by Janet Eaves
“Really. It’s so cool that you can get notified of stuff like that. Do you remember the critic’s name?” Chloe mostly avoided computers but liked the idea that the internet was doing her business some good already.
“Damien something. I remember thinking of The Omen when I saw the name.”
Chloe’s blood froze. “Damien Phillips?”
“Hm. Maybe. I really don’t recall.” Midnight ran a hand down her perfectly straight black hair. “You know Damien Phillips, evidently. Bad experience?”
“Pretty nasty. He basically said my work was kindergarten level.”
“Classy. When was this?”
“Years ago. One of my first reviews, and it hurt like fire.”
“Doesn’t seem to have kept you from succeeding.”
“No. Maybe it made me try harder. Man, he was mean and hateful.”
“Will you recognize him if he’s here tonight?”
“I have no idea what he looks like. Never met him, and definitely haven’t made an effort to learn more about him. Like I said, it was a long time ago. I’ve tried to forget it.” She hadn’t been able to forget though. Though she’d known it was a bad idea, Chloe had clipped the review and kept it in a box of important stuff. Most of the stuff was positive—encouraging notes from family and friends, a lot of glowing reviews, an interview by a Legend High journalism student a few years ago—but she hadn’t gotten rid of the clipping. Nor had she gotten rid of the pain and uncertainty it had caused. Everyone in Legend thought of her as confident and self-assured. Nobody was aware of this one little chink in her armor. Greg Andrews, without knowing of its existence, had found the chink and irritated her through it.
Midnight tipped her head and looked closely at Chloe. “Sorry I brought it up. I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”
Chloe shrugged. “Too late to make me nervous. A couple more surprises like that and I might spontaneously combust from the tension.” She tried a smile, but it faded on her lips.
Chapter Ten
When the guests began to arrive there was no more time to worry about Damien Phillips, Greg Andrews, or even whether or not there was enough champagne for the punch. Chloe kept busy greeting people, answering questions about her work, and encouraging everyone to enjoy the evening and the refreshments. Maureen dipped champagne punch for adults and its non-alcoholic counterpart for the few underage guests and the occasional teetotaler. Janelle and Anna moved through the crowd serving finger sandwiches and petit fours. The three of them were dressed in black pants and black shirts and managed to be beautiful and nearly invisible at the same time. Except… Maureen seemed to have made a new friend. Just to be sure some jerk wasn’t giving her cousin a rough time, Chloe walked over to the punch bowls and put her arm around Maureen’s shoulders.
“Hi, sweetie. Doing okay here?”
Maureen smiled at her, then at the guy she’d been talking to. “Doing great. Chloe, have you met Damien Phillips? He came down from Nashville for your show. I guess he’s a big fan. Right, Damien?”
Chloe felt her stomach drop. So he had shown up. She looked up into the perfectly sculpted face of Damien Phillips and dared him to lie.
He smiled easily. “Let’s say I wanted to come and see what Ms. McClain’s work had evolved into. It’s been a few years.” He extended a hand, and she reached out to shake it, hers being swallowed up in his big palm. She wondered how obvious it was that her skin had suddenly gone cold and clammy.
Maureen looked confused. “Um. You do know each other?”
Chloe shifted on her uncomfortable shoes. “Not exactly. I guess you could say we crossed paths once, a few years ago.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. McClain.” Damien smiled again. Seemed rather thin to Chloe, but Maureen was smiling at him like an idiot.
“Just call me Chloe. Saying ‘Miz McClain’ around here could have half a dozen women answering you.”
“Really? How delightful!”
Gag.
“I’m Miz McClain, too. Maureen.”
“What a lovely old-fashioned name. It is a family name?”
“Um, no. My dad really liked Maureen O’Hara.”
Damien Phillips laughed, and his eyes sparkled. Chloe decided Maureen was doing okay with him, and she herself might just tick him off if she kept hovering and trying to be pleasant. Making an excuse of needing to talk to someone across the room, she trailed away, and in a few minutes linked up with Midnight and asked her to keep an eye on that situation.
