The Bride Wore Denim

by Lizbeth Selvig

  “Nice to meet you.”

  What did you actually say to the owner of a place like this? Nice paintings you have here? Do you have an ATM somewhere? Where’s the sale room?

  “I’m an old friend of Harper’s. Thanks for showing her paintings.” That seemed appropriate.

  “We’re very excited to have them.” Gil Hargreaves gushed with enthusiasm. “We absolutely adore launching new artists. It’s so satisfying to watch careers take off. Mark my words. Harper’s is not in doubt.”

  Cole thanked him again and made for the wide spiral staircase to his left. After a quick climb he emerged onto the second floor to find it a starker space than the main gallery downstairs. Pale oak flooring and off-white walls reflected brightness from abundant recessed lighting. Floor-to-almost-ceiling walls served as separating screens to form three or four small rooms.

  His heart thumped in anticipation. Harper had no idea he’d come, and he wasn’t entirely sure how she’d react. He thought he’d managed to smooth a few of her ruffled feathers before she’d left Wyoming last week, but she’d still been plenty pissed off. The assignment bringing him off the ranch and through Chicago wouldn’t necessarily help matters, but his father had been right. If he didn’t pursue the spark now, he might as well give up on any kind of campfire. And giving up before he admitted to her how endlessly she stayed on his mind and how he hated the unhappiness he’d caused her, wasn’t possible. He’d had to come. Besides, he’d never truly told her how proud he was of her blossoming success.

  Judging by the scene around him, it was far more success than she’d led him to believe.

  The moment he caught sight of her across the room, his heart slammed into his throat. He’d never seen Harper in anything other than jeans and ranch clothes or the long shapeless skirts and dresses she favored. Tonight she’d transformed herself into unique perfection, without a traditional ball gown or bohemian layers.

  She smiled at a visitor, holding herself like a Wyoming princess. An ultra-dressy, multilayered skirt in some kind of snowy-white fancy fabric frothed around her hips and legs like a prom dress made of whipped cream. Her top, completely opposite, was a close-fitting denim shirt, with silver collar points and intricate white top-stitching. Cinched around her waist, setting off her curves, was a wide, tan belt with some kind of fancy edging. Sexy as that was, the whole beautiful picture was perfected by her cowboy boots—a classy, high-topped pair the same color as the belt.

  His body’s reaction was swift and shocking. He’d always thought of Harper as sexy. This . . . This was over the top.

  He watched, mesmerized, for several long minutes, letting his reaction cool and his pride grow. To see her like this, animated and confident, was exactly what he’d always wanted for her. He understood in that moment why she said she didn’t belong at Paradise.

  After an embrace from the woman and a two-handed handshake from the man, the couple talking to Harper left. She stared at the painting they’d been looking at and ran a hair through her black hair, curled in long waves for the occasion. She smoothed her skirt and, with a squaring of her shoulders, straightened. Her eyes locked on Cole’s.

  Pleasure spiraled through him as her lips formed a sweet O.

  Five seconds later she was in his arms, and he lifted her sweet, cotton-candy curves six inches off the floor.

  “Are you kidding me?” she asked, her voice squeaking in excitement. “You’re here? What are you doing in Chicago?”

  “C’mon, Harpo. You couldn’t go through your first art exhibition without any representation from the hometown.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes, with no hint of annoyance or residual anger. “I can’t believe it. You just put the cherry topping on the night.”

  “I have to be honest. I imagined something a tenth this size. This is impressive.”

  She wiped a forefinger carefully beneath one eye and then the other. “I feel the same way. I figured five or six people might show up—pity visits, you know? Instead, Gil and his partner went above and beyond for me.”

  “Oh, yes. I met Gil.” He laughed. “He’s a big fan.”

  “He is. And I’m very lucky.” She squeezed him again, hard. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was feeling like that white feather in Forrest Gump—floating all over the place and not knowing where I was going to end up. There must be a hundred people here. And they act like I know what I’m doing.”

  Cole glanced around the room. “Have you seen the paintings?”

  She smiled. “Thanks, but I don’t mean the paintings. I mean people who collect art asking me the meanings of what I’m doing or how I chose my color palette. I’m sort of making this up as I go.”

