To Capture the Sky (Choices of the Heart, book 2)

by Jennie Marsland

  They spent the morning in Central Park, letting Michael dabble in the pond and run wild along the tree-shaded paths. When he got tired, they found a bench to rest on. Isobel took her son on her lap and Beth wriggled her hot, aching feet. Oh, to take her shoes off and soothe her toes in the cool grass. “You said you had some other ideas about my paintings. I’d like to hear them.”

  “Yes. I’ve been wondering if it wouldn’t have been smarter to send them to Mother in the first place. She knows you well, and she’d know who to show them to.” Isobel shifted Michael to the bench between them and gave Beth a rueful smile. “I shouldn’t have taken Mr. Hickstead at face value like I did. I really am sorry, Beth.”

  Beth reached over Michael to put her hand on Isobel’s knee. Sitting here under the trees, she could put Vance Hickstead’s pettiness into perspective. “Don’t worry about it. New York’s a pretty big pond to start in. Maybe you’re right about your mother, but I’m not giving up yet, not when I just got here.”

  “Of course not.” Isobel put her hand over Beth’s. “We’ll call on Mr. Caldwell this afternoon, but he’s not your only hope. Private galleries are new here, but there are a few and I know the owners of a couple of smaller ones. They aren’t as well-known, but they may be more accessible for that. Some of the people who were at dinner last night have connections as well. We’ll keep trying.”

  Beth thought of all the times she and Isobel had gotten each other out of scrapes as girls. It warmed her to know the old loyalty hadn’t faded. “Isobel, you’re the same old scout.”

  “That’s what friends are for. Beth… I told Walter last night that you were having problems in Colorado. He said you’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you need to.”

  Beth winced. She didn’t doubt that she’d quickly find a limit to Walter’s generosity if she tested it. “Thanks, but if I don’t go back to Colorado, I guess the best thing you’ll be able to do for me is help me find an inexpensive place to live and keep promoting my work. Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

  Once Michael was rested, they started for home. After lunch, they took a cab to a quiet side street in Greenwich Village. Beth looked around appreciatively when the Caldwell Gallery door closed behind them, shutting out the traffic sounds and leaving them to enjoy the artwork in near silence.

  Beth had expected Mr. Caldwell to be middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair and an air of culture and refinement. She barely managed to hide her surprise when a dark-haired man in his early thirties, with sea-green eyes and a warm smile, strode out from a back room and shook Isobel’s hand.

  “Hello, Mrs. James. It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, John. This is an old friend of mine, Elizabeth McShannon, until recently Elizabeth Underhill. You’ve heard her name I believe, and seen her work. Beth, this is John Caldwell.”

  Mr. Caldwell acknowledged Beth with a slight bow. “E.M. Underhill? Yes, I’ve seen one of your paintings, the one Vance Hickstead bought recently.” His eyes took on a gleam of mischief. “As it happens, Mr. Hickstead stopped by here this morning. You made quite an impression on him last night.”

  Beth couldn’t hold back a smile. “I think I surprised him.”

  “You certainly did. As for myself, I’m interested in seeing more of your work. How many pieces do you have here in New York?”

  A rush of hope left Beth breathless. “Five. One is still at the framer’s, but it should be finished by Thursday.”

  “Would you be able to bring them by on Friday morning?”

  Beth restrained an urge to hug Mr. Caldwell. Her time here wasn’t going to be wasted after all. “Friday morning will be fine. We’ll be here.”

  She walked on air for the remaining few minutes she and Isobel spent in the gallery, but reaction set in when they drove away. Beth’s head swam and her heart raced as hard as it had after she fired Gabe Tanner.

  Don’t be silly. It’s a chance. Nothing more. If she couldn’t do better than this at controlling her nerves, she might as well get on the west-bound train tomorrow.

  Isobel did her best to keep Beth busy over the next few days while they waited for Friday to come. They visited all of Beth’s favorite shops, museums and galleries, and she still enjoyed them. She’d never spent enough time in New York for the city’s novelty to wear off. Before she moved west, no one could have convinced her that the novelty could wear off, but now she wondered. She reminded herself that if she stayed here her work would take up most of her time, and she wouldn’t have money to spare for shopping and restaurants.

