“Stop it, Wesley and Ford,” said Serena. “Greer’s going to think we’re badly behaved.”
“It’s fine,” Greer murmured. “Charleston has a way of making people want to party until the wee hours and sleep late.” There. That was a polite way to skirt the awkwardness.
“Yes, but—” Serena winced like she wanted to say something really badly but knew she shouldn’t. “But we have extenuating circumstances.”
“We?” Ford asked.
“Well, you,” Serena said.
“Serena…” Wesley chided her.
“I suppose I’ve no choice now but to mention I was left at the altar by my bride,” Ford told Greer.
Thunk. More awkwardness. Greer felt instantly guilty. And horrified.
“Sorry,” said Serena, then looked at Greer. “It was awful.”
“It happened a month ago,” Ford said, ignoring Serena, whose expression registered deep concern for him. “One tends to sleep and drink too much bourbon when that happens. Go to faraway places with lots of humidity and heat. Put shirts on backwards.”
Greer wished she could be swallowed up by the sidewalk. The universe was messing with her. Big-time. Wesley was standing right there, stoic and square-headed, like a character on a Sesame Street skit. Made of buttons, yarn, and felt. Oblivious. Everything bouncing off him and not getting through. Hello? she wanted to say. You were dumped in a similar manner! Don’t you feel awkward hearing this with me here?
At least she hadn’t left Wesley at the altar. He hadn’t stood in front of a crowd of friends and family, a preacher at his back, and been abandoned on his wedding day.
But this guy.…
“I-I’m so sorry. I truly am.” Greer felt Serena’s eyes on her. Was Wesley’s fiancée putting her in the same category as Ford’s ex? And what would that category be? Vile? Selfish? Immature?
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Ford said.
But he had to be angry still. Or heartbroken. Or both. Greer couldn’t tell. She couldn’t tell anything from his tone or his expression. But he wasn’t indifferent. He wasn’t an automaton. He’d stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, his thumbs hung over the pocket edges. His back was straight. He had small laugh lines around his eyes. He had the air of being distinctly human. The plaid blazer was maybe a middle finger to the world.
And then there was the auction, where he’d told her “Love stinks,” out of the blue. That she’d never forget. And he’d had a very warm, welcoming thigh. He hadn’t flinched in the slightest when she’d landed on it. He’d also said something a little delicious or raunchy, depending on how she chose to recall it.
A dose of intuition flooded her being, against her better judgment. Greer sensed he was her cup of tea. It was the exact right phrase: cup of tea. Cheery Disney character Mrs. Potts might as well be whispering the phrase in her ear. Greer had never known what her cup of tea was until just now. She’d only known Wesley wasn’t it.
And now, this jilted painter whom she didn’t know was in fact her cup of tea. What did it mean? She was a coffee drinker. People who drank tea weren’t very exciting. She would never in a million years have called anyone her cup of tea until right this very minute.
Maybe she felt drawn to him because of the wedding horror story. Could be a sympathy thing.
“When I heard Ford was here,” Serena said, “I told Wesley it’s yet another reason Charleston is the perfect place.”
Perfect place … for what? Greer knew the city was awesome, but what was Serena saying?
Wesley sighed. “Greer, I didn’t want to have to tell you like this—”
Her heart started to race. “What?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to call you first, but we ran out of time.”
“Wesley, tell her.” Serena kept smiling. And then she bounced, just once.
“Yes, tell me.” Greer braced herself. Something was about to go seriously wrong.
“We’re getting married here. In Charleston.” Wesley had never looked more serious. And scared.
Greer’s stomach dropped to her feet. “Oh,” she said, and tried to keep breathing. It helped that Ford gave her his calm, steady stare, the one he’d used at the auction. She nodded to give herself time to think. “That’s … that’s nice. A lot of people do that.”
Wesley scratched his head. “That’s not all.”
Good Lord! What could come next?
“We’re moving here,” Serena said. “We’ll be working at the Medical University for a year on a big research project.” And she squealed.
