Art-Crossed Love

by Libby Rice

  Mentally tunneling inward, Lissa felt her body turn. The movement imparted a strange sensation, the feeling of taking action without giving her limbs instruction. Then Cole was talking, but she was louder, rambling about Scarlet getting out more, anything to mask embarrassment with noise.

  Finally, the all-business in Cole’s tone permeated the fog. He spoke of a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts to his small company, of wanting her to hire on for a project. At the same time, his voice, his words, his posture, even the look on his face screamed that getting into business with Lissa might constitute his worst nightmare. Still, he went on. “That means funding, promotion, name recognition, and an end to all… this.”

  With that last insult, the night officially went from bad to worse. “Funding for your company, you mean. How do I get paid?” Since he’d so eloquently pointed out that, currently, she did not.

  “You’d have a contract with Rathlen Images, including a monthly salary deducted from the grant for the duration of the project.” When she stepped forward, mildly intrigued, he clarified, “The money’s not much—barely enough to cover basic expenses for someone like you. But then you don’t need me to get rich.”

  Mouth gaping, Lissa pictured a wildly colorful farewell. “I don’t need you to—”

  “It’s the opportunity you need, a chance that just so happens to take the form of a grant awarded to me to be completed at my discretion. I think we can both estimate the reputational benefits of a successful collaboration, dollar signs aside.”

  A new and patient presence prickled along Lissa’s side. Soon a gentle tap on her shoulder shredded her fantasy sendoff before it could truly begin. When she turned, her father did the worst thing he could do in front of their particular audience. A check landed in Lissa’s palm, its weight at once negligible and the heaviest thing she’d ever held. Fatigue shadowed her father’s eyes, and she reminded herself the Blanc fortune hadn’t sprung from a silver tongue or a big inheritance. Robert Blanc had earned every penny. Decades of early mornings and late nights had begun to fray his urbane edges.

  Humiliation scorched her insides at the thought of what Cole was witnessing—first Scarlet, and now this. The intelligence shining in Cole’s blue, blue gaze promised to put two and two together. Slowly, she closed her mouth and collected her thoughts, vying to reach a place of gratitude rather than resentment.

  Memories threatened from her mind’s periphery, lashing her with the reasons she wouldn’t tell her father no. The scenes in her head conjured a time when the gilded name Blanc had tended toward tarnish.

  Money had waned. Changes had followed.

  In her case, the setback had invited sticks and stones rather than words that could never hurt her. Refusing to wince, Lissa reminded herself that those days of fearful pandering for acceptance were long over. Waves of gratitude for her parents’ enduring support pushed her aging unease back into the well where it usually resided. Now her worst fate involved scathing reviews that implied if never a Blanc, then always a joke.

  Asphalt heiress, they’d whisper. But the slight was nothing new.

  Let them come. Because she was a Blanc, with the might of her family’s recovered industrial empire at her back. Her parents didn’t know the toll on their temporary fall from grace—she’d made damn sure of that—but they suspected. Now checks were written and strings were pulled in the name of atonement.

  And goddamn her for needing the handout.

  Lissa began in a tone that was infinitely milder than the one she’d blasted at Cole. “Dad.”

  “Sweetheart,” he said, not realizing his ill-fated timing, “you have to sell at least twenty-five percent tonight for the show to carry. Otherwise the gallery will balk at keeping you on display for the full two weeks. You know how your mother and I love your paintings.”

  With that, he closed her limp fingers around the paper and left her standing there, shaking, check in hand. Glancing down, Lissa confirmed the amount—blank—carte blanch to do what was needed to sustain the dream of her art for another day.

  Epic. Fail.

  When she looked up, she saw judgment staring back at her, not curiosity. Cole had reached the right conclusion.

  “Don’t say anything you’ll regret.” She choked on the warning, not managing the heat needed to fire the threat.

  Cole responded with a flat stare, as though nothing Lissa could say or do could possibly cause him an ounce of remorse. “You’ll paint the realities I photograph. Abstract is in your past.” No longer did Cole concede to the language of possibility. Her dad’s check had turned “if” into “when.”