“No worries. Here comes Martin. I’ll give him the task.”
“Midnight, please. I don’t want the guy scared out of the gallery. I just want to be sure he doesn’t bother Maureen too much.”
“Right. And breaking his arm is out unless absolutely necessary?” Midnight smiled.
Chloe giggled. “Only as a last resort. And it should probably be his right arm so he can’t Tweet it out to the masses right away.”
“Powerful guy, I take it.”
“He used to be. I haven’t heard anything about him in a while, but I’ve been focused elsewhere.”
“I’ll watch, Martin will watch. I imagine Maureen has the situation under control.”
“Probably. If I were him I wouldn’t want to tangle with her.”
Midnight winked. “Likely he sees that differently than you. Okay, it’s covered. Go mingle!” She gave Chloe a shove.
Chloe’s first sale was to Dorothy McClain, who was ecstatic with a tiny ornately framed painting of Cade’s Cove. “Chloe, darling, this will be fabulous right by our front door. Won’t it Charles?”
Charles smiled and agreed. “Great place you have here, Chloe. You can be proud of it.”
“I am. I guess. It was a lot of work for the guys.”
“Greg’s crew does a quality job,” said Charles.
“Our library is amazing, but that was mostly Mike,” Dorothy said. “I’m so glad Greg hired your cousin. That job had a lot to do with Mike turning his life around.”
“Got him Betsy back, thanks to our darling Dorothy the meddler.” Charles chuckled and kissed the top of his wife’s head.
“Greg is really a part of Legend now, isn’t he?” asked Chloe as she finished wrapping the miniature.
“I guess you could say so, yes,” Charles said slowly. “Of course he doesn’t have any people here, so he’s not really tied down. Yet.” He slanted a look at Chloe. “Still footloose, I suppose.”
Dorothy looked up at him sharply. “What are you saying, Charles? Do you expect him to pull out of Legend just because Chloe dumped him?”
“Aunt Dorothy! Sh! And—I didn’t dump him. I never had him, for goodness’ sake.”
“Is that right? Hm. I don’t know. Word is you and he are an item, darling.” Dorothy reverently picked up her package as Chloe slid the check into the cash drawer.
“She’s got that right, Chloe. There’s at least one pool in town for when your engagement will be announced. If you’d like to do me a favor, think September 14.” He gave her a quick wink.
“Uncle Charles! You too?”
“Hey, I’m semi-retired. What do you want me to do with my spare time?”
“I don’t know, but not—place wagers on my future. It seems so cold!”
“Not cold at all, honey.” He put his big hand over hers on the counter and gave a slight squeeze. “Just the opposite. Everybody just wants the best for you. If that means Greg Andrews, then I’m all for it. If not, don’t give him another thought. The pool is just for fun, and you know it. Not as if you haven’t participated in them.”
The last pool Chloe had dropped money on was a baby arrival date for one of the Robbins girls. She’d only missed it by a couple of days. Charles was right, the pools were fun. Part of the money for the baby arrival pools always went to the baby’s parents.
It was as if Charles and Dorothy had opened the floodgates. After their purchase, Chloe was kept busy selling paintings and talking to people about ordering their own home and famil
y in Little Legend style. Chloe didn’t have another name for it yet—it was one of those things she had meant to get to, but which had gotten lost in the craziness of the past month. Thank goodness for Martin’s son, Daniel McClain, who had created professional-looking brochures with photographs of some of the Little Legend buildings as well as all of Chloe’s contact information. He had also designed a website for McClain Art Gallery. Chloe had no idea how she could have pulled everything together without her wonderful family.
Or without Greg Andrews, the man she loved.