  “You got a hug from the last lady. You must be saying something right.”

  He kissed the top of her head, wishing he didn’t have to let her go, loving the feel of her in his arms.

  “Show me around,” he said, after reluctantly letting her loose. “My turn to learn about how you chose your color whatevers. And do you think you could tell me what your paintings mean?”

  “You’re cruel.”

  “Heard that before. But at least you didn’t punch me when you saw me or run me off with a sharp brush.”

  “Or a palette knife?”

  “Whatever that is.”

  “A dull blade. Very painful.” She took him by the hand and led him to their left. “But no need to worry. You are officially forgiven. The fact that you’re here makes up for whatever you might really think of me.”

  “I’m pretty sure this isn’t the time or the place to tell you what I really think of you.”

  She stopped and peered at him, starting a slow, weird tremble in his stomach—partly because he hoped she’d ask him to tell her anyway, partly because she really was beautiful.

  “You’re probably right,” she said.

  His breath released slowly. “C’mon. Show me what you got.”

  She was good.

  Very, very good.

  Cole didn’t know fine art from starving artist art, or a Monet from a Manet, but he knew that Harper had something special. That overused term he now understood: a gift.

  Her subjects ranged from close ups of flowers to landscapes he actually recognized. She did especially well with skies and horses and mountains. But what stood out to him was the combination in each painting of reality and dreamlike fancy. A stalk of columbine bathed in reds and purples like it was framed by a sunset. A barn, very similar to the Paradise horse barn, haloed with bold, rather than soft and gentle, streaks of morning light. And his favorite—a grazing horse with hot patches of color bursting from the sky and mountain behind it.

  “Lord, Harpo, when did you learn how to paint like this?”

  “During my life when people were telling me I was wasting my time.” She allowed a half-smile that told him she didn’t mean the words with any kind of malice. “Which, I suppose, in a practical sense, I was.”

  “Not if you were doing this. Nobody saw this talent in you?”

  “My mother always liked my paintings. Grandma Sadie, too. After a while, though, I didn’t show very many people, until I moved away. I’ve read a lot artists’ bios. I’m not alone in this. You’re rarely accepted at first in your hometown. The Beatles, way back in Liverpool, might have been. Maybe Beethoven. A few authors. That’s good company, I guess. And it’s not like I’m famous. A lot of these people here tonight are bodies who like Gil and come to his openings for the champagne.”

  “They maybe came for the champagne, but they’ll be won over.”

  They finished the upper gallery and the ten paintings that hung there. Then she accompanied him back to the first floor and showed him the eight pieces there—these with more urban settings and themes.

  The biggest canvas was a cityscape about four feet wide by two feet high. The buildings in the background didn’t give away any particular city, but they were detailed and interesting, even without identifying features. In the foreground was a playground
with old-fashioned metal swings and a spinning merry-go-round. Rain poured through the scene, and what Cole now thought of as the signature swashes of Crockett colors in the sky hinted at a rainbow growing within the storm. Beside the swings, small, almost missed in the beautiful picture as a whole, a child, in rain boots and an open raincoat, leaped into the air, arms raised, feet clearly about to come down in a wide, shiny puddle. Harper had managed to make it all look like a misty, dreamy photo.

  While Cole stared, two people joined them, another dapper man in a suit and bowtie, and a woman perhaps in her late fifties or early sixties; her chin-length black hair was frosted with gray.

  “Ah, Harper, I’m glad to find you,” the man said. “I have someone I think you’ll very much enjoy meeting.”

  “Hi, Gareth,” Harper replied, and turned expectantly toward the woman.

  Cole studied the staid partner of the flirtatious Gil. He looked like a forty-year-old college professor right down to the bowtie and horn-rimmed glasses.

  “This is Cecelia Markham,” he said. “Cecelia, I present Harper Crockett.”

  Harper’s body straightened, and her eyes lit as if Gareth had handed her six Christmas presents and a cookie. Cole shifted his attention to the woman, who smiled like a loving grandparent as she took both of Harper’s hands in hers.