It wasn’t the worst squeal in the world. She was obviously overjoyed, and Greer couldn’t hate her for being excited about moving to a great city.
But out of all the medical jobs in the world, Wesley had to choose one here in Charleston? “That’s—that’s—” She didn’t know what to say. She had to get away from these people. Now.
“We’re lucky,” said Serena, lacing the fingers of her right hand with Wesley’s. “It’s such a romantic city.”
“It’s very beautiful,” Greer said on autopilot, her brain synapses firing like mad.
“But the cherry on the sundae is having Ford here, at least for a few months,” Serena said, never missing a beat in her earnest cheerleader voice that made one want to sit down and listen if you had a heart.
“Why are you here?” Greer asked the Englishman.
“I’m working on a particular project I can’t seem to tie down yet,” he said. “But I need to. Soon. It’s to go to a gallery in Manchester for a big show.”
“Wow.” Greer was impressed.
“I want Ford to paint my wedding portrait.” Serena held up crossed fingers, her eyebrows arched up and outward, the way extra cute comic-strip characters do when they’re pleading.
“First I’ve heard about painting a wedding portrait,” Ford said with a shrug. “Sorry, Serena. No time.”
There was a shocked silence between Wesley and his future bride.
“You didn’t ask him already?” Wesley asked her.
“No,” Serena said. “I thought—”
“But you said—” Wesley began.
Serena’s lips tightened. Wesley shut his mouth.
Ford rocked back on his heels. “Come by for a cigar later, Wesley, on my studio balcony?”
“Sure,” Wesley said. “Got some good scotch?”
“The best,” Ford said.
Serena was subdued enough that she adjusted her purse. “Well,” she said, “That’s men for you. Everything cured by alcohol and cigars.”
“Or world war,” said Greer. “Very little in between.”
She was proud of herself. She sounded perfectly at ease. This Wesley and Serena calamity—because that was what it was—was going to be easier to handle than she thought it would be.
Everything in life could be easy, really. She always forgot that. Since moving from home at age eighteen, she tended to get wrapped up in the minutiae of things and work herself into a lather of nerves. But her farming parents had taught her to carry on, stay polite, and hope that no one noticed that things weren’t always fixed or right or acceptable to you. And now here in Charleston, she saw a similar attitude, only dressed up in Southern culture. You persevered. You even brought pie and poured sweet tea until the worst had passed, and then you took a broom, swept up the mess, and went and sat on the porch and waved at your neighbors.
“Now I know your name,” Ford said to Greer.
“And I yours,” Greer replied. Somehow the words, to her ears, sounded formal and English, like something from an old novel, and she was reminded of how he’d nodded at her at the auction, and vintage-film feelings flooded her body as she thought of heroes and the amazing, colorful women they loved. The heat, too, might have had something to do with it. She was getting dehydrated.
“Charleston’s an interesting town,” said Ford, and looked over all their heads. “I’d say it rivals London for drama.”
Exactly which drama did
he mean? The bidding war at the auction? Serena and Wesley’s tension over her wedding portrait? The obvious stress Greer was feeling about her ex moving to Charleston and getting married there? Or something to do with Ford himself and Greer? Although why she imagined he might be thinking along those lines, she had no idea. Maybe she was ready for drama. Maybe she was ready for drama with him. Sitting on his thigh had been quite the pleasurable experience. She’d rather think about that than Wesley.…
“Cheers,” Ford concluded, and took off—
Without getting her number, so she’d obviously imagined the drama between them. She was really only dehydrated and desperate.
A horse-and-carriage that had been rolling slowly down the street stopped to turn left at the intersection. Ford was right. Charleston was full of drama, but on the outside it could be slow and predictable, like any town.
Even more awkwardness descended now that Ford was gone.
“I can’t believe he said no,” said Serena, looking after him.
“Oh, well,” said Wesley. “We’ll find another artist. Maybe Greer knows—” he began, and thought better of it.