She was in love with Greg. The realization hit her when she was wrapping the painting he had liked best. It had been bought by a collector from Gatlinburg. Too late, she wondered if maybe she should have taken down the painting and set it aside to give Greg sometime. Maybe he would have appreciated it, or maybe he would have considered it a grandiose gesture from a diva. She hated not understanding him. She wanted to make things right with Greg, even if he didn’t care for her except wanting to get her into bed. She wanted to clear the air, listen to the way he saw things—the way he saw her and her behavior. And after considering all that, she wanted to tell him why she was the way she was. She wanted him to understand her, even though it would open that armor-chink a little wider. It was something she needed to do if they were to have a relationship. If a relationship was out of the question, Greg’s inclination to see women in only one way was still something he needed to get over. She had forgotten Greg was her adopt a highway program, hadn’t she? She had let emotions get in her way. She’d let herself fall in love, and that was plain stupid.
Because Chloe never, never let herself be that vulnerable. She kept her heart securely locked in a beautifully painted box, hidden away where nobody could find it. She needed to replace the old lock, as it evidently had rusted away.
****
“Wow. What a night, huh, Chlo?” Anna held up a glass of champagne punch. “Cheers to you!” She drank it in one gulp. “And now for the cleanup.”
“Girls. Forget that.” Chloe looked around, jarred back to reality. “There’s not that much to do, and it’s late.” She took a glass of punch, too, and swallowed it. Non-alcoholic. Oh well. “I mean it. Let’s call it a night.” It took fifteen minutes to get them out, and while she worked on one, two of the others were washing glasses, picking up stray bits of celebration here and there. Maureen ran the dust mop before Chloe could get it away from her.
“We’re outta here.”
The evening ended as it had begun—with a group hug. Chloe locked the back door and sighed in relief and exhaustion. The customers had stayed later than she’d expected, and once the place had quieted down, Midnight and Martin had left. Betsy and Mike had made a brief appearance sans LizBeth Ann, as had most of the McClains. There had also been loads of people she’d never seen before—art people. And they had seemed to like her work. Chloe refused to think about Damien Phillips. He had never approached her, and she wasn’t certain how long he stayed. What would Google alert have to say about Chloe McClain in the next few days? She might ask Midnight to set up an alert for her name, but to only tell her of the positive reactions. She really didn’t need negativity right now. Now she was on top of the mountain from the success of the opening. Or at least part of her was. Part of her couldn’t care less—the part that wondered how Greg Andrews had spent his evening. That part was her troublesome heart, which she really needed to get back under lock and key. Life had been so much simpler when her heart wasn’t a problem. Back in the old days, a month or so ago, there had been only one Chloe McClain, the one who was an artist. This freakishly romantic Chloe was a problem. The fact that she was in love with Greg Andrews, and second-guessed her own motivations, was a real pain.
Chapter Eleven
Greg swore at himself, something he’d done a lot of in the approximately twenty-four hours since the blow-up with Ms. Sexy Ears. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut when he was around her? Why did he always push her to the point of anger, and match it himself? Made no sense. If he wanted her, which he did, clearly he needed a change of tactics. Something mellow would be better. Non-combative. Like going to her opening night. Why hadn’t he just put on a jacket and strolled into the gallery, greeted a few people, impressed her with his urbanity? Well, for one thing he didn’t have any urbanity to impress her with. As he’d told her, he was an uncomplicated guy. Going to the opening of an art gallery was something he had never done, and likely he never would. Greg looked at the clock on the wall of his living room. Nearly midnight. He tossed the fishing magazine in the general direction of the coffee table and headed out the door. Nice night for a walk.
As he’d expected, all the cars were gone. The lights were still ablaze in Chloe’s gallery, though. She was wandering around in there like a lost kitten. She looked like she was wearing molten bronze, as her outfit shimmered in the light. Showing an awful lot of skin up top. As he watched, she leaned over, and he caught his breath. A whole lot of skin. When she straightened again she was carrying a pair of deadly-looking high heels in one hand. He couldn’t make out her facial expression from his vantage point across the street. Looking both ways—of course there wasn’t any traffic on Main Street at almost midnight—Greg slipped across the street, trying to avoid the best-illuminated areas. He should be okay here. The lights were bright inside. She shouldn’t be able to see him, and he’d be real still so he wouldn’t catch her attention. Hm. No, she really did not look happy. Wouldn’t she look happy if the night had gone well? Maybe nobody came from the city. Or nobody bought paintings. Surely something sold! She was an amazing artist—even Greg could tell that. He stepped carefully to one side so he could see better. There were definitely fewer paintings on the walls than last time he was here, so she had made some sales. What then? Why did she look sad?