  Looking around, Cole added a droll, “Perhaps it’s time. Hmm?”

  The offer remained on the table despite his seeing the damning truth of her illustrious career. That alone told Lissa he had a mighty strong motive for seeking her out. Perhaps Scarlet was right. Cole did want her, but not for sex and not for talent.

  For what, then?

  If Cole was a question with no answer, Lissa was a woman fresh out of the luxury to refuse. He’d distilled her choices so succinctly—keep selling pictures to Daddy, or take a chance on a man and an opportunity that actually derived from her art.

  No matter how tenuously.

  Cole came with earnable pay. Perhaps failure with him would beat the undeserved “success” crumpled in her fist.

  Darting a quick glance at Scarlet, whose eyes bugged in blatant do-this-or-I’ll-kill-you command, Lissa asked Cole one final question. “Where’re we going?”

  Her surrender brought a biting smile. “To my estate in Colorado for training. Then to the wilds of India, city girl.”

  Satiny paper slid between her fingers. She looked down to see a glossy card he’d placed in her hand. The front depicted a socked-in picture of Mt. Everest. Cole’s, naturally. The black back listed his name, e-mail, and a cell number in white letters.

  Looking up, she realized his index finger still rested on the back of her hand. He tapped once. Twice. Then she felt the lightest pinch.

  “Don’t forget your shots.”

  Chapter 2

  October—Outside Nederland, Colorado

  “Near Boulder,” Cole had promised.

  Lissa guessed that little lie would be the first of many. She’d trundled her rented SUV past Pearl Street fifty minutes ago. The GPS had directed her into an upwardly winding canyon and through a small mountain town. The welcome sign had read, “Nederland.” Fifty feet beyond, a billboard enthusiastically invited her to attend “Frozen Dead Guy Days—March 2nd-4th!”

  Uh, yeah.

  Past Nederland—and over the hill and through the woods—she continued along a two-lane highway until finally turning off onto a not-so-graveled road. Uneven ruts jolted Lissa over what she hoped would be the last leg of her journey to Cole’s so-called “estate.”

  When the ruts morphed into a tree-lined driveway, she slowed the car, stunned at the sight that rose in the distance. At least he hadn’t lied about this.

  A half-mile later, the drive ended with a two-story plantation house. More a nod to authenticity than size, the aberration boasted black iron verandas and an arched doorway. Six white columns guarded the front façade. Lissa looked around for the sugarcane and cotton fields that surely interspersed the miles of unmolested pines sprouting between rock outcroppings. Stepping out onto a graveled parking circle, she swore the wind whispered, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  Leaving her bags, she wandered up the front steps. Curling letters across a brass knocker read, “Melina.” Before she could lift the handle, the door flung wide. A tall man with a shock of disobedient white hair motioned her inside with a lopsided grin.

  Cole’s house offered a cool foyer and an immediate welcome. The entry led to a central staircase that widened into a balconied landing above. A chandelier sparkled in her right peripheral vision. Flecks of light from the front windows reflected through its crystals, swirling over a dining room containing a long ta
ble of natural oak planks. Eight high-backed chairs flanked the table’s edges, giving an impression of sturdy function over form.

  On her left, a leather couch and matching lounger beckoned from a den. Situated in front of a neat stone fireplace, the setting abandoned the pomp and circumstance of the massive white pillars outside in favor of a blended approach to southern grandiosity and mountain practicality.

  A comforting tingle shimmied down Lissa’s spine. Home. As unexpected as it was inappropriate, the feeling persisted.

  Her beaming welcome wagon didn’t seem to notice her surprise. “I’ve been waiting all morning on baited breath.”

  She held a hand out in greeting, but instead of a handshake, she got a plastic freezer container.

  “Hold on,” he said. “I’ll see to your bags.”

  The man brushed past, descending on her open trunk while she babysat what appeared to be a dish of lasagna, gawking at the surroundings.