  Friday finally arrived. When Beth and Isobel arrived at the Caldwell gallery, Mr. Caldwell came out to meet them and help bring everything inside. As he looked the paintings over, so did Beth, remembering when she’d done each one. The thunderstorm sweeping toward the river valley – she’d never forget getting caught in the rain that day, or the look on Trey’s face when she stepped into the cabin dripping wet. Each painting carried a memory.

  Mr. Caldwell didn’t rush.

  Beth felt like screaming with the suspense by the time he finished his appraisal.

  “Mrs. McShannon, how long can you leave these with me?”

  “For as long as you like. I’m not planning on taking them back to Colorado.”

  “I see. I’d like to have a few days to spread the word, but I think we can be ready for a showing next Thursday night.”

  Beth couldn’t keep a slight tremor out of her voice. “Thank you. Mr. Caldwell, I really appreciate this.”

  He gave her a dry smile. “Don’t thank me, Mrs. McShannon. I hope to make a healthy profit here.”

  She’d discussed commission and prices with Isobel beforehand, but Beth still felt very inexperienced as she negotiated with Mr. Caldwell. The gallery would keep the paintings for a year, then return any that hadn’t sold to Isobel.

  “Tell me I didn’t sound as green as I felt,” Beth said as soon as they were back in the carriage. “Was he being reasonable?”

  “Not exactly generous, but reasonable. Now let’s concentrate on the opening.”

  “Do you think Mr. Hickstead will be there?”

  “I’d expect him to be. There might be a critic or two as well. That’s why you’re here. Now we’re going to call on most of the people who were at dinner the other night and invite them. We’ve got a busy week ahead of us, Beth.”

  * * *

  Trey looked up from his supper at the sound of a horse in the yard. Logan’s buckskin. He stifled his irritation and called out through the open door. The last thing he wanted right now was company, but that wasn’t Logan’s fault. “Get down and come in. Coffee’s on.”

  Logan stepped in, joined Trey at the table and pulled two envelopes from his shirt pocket. “I’m on my way back from town. Here’s your mail.”

  He handed over a letter from an old army friend for Trey, and one from someone in Philadelphia for Beth. Seeing ‘Beth McShannon’ scrawled across the envelope felt like biting down on a sore tooth.

  Trey got up, moved the frying pan he’d used to the edge of the stove and reached for the coffee pot. “Thanks. Want a cup?”

  “Sure.” Logan leaned his elbows on the table. When the silence got awkward, he started to speak, then appeared to change his mind.

  Trey let out a sigh as he sat down. “You might as well say your piece.” He knew Beth had been to see Maddy before she left, and he had no doubt that she’d filled Logan in on what had happened, though he and Trey hadn’t discussed it.

  Logan took a sudden interest in a crack in the table. “Trey, I’ve always made a point of staying out of other folks’ business.”

  “Smart thing to do.”

  “Yeah.” Logan took a sip of his coffee, tipped back in his chair, and then rocked it forward again. “Maddy, now, she hasn’t got the gift.”

  Trey shot him a sardonic grin. “Did she send you to pester me?”

  “No, I told her to leave you alone, though I wouldn’t be surprised i
f your milk’s been a little sour lately. Maddy likes Beth.”

  “I know.” Trey picked up his fork and pushed the few beans remaining on his plate into a neat pile. “So you just stopped by with the mail.”

  Logan nodded. “Yeah, but while I’m here I’m going to have my say. Trey, Beth is without a doubt the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  Trey dropped his fork and scraped back his chair. “I know that. What kind of a fool do you take me for? But I just might be the worst thing that ever happened to her.” He picked up his dishes and shoved them onto the kitchen dresser with a clatter. “She’s talented, Logan. Even I can see that. She deserves her chance. She can’t make a name for herself from here.”