“Greg Andrews! Get in here!” Chloe was hollering at him, and he hadn’t even seen her walk to the door. He was slipping. He was also caught.
He ambled to the door. “You need to talk to me about something? I was just out—you know—and thought I might as well walk by and check…” Completely unbelievable, and he didn’t even bother to finish the excuse.
“Just shut up and get in here.”
Bossy wench. He remembered why he didn’t like her.
She closed the door behind him with a slam.
“Hey, babe, you break that glass, it’s gonna cost you—”
She was on him in an instant, her gorgeous body plastered up against him, pulling his head down so she could kiss him mercilessly. Man! How great is this?
Then he remembered who was supposed to be in control of the situation, and pulled her arms away from his neck. Still holding her hands, he took a half step backward. Now if he could just get his breathing back to normal. He looked down into her big chocolate brown eyes.
Breathlessly, she said, “I want you to tell me what you think of me. I need to know what your problem is.”
Is that the weirdest thing he’d ever heard from a woman he’d just pulled off him? Not that he’d ever pulled a woman off him before, now he thought about it.
“Excuse me? You want me to tell you what I think about what?”
“Tell me why you don’t like me. Why I’m a bad person.”
“I never said that.”
“You certainly did.”
“I certainly did not. I said you’re spoiled and, well, maybe bullheaded and too full of yourself, and take advantage of everybody.”
She looked stricken. “You didn’t say all that.”
“No? Well, I can’t remember exactly…”
“You think those things of me?”
“Well…”
“No wonder you hate me. I can’t believe I just kissed you like that! How horrible! Okay, just get out then!”
“You just yelled at me to come in. I swear, woman, make up your mind.” He took back the half step. “I liked it better when you were kissing and not talking. Sorry I stopped that.”
“Greg Andre
ws, you make me sick! How can you even consider kissing me if you think I’m such a terrible person?”
“Not terrible. Just a little misguided. I think you can be salvaged.” He tried very hard to maintain eye contact and not let his gaze stray too often to the neckline of her shimmery blouse.
“No. Forget it. I thought we had—” Chloe sighed deeply, giving Greg a brief but breathtaking view. “Sorry I called you in. Good night.” She looked sadder than ever, and Greg cursed himself again. Was he destined to screw things up with this woman forever?
“Um. Okay, I’ll go. Maybe we can talk again some other time. You’re tired.”
“Yes. I really am. Good night, Greg.”
And he was on the sidewalk, wondering what in the hell just happened.
Chapter Twelve
It was the darkest, rainiest September Chloe could remember. She felt the dampness in her bones every minute, and even the bright, energy efficient lighting of her beautiful new building couldn’t raise her spirits. Nor could the good review she’d received from Damien Phillips, or the decent number of paying customers who came to Legend to buy her art. She didn’t work on any more Little Legend pieces, or the ones she was supposed to be making for customers. She didn’t have the heart for it. She painted, though, capturing on canvas the sullen grayness that hung over her mountains. Chloe wept over one of the paintings, touched by its cold bleakness. That’s what she felt like, cold and bleak. Maureen had seen it when it was on the easel, and her shocked reaction told Chloe she was right. This one was too personal to display. She feared others might know too much about her if they looked at that painting. They might see the real Chloe McClain, who worked very, very hard at being strong, in spite of her insecurities. The real Chloe McClain, who had only been in love once and had ruined it.
She spent time with Maureen, Janelle, and Anna; had dinner once in a while with Mike, Betsy, and LizBeth Ann; and often stopped for coffee at Midnight’s Emporium. Chloe had replaced the lock on that beautifully painted box that held her heart, and she would be cautious of it from here on out.