  Outside, the man hoisted a round of luggage without a single flustered look at her failure to pack light. Two trips had him dropping the last of her bags to the gleaming parquet floor. He retrieved the lasagna and began to vigorously pump her now-free hand. “I’m Kent Rathlen, Cole’s uncle.”

  “I’m—”

  “I know who you are, Ms. Big Artiste.” He said art-eest with the flair of a true Francophile. Still grinning, he lifted her hand and gave her knuckles a loud smack of a kiss. “Too bad you’re here for Cole.”

  “I wouldn’t say here for Cole. I’d characterize it as—”

  “I know, I know. You’re here to change the world with your knowledge. But, my dear, you’ll do that with Cole.”

  Then he bowed, like she was a princess and he her loyal servant.

  As though their intro was totally normal, Kent held up the Tupperware. “Hungry? I’ve been loading Cole’s freezer with these dinners I make at Supper Solutions down in Broomfield. That man can’t feed himself, let alone a pretty girl.”

  Cole’s uncle had driven an hour to fill the freezer? “You do this often?” She followed him through the dining room and into a bright, open kitchen that ran the rear length of the house. Her arrival had obviously interrupted the unloading of bags full of chicken picante and flank steak with lemon marinade. A cherry cobbler peeked from the bottom of a stack.

  Kent looked away a bit sheepishly. “Like I said, he’s not good about food, and we Rathlens have to be.” He beat his chest with an open palm. “Salads with olive oil and vinegar for me.” He picked up the flank steak and examined it wistfully. “Mostly,” he added with a sigh. “My heart doctor put the brakes on the good stuff. Cole’s the opposite. Months of Skittles and sandwiches have left him lean, but he’s getting back to his fighting weight.”

  Brushing his hands together, Kent shut the freezer door and toggled his head back and forth between her and the handle. “Take out what you want the night before. The supper lady taped cooking instructions to each container. Follow the steps, and you two won’t starve.”

  Where the hell was Cole? And why had he existed for months on Skittles and sandwiches? Even she could do better than that.

  “Thanks,” she offered. “I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”

  Kent nodded, and even though they’d been acquainted for all of ten minutes, she’d swear to a speculative twinkle in his eye. “Food-wise,” he said, “you certainly will.”

  A beat of silence passed. Lissa thrust her hands into her pockets and opened her mouth to ask whether Cole had a latent Civil-War fixation when slow, heavy footsteps sounded behind her. She spun around, expecting to see a tardy Cole slink into the kitchen. Instead, she found the largest, furriest dog in the history of the universe. He kept coming, breathing so hard he could double for a phone stalker in a horror flick.

  “Sasha gets hot,” Kent provided helpfully.

  She would too, with a hundred pounds of hair. “He’s a she?” A girl-dog couldn’t possibly get so big.

  “Sasha’s all—”

  “Man.”

  The muffled voice carried sarcasm, not apology. Momentarily flicking her attention upward, Lissa saw Cole enter on the heels of his beast. She ignored him for the time being, content to watch Sasha turn in a circle, plant his rump on her foot, and arc his nose backward toward hers. Brown eyes the size of silver dollars said, We’re going to be very, very good friends.

  Cole loomed in the kitchen entrance, arms folded over an impressive chest.

  Must be all the flank steak.

  “Sasha’s a Russian male’s name,” he explained evenly. “Remember Peter and the Wolf? Sasha’s a man-bird.”

  Before she could help it, Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA phantomed between her ears. “I have two friends who’ve named their girls Sasha. This is America—where you live, by the way—and where Sasha’s a girl’s name.”

  The St. Bernard obviously didn’t care about his nationality. He wanted to make out, and he proved it by nuzzling into her chest, leaving a smear of spit across the cream silk of her shirt. She gave in and stroked his head and ears, earning another slobber stripe.

  Close friends already.

  Stillness stretched across the kitchen until Kent clasped his hands with a booming clap. “Until next week, then.” Out of nowhere, he produced a jumbo bag of Skittles, slapped the candy on the granite island, and shuffled out, leaving her with a brooding Cole and a slobbering dog.

  She’d never been good with silence. “Family-delivered meals?”