  “Don’t you think she’s the best judge of that? And isn’t it up to her how much of a name she wants?” Logan held Trey’s gaze when he glared at him. “If you think you’re doing this for her good, you are a fool. A miserable one. That’s been plain enough since she left.” He took a swig of coffee and got up. “Well, I’m done. Maddy’ll have supper waiting. Get some sleep. You look like you need it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Logan stepped out before Trey could come up with the scathing words he wanted. He sat at the table until dark, fighting a losing battle with his feelings.

  * * *

  Isobel wasn’t lying. She dragged Beth around relentlessly in the afternoons until she no longer cared if anyone came to the opening or not, but Thursday came at last.

  When Beth, Isobel and Walter got to the gallery there was a nervous half-hour of waiting; then guests began to arrive. Isobel’s friends and the people Mr. Caldwell had invited made a respectable crowd, and Beth found herself in the middle of a scene from the life she’d always thought she wanted.

  One man came up to her after looking at her thunderstorm painting for several minutes. “I stayed in the army and went west for a couple of years after the war. I remember storms like that.”

  “I certainly won’t forget that one.” Beth sensed the general mood of appreciation in the room. She couldn’t have hoped for more, and the icing on the cake came when Vance Hickstead arrived.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. McShannon,” he said as smoothly as if their conversation at Isobel’s dinner had never occurred. “You’re a very enterprising young woman.”

  Beth let her amusement show. “Not really, Mr. Hickstead. Just a stubborn one.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  Before he could say more, a woman she’d met at Isobel’s dinner appeared. “Mrs. McShannon, I was just telling my husband that we should have had our wits about us like Vance did when he bought your work. He got himself a bargain, I believe.”

  Mr. Hickstead put on his most winning smile. “I certainly did, Mrs. Jeffries. That’s how the game is played. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I see Larry Andrews over there and there’s something I have to tell him.”

  He moved across the room, and through the rest of the evening Beth heard him gracefully accepting compliments on being the first to appreciate her work. Each time he looked her way, she let her eyes twinkle with amusement. Then it was over.

  After the last guests left the gallery, Mr. Caldwell saw Beth, Isobel, and Walter to the door. “It’s still early. I’m having dinner at a restaurant only a couple of blocks away. The place is a favorite of mine. Would you care to join me?”

  Walter spoke up. “Thank you, John. We’d be glad to. I told Cook we’d probably be dining out. Lead the way.”

  Beth would much rather have gone home to a quick bite and bed, but what could she say? After a short walk through the warm summer night, they found themselves at a small, elegant restaurant where Mr. Caldwell was obviously known and respected. Easy to see why. His down-to-earth charm made him difficult to dislike.

  “Mrs. McShannon, it’s obvious from your work how much you like the west. I hope to get out there one day soon, before it changes too much with settlement.”

  “You really should, Mr. Caldwell. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.” In contrast to Walter, Beth didn’t find it hard to picture John Caldwell in Colorado. He gave the impression of a man who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty.

  “I’ve lived in New York all my life and I wouldn’t choose to live anywhere else, but I can see the appeal of a place where life is less conventional.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then again, if your work becomes popular you’ll be coming east regularly. You’ll have the best of both worlds.”

  “I suppose so.” Of course, Mr. Caldwell had no idea that Beth might not go back to Colorado.

  And if you don’t? When Aunt Abigail died and Beth decided not to let Graham send her east, she’d been thinking of her old, constraining life in Philadelphia, not life as it could be here in New York as a successful artist. She’d have the chance to earn the recognition she’d always wanted, from men like John Caldwell and others. Some would shun her when the circumstances of her marriage became known, but that would only give her more freedom in the end. And Trey would be free, too – free to find a woman whose only aim was to be the kind of wife he deserved.

  Through dinner, Mr. Caldwell addressed most of his conversation to Beth. It had been a long time since she’d talked like this with a man who acted as if he appreciated her as an individual, not a decoration or potential financial asset. She knew Trey respected her, but he wasn’t the most conversational of men.

  Later, on the cab ride home, Isobel gave Beth a hug. “Congratulations. The evening couldn’t have gone better. You must be thrilled, and you deserve to be.”