Greer would take the high road. “I’ll be glad to ask around,” she said.
“Thanks,” said Wesley.
She stuck out her hand—way out—to Serena, who was still watching Ford. He had a cool, understated stride, like an extreme sports skateboarder. Or a guy packing heat. Take your pick. “Good to meet you,” she said.
Serena abruptly turned around at the sight of Greer’s open palm. “Oh, likewise,” she said with a bright smile, and shook it. Her grip was firm, her fingers long and skinny.
Greer thought surgeon’s hands, and she remembered to like Serena no matter how perfect she was because she saved people’s lives. This wasn’t the day she expected, but she was better off having seen Wesley finally happy, even if it meant he had to be happy in the same town. At least her guilt about dumping him was gone. Karma was now set to bite at her heels in a big way. Every day she’d be afraid of bumping into him or Serena.
She prayed they wouldn’t live downtown or buy groceries at the Harris-Teeter on East Bay Street, the number-one social hot spot on the peninsula.
“I’m glad we ran into each other,” Wesley said.
“Me, too,” Serena said, and put her arm through his. “And Greer, thank you for breaking up with him.” She laughed.
At least it wasn’t a giggle. Greer didn’t do well with gigglers. When Macy had been crushing on Deacon, she’d giggled a lot, and it had really gotten on Greer’s nerves. Since she’d married, Macy had settled down and was back to her old regular laugh, thank goodness.
“No problem,” Greer said. “It had nothing to do with Wesley. He’s a prince.”
“Serena’s not shy,” Wesley said, his ears pink, and dragged her away.
Smart of him.
Walking home, Greer realized she’d just been through a living hell that wasn’t going to end anytime soon, but it would be endurable if she went to work and stayed home at night and on the weekends for the next year so she wouldn’t run into Wesley and Serena.
Or maybe she should move.
Her life now officially sucked.
She decided then and there to binge-watch her favorite series, Breaking Bad, every day after work without going out until she was done. She would order her groceries online from Harris Teeter and drive to pick them up, already bagged. She would live like a hermit before and after work and on weekends until she figured out what to do.
Things she would not do: (1) make brownies, (2) call her mother, and (3) Google Ford. She didn’t even know his last name.
CHAPTER THREE
Ford first saw Greer Jones earlier that day at Roastbusters, his new favorite coffee place on East Bay Street. He’d just picked up his black tea with milk and a teaspoon of sugar—a habit he’d had since he was a child—when she walked in and got a coffee to go. He knew immediately he wanted to paint her. She looked distinctly American with her strong, clean good looks. She also had something else … something that made people around her look twice. It might have been her air, which suggested competence and control—and whether she knew it or not, a bold sensuality with her glossy red lips and pin-striped tailored pantsuit.
The artist in him wanted to discover more. So did the man. She was sexy, someone who looked as if she had places to be, a total turn-on. And when his sensitive and primal sides worked in concert, he did his best—and most dangerous—work.
When she left Roastbusters and started walking, he did, too. He flipped open his phone while watching his potential model swing her sleek briefcase at her side and sip at her coffee. Pressed the number he’d carefully programmed to ring in England at Anne’s manor house on the Thames.
“Oh, God, Ford, that Hollywood power couple who moved into the neighborhood just came over and borrowed a cup of demerara sugar,” Anne told him in that breathy way she had. “They’re making chocolate chip biscuits with their twins and ran out.”
“Lucky you.”
“Not with the paps lurking on the road. He was quite apologetic, but it’s not their fault, is it? Guess what—she wanted one of my novels to read by their pool. She said she’d never read a romance, and when I told her my heroines were empowered ballbusters in an era when it was extremely difficult to be one, she was all in.”
“Good for you,” Ford said dryly, slightly terrified by Anne’s historical romance novels, which dropped once a year and made the New York Times list every time.
“So how are you, brother dear?”
“I’ve finally found her,” he said. “The woman I want to paint.”