  Cole blinked. “Family-delivered life?”

  If only you knew. “Not necessarily,” she replied, keeping her tone smooth and light like he hadn’t hit a nerve. “And not this time.”

  He ripped the Skittles open with a practiced tear. Eating one candy at a time, he nodded, more than a little circumspect. “We’ll see.”

  At her feet, Sasha let out an extended groan. He collapsed his limbs away from his body, sending him crashing into the kitchen tile with a force that would shatter a lesser dog’s elbows. Unfazed, he yawned and began to lick at his outstretched legs.

  Shaking her head, Lissa soldiered on. “I hadn’t planned on staying here.”

  “That explains why four of your suitcases are stacked inside my front door.”

  She shrugged. “Your uncle works fast.”

  Cole ambled out to her luggage with her and Sasha trailing behind. “He knows my place will have to do. You won’t find a Four Seasons in Nederland.”

  “Which, if I recall correctly, was supposed to be Boulder.”

  He slung the strap of her duffle over his shoulder and picked up the three remaining cases. “We’re headed to India, dollface”—he delivered the endearment with a healthy sneer—“where half the population lacks a functioning toilet. Consider Ned part of your training.” He started up the wide stairs, talking over his shoulder. “Harry Winston isn’t down the street—”

  “Because there isn’t a street.”

  “—but I’m sure you’ll make due, determined professional that you are.”

  “I’ve spent time in the country, you know. My family has a property in upstate New York. Summers? Holidays? All there.”

  “And what was that like?”

  Manicured lawns and fountains. A chef and a gardener. Poodles and ponies lining the ice rink down the lane. “Rugged.” She cupped one of Sasha’s drooping jowls, then dropped it and followed her grudging bellhop. “Overrun with mutts.”

  Cole veered left at the top of the stairs and headed for the first door. “You lie about as well as you paint.”

  Ouch. “And your condescension far outshines your photographs.” What was a little fib among non-friends?

  Inside her room, buttercup walls reflected the midday sun against a lavender duvet and a vaulted wooden ceiling. A rocking chair fluttered in the chilled breeze pushing its way through a bay window. She even spied a canopy bed and, at its foot, a wood-burning fireplace with an attendant stack of logs.

  The air wrapped its arms around her with
a gentle squeeze. Surely she was falling too hard for a foreign bedroom, one that could never truly be hers. Yet an undeniable recognition pulsed in her chest. “Magnificent,” she breathed. “Who did this?”

  “This?”

  “The house. All of it.”

  The last suitcase plunked to the floor, and Cole’s fingers crept into a tight clench above the handle.

  An eerie stillness descended on their already strained conversation. Silly, really. It wasn’t as if she planned to steal his decorator.

  “My wife.”

  Lissa might be slow, but after checking his credentials and tolerating weeks of phone prep, she knew the man didn’t have a damn wife, which, given his sudden tension, probably meant an ugly divorce. And people never fully appreciated her compliments on their exes’ exquisite tastes.

  “Never mind. Gawd, this place is awful. Good thing you got rid of her. She had to have been—”

  “An architect.” Cole straightened, totally missing the joke and revealing nothing beyond a stark refusal to share himself. “Kate designed multi-million-dollar homes for Boulder ‘hippies.’ I took advantage of the outdoor photo ops and a suitable jumping-off point for international work.”

  Lissa studied Cole intently. Belligerence didn’t bruise the edges of his speech like it had before. Instead, the words—notably past-tense—floated through the air like a prayer, each one seeming to drag him further into another, happier time.

  “Melina grew from there,” he explained, “from a displaced southerner who brought a piece of Savanna with her.”

  When Cole’s big hands slid along the edge of the doorframe, petting the wood like a lover, Lissa knew she’d guessed wrong. This wasn’t a man who’d said good riddance to a woman he felt better off without.

  She began a slow spin but didn’t make it far. A massive print took up most of the opposite wall. Her print. Redemption presided over the room, a fusion of color, line, and form that had never failed to infuse her with a sense of warmth, of being cherished.