  “I really can’t take it all in yet. It doesn’t feel real.”

  “It will.” Isobel sat back and held Beth’s gaze. “Beth, did you notice how taken John was with you?”

  Beth barely managed not to gape at Isobel like a fool. It hadn’t occurred to her to take Mr. Caldwell’s friendliness as anything but just that – friendliness. And she’d thought she lost her naiveté about men long ago. “Taken with me? He’s easy to talk to, but–”

  “Come, Beth, you haven’t been buried in Colorado that long. He was as obvious as he could decently be.”

  Disappointment killed the glow of Beth’s success. Could Mr. Caldwell really be that much of a cad, when he’d seemed so straightforward? “Then there’s nothing decent about him. He knows I’m married.”

  “John and I had a conversation while you were occupied at the gallery,” Walter said. “I told him the truth about your marriage. Oh, he didn’t ask. He wouldn’t dream of it” – when Beth’s face heated with temper – “but in the course of telling him about your long friendship with Isobel, I mentioned that your circumstances had changed since you moved to Colorado, that your marriage was a matter of necessity and that you were still free to make other arrangements if you chose. The knowledge won’t go any further – John hates gossip – and I could see that he was interested in you, so I wanted him to know the truth. It would be a shame for you to lose your chance with him because of a misunderstanding.”

  “My chance–” Knowing she’d say something sharp, Beth stopped. How could Walter have dared?

  Isobel cut in. “You’re angry, but when you’ve gotten some rest and had a chance to think, you’ll be grateful Walter made things clear. You wanted choices. Now you have them.”

  Beth took a deep breath and reminded herself of all Isobel had done for her. “You’re right, Isobel, I’m too tired to think right now. Thank heaven we’re almost home.” She leaned back against her seat, closed her eyes, and tried to see Walter’s side of it. After all, she couldn’t blame him for not wanting a houseguest indefinitely, or for paving her way to what he must see as a golden opportunity – a man unconventional enough not to care about Beth’s marriage of convenience, a man with enough money to be able to choose a wife for affection, a man who obviously found her attractive. If she’d met John Caldwell before moving west–

  But she hadn’t.

  * * *

  The next morning, Beth was still in bed
when Isobel came in with the Times, a broad grin on her face. “Here’s something to wake you up. Read this.”

  Isobel had circled a small column about the opening. A very small, positive column.

  “… Highly original use of color…sensitive interpretation of ordinary subjects… a young artist of significant promise.”

  Beth put the paper down. Her grin matched Isobel’s. “I don’t believe it. Who are they talking about?”

  “Enjoy it. You’ve earned it.” Isobel flipped up the window blinds, flooding the room with bright sunlight. “Now get up. We’re going to celebrate.”

  They had more to celebrate two days later, when a note from Mr. Caldwell arrived, saying that the man who had admired Beth’s painting of the thunderstorm wanted to buy it. He also asked her to drop by the gallery, as there were some details he wanted to finalize concerning her other pieces. Isobel had other calls to make, so Beth took a cab to the gallery on her own.

  It only took ten minutes to answer Mr. Caldwell’s questions, which could all have been answered by Isobel later. Were they only a pretext?

  “Is that all then, Mr. Caldwell? If any other concerns come up, I’m sure Mrs. James will be able to address them.”

  Mr. Caldwell’s face flushed. The look in his fine green eyes left no doubt in Beth’s mind that Isobel and Walter were right, that this man was very much attracted to her. “No, that’s not quite all. Mrs. McShannon, I think you’re the kind of woman who appreciates frankness, so I’ll be frank. I asked you here because Walter James and I had a conversation the other night – unprompted by me, I assure you. He told me–”

  “I know what he said. He told me on the way home that night. I was furious with him, but I know he thought he was acting in my best interests.”

  Mr. Caldwell went on, still with a flush of emotion on his face. “I deserve my share of blame. If I’d done a better job of hiding my feelings, Walter wouldn’t have spoken. I assumed he or Mrs. James would tell you what was said, so I decided I should speak to you myself.”