell bad, but nope.”
She grunted.
“And you can see how no one likes him.” Hudson was surrounded by a throng of guests, smiling and gesturing among them. He was obviously directing their attention to her paintings, arrayed behind him in a wall of color.
Her paintings.
She stared, dumbfounded. In contrast to the muted colors and compositions of the work surrounding them, they were like rainbows leaping off the wall.
“Neil, they’re so—”
“Beautiful? Striking? Vivid?”
“Loud,” she said. “It’s like they’re screaming ‘here I am’ at the tops of their lungs.” She looked about nervously, afraid to walk any closer and have people see her. She was terrified to hear the comments they were making to Hudson. She fought the urge to turn and run.
Neil shoved her away from the door and she took several steps into the space. Hudson turned his head and saw her.
His entire face lit up like a merry cherub, utterly delighted to see her. There was no hesitation or veiled emotions on his face. He smiled and waved, and she had to shake her head at his audacity.
“He thinks this is just great. Look at him. Like the ringleader of some fantasy circus.”
“This is great, Robin,” Neil said. “You’re the only one who’s all dark and twisty.”
Robin jumped as a woman appeared by her side, laying a hand on her arm and turning her around.
“I had no idea, Robin. Simply no idea you had such images in your mind.” The woman blinked at her through glasses linked to a sparkling chain, her tightly curled hair the color of seafoam. Her lips were brilliant red, with tiny lines of color leaching through the wrinkles as she smiled broadly.
“Mrs. Crawley.” Robin was speechless. She glanced toward her birthing painting, the brilliant reds and pinks suddenly seeming vulgar as she saw them through Mrs. Crawley’s eyes. She could feel Hudson watching her carefully from across the room, still surrounded by people.
“Very clever of you, Robin.” Mrs. Crawley placed her finger on her nose and winked.
“Um—”
“Hiding your best work.” She gestured toward the display. “Creating this big splash, so everyone is talking about you.”
“Everyone is talking about me?” Her knees trembled.
“Absolutely everyone. Why I just fielded at least a dozen inquiries into your personal life. Where is your studio? Where did you study?” She listed off questions on her fingers. “Are you married?”
“Someone asked you if I was married?” Robin frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I just said to your Auntie this morning, I said, that great niece of yours is a marvel. A marvel, I said.” Mrs. Crawley plucked a crumpled tissue from her edge of her sleeve and daubed at her nose. “Raising that child, out of wedlock, all alone. Why, I can’t tell you how often we’ve worried about you, toiling away without a husband to support you. But you simply continue to rise above, don’t you?”
“Wedlock, seriously?” Robin looked around for escape. Neil was nowhere to be seen.
“That young Mr. Proxly seems to be your champion, if I may be so bold.” She leaned her head conspiratorially toward Robin as a cloud of lavender assailed her nostrils. Mrs. Crawley pointed at Hudson. “I don’t like to tell tales, but apparently he is newly single and is poised to take over his father’s law firm. Quite a catch for a young lady like yourself.”
“He stole my paintings and brought them here without my permission,” she said flatly, her nose itching from the perfume. Mrs. Crawley smelled like the little pucks she used in her toilet bowl to keep the water fresh. She wondered if that’s what embalming fluid smelled like.
“What a clever boy. Now, don’t play hard to get Robin. He’s a hot ticket and could slip through your fingers if you don’t act.”
“I hope he does, Mrs. Crawley.” Robin managed, choking on a sharp retort that included several words Auntie would not be pleased to have her utter. “I haven’t found much need for a husband, myself. Caring for one child is more than enough.”
Mrs. Crawley laughed. “I could tell you tales, my dear, about my own Mr. Crawley and his childish ways. Why, just last week he—”
“You really must excuse me, Mrs. Crawley.” Robin patted her arm and stepped away. “Lovely seeing you.”
She ignored Mrs. Crawley’s continued mutterings and headed across the floor toward Hudson. Neil had vanished and she was surprised he was allowing her to reach Hudson without acting as a bodyguard.
She would simply walk right over to him and tell him how she felt. She hated feeling apprehensive and fidgety. She hated that as much as she wanted to strangle him, she also just wanted to stand beside Hudson and lean into him. People looked at her and she slowed down self-consciously. She just wanted to be invisible, which was kind of hard when there was a three-foot-tall abstract rendering of her vagina on display for the world to see.
She was going to kill him.
“Excuse me, are you—” A small woman with a notebook and frizzy hair squinted at her from behi
nd pop-bottle glasses. “Robin Nelson? The painter?”
“I am, um, Robin Nelson the Interior Designer.” She adopted her professional Marilyn Monroe voice. “Of Robin by Design.”
“Oh, I was told by that tall man that you were the artist who created these incredible canvases.” The woman turned and clutched her notebook to her chest, sighing with pleasure and shaking her head. “I adore them. Every one. You aren’t her?”
Robin looked at Hudson, still halfway across the hall from her. He was talking to Mr. Prophet, an elderly man who stood leaning on a cane and talking animatedly with Hudson who smiled at him with all the usual Hudson warmth and charm.
Robin missed that smile.
“I am her,” she said, sighing. “Unfortunately.”
The woman blinked at her.
“My name is Piper.” She thrust out a hand and shook Robin’s vigorously. “I own the gallery in town.” She released Robin’s hand and thrust a business card at her. “I have already purchased one of your pieces this afternoon, and I would be interested in talking to you about a showing.”
“You bought one?” Robin gasped. “They’re for sale?”
Piper cocked her head to the side with a smile. “It is the Prophet Art Show and Sale, after all.”
“How much did you pay for it?”
Now the woman’s amused expression began to look truly puzzled. She looked around as if seeking reinforcements. “I paid what it asked for on the price tag.”
“Price tag.” Robin repeated, squinting at the paintings and nodding her head as she saw small white cards attached to each canvas. “Of course.”
“I think you’ll do quite well, today, Robin of Robin by Design.” The woman smiled again.
“Mumma!” Robin was shoved sideways as Izzy appeared out of nowhere and launched herself against her, climbing half-way up her legs and wrapping her arms tightly around her waist.
“Where did you come from, Izzy Iguana?” Robin hugged her, realizing her hands were shaking. She needed Izzy to ground her to the moment and calm her nerves.
Love by Design: A Heartswell Harbour Romance Page 16