“Good. She must be perfect. Is she?”
“I think so.”
“Very American looking?”
“She is. Super-independent air.”
“In what way is she compelling?”
“I don’t know yet, but she is.”
“I’m counting on you. The galleries don’t think you’re in any position to come up with a canvas this fast, but I assured them you don’t wait for your muse. You command it to appear at will.”
“Tell them I work no matter what, if that’s what they’re worried about. They don’t need to know that if it’s no good—which ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s not—I start over.”
“No, darling, we won’t tell them that. We’ll hope that you get a lightning bolt of inspiration and get it right the first—or second—time.”
“I’ll have to.”
“How awful for you to be under such pressure. But not really.” She sighed. “I know you’d do this whether you got paid or not.”
Anne was right. It was who he was, and who she was, for that matter. They both accepted that the life of an artist wasn’t an easy one. It was filled with angst and doubt. But the compensation was the inherent sense that you knew your purpose. You might be shite at it, but you walked through the world with a map in your head. Many people weren’t so fortunate.
“And considering your recent misfortune, this challenge is a good distraction for you,” Anne said.
“No painting is ever a distraction.” It was always everything. The rest of the world faded away.
“I understand that, but I’m speaking at the moment as your sister, not your manager.” An art major at university and avid collector, she’d coveted that role in his career. After his first manager moved to Australia, he’d granted it to her, sure she was making a mistake, considering the time she was required to spend on her own career, but so far, so good.
“Well, don’t get too excited,” said Ford. “She doesn’t even know I exist. I’m following her right now.”
“You are?”
The woman who’d come to fascinate him threw her coffee container into a rubbish bin at a corner and turned right.
“She might say no,” he told Anne. “How many people can drop everything and pose for a portrait?”
“She won’t say no,” Anne said. “You know when you know thin
gs better than anyone I know.”
He tried to wrap his head around that one.
“And if the exhibit—which includes this yet-to-be-painted painting—does well in Manchester, Edinburgh, and Liverpool,” she went on, “it may get picked up by the Tate Modern. That’s our goal, always. We’ll get there.”
She rang off before he could speak, and without saying goodbye.
But he wasn’t surprised. Anne lived a very busy life apart from being his manager and a full-time novelist. She had four children under age thirteen and a cerebral Oxford professor husband, besides. Not to mention the Hollywood celebrities next door. She could create a business on that fact alone, but she wouldn’t dare. She valued privacy too much and could never be anything but a class act.
“The Tate is your goal, Anne,” he murmured, and put his phone away.
His goal was to paint. And paint. And paint. He hoped the world would like his work, but he wasn’t painting to become rich. He was already rich. He wasn’t painting to become famous. His family was in Burke’s Peerage. The title went back eight generations. And fame was embarrassing. It simply wasn’t done. Best to be low-key about one’s talents and standing in society.
All he cared about was creating a body of work that represented truth as he knew it. Nothing more. And if other people found his work pleasing, or arresting, or unforgettable—if they remembered him as a painter who captured something elusive and universal about life, then he’d accomplished something worthwhile.
* * *
“Well?” It was Anne again.
He was back in his apartment on Wentworth Street in an old Charleston-style single home. He shared the second floor with two male College of Charleston undergrads, so there were beer cans everywhere and ten-speeds on the balcony. The slight slant to the floor didn’t bother him, and neither did the tiny kitchen with its refrigerator empty of everything but beer, a few Cokes, and frozen pizzas. He’d taken the first short-term lease he could find, and he couldn’t care less about the state of affairs in the house.
He was in the studio most of the time anyway. That was a space he rented in a co-op on East Bay Street. He had to bike there each morning on narrow roads, with trucks and cars either rushing past inches away or being stuck in traffic jams and spewing exhaust. Occasionally, he’d revert to cracked pavement, which was illegal, and shoot past the lot of them if his hands were itching to grab a brush and paint.
A Wedding At Two Love Lane Page 4