  “I can’t tell you how excited I am to meet you, Harper.”

  “Mrs. Markham. I’m honored. I hear so much about you. You’ve been a great friend to Gareth and Gil and a huge supporter of all our local art programs. I’ve wanted to meet you.”

  “Please, call me Cecelia. I’ve heard quite a lot about you, too. And I really think we’ll all be hearing more after tonight.”

  “It’s very kind of you to say so.”

  “I admit. I came tonight purely to see what all of Gareth’s fuss was about. I expected to have a lovely time. What I didn’t expect was to fall in love.”

  “Love?” Harper asked.

  “With your paintings. I haven’t seen anything that’s touched me this much in years. It’s fresh and different and yet classic.”

  Harper’s eyes widened in astonishment. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say thank you.” Gareth’s happiness was infectious. “Cecelia has purchased two of your paintings.”

  Cole couldn’t help it. He knocked Harper in the upper arm with his elbow. “See? Told you so,” he whispered.

  “Oh, Mrs. Markham . . . Cecelia. I am flattered. Yes, thank you. Goodness that hardly seems adequate. Which paintings did you choose?”

  “This one, for starters.” Cecelia nodded at the cityscape. “It simply makes me happy. I love the rain, and this work captures perfectly why I do. The other is your Larkspur. The colors in that one are wildly perfect for my home.”

  “I’m completely flattered,” Harper said again, and this time turned to Cole.

  “I have someone to introduce as well,” she said, smiling and taking his hand. “This is my best friend from Wyoming, Cole Wainwright. We grew up together, and he knows the inspiration for a lot of the paintings.”

  He shook hands all around, and from that point the night blossomed out of his control and into a whirlwind of greetings, congratulations, air-kisses, and Gil’s frequent smiles and pats on the arm. Harper, despite what she’d said about feeling lost, flourished in the spotlight. Cole, despite hating the city and crowds and anything fake, found himself hard-pressed not to enjoy the weird spectacle of well-to-do people discussing art and complimenting Harper.

  By nine forty-five, Cole sat on a modern, black, leather-and-chrome sofa in the corner of the gallery, holding the third glass of champagne one of the circulating caterers had thrust into his hand. He hadn’t taken a sip of this one. One of the few things this shindig lacked was a good craft beer. He pushed his hat back on his head and rested his elbows behind him on the back of the sofa. The crowd had thinned considerably, but people still chatted with Harper. The less formal crowd had arrived as well, making Cole’s jeans and sports jacket less conspicuous.

  “Hello, Cole Wainwright?”

  He looked into the face of a man who made his clothing choice not only inconspicuous but downright elegant. The guy wore a long-sleeved, flowing peasant-type shirt with a bolero tie, and he had a shoulder-blade length brown ponytail was set off with a white bandana à la Willie Nelson. He was the most anachronistic man Cole had ever seen, stuck somewhere in a version of the sixties.

  For a moment Cole stared, but suddenly, with a rush of insight, he knew exactly who the man was: Tristan Carmichael.

  Harper adored him, in her words. A flash of unadulterated jealousy made Cole want to toss him out the door by his girlie shirt. Instead he smiled.

  “We haven’t met, but I think I know who you are,” he said, and rose to his feet. “Tristan?”

  The man offered a boyish grin, as if pleased to be recognized, and held out a hand. “I am. Harper pointed you out. It’s great you’re here. She’s pretty excited you are.”

  Cole’s distaste for him eased a little.

  “Mind if I sit? I was here at the beginning but had an emergency at home. I wasn’t sure I’d make it back, but it looks like it’s gone well.”

  Cole indicated another chair, and they both sat. “I think they’ve sold three of the paintings.”

  “That’s what Gil said. I’m so happy for her. It took me a while to convince these guys to sponsor this, but I don’t think they regret it now. Anyhow, I asked Harper to come out for a celebration dinner, and she said you’re already going down the street to Pedro’s?”

  A thin, petty streak of satisfaction sliced through Cole. “Yup. I’m heading out in the morning so I grabbed her for tonight.”

  “I thought I’d ask if I could invite myself along. At least for a drink. I have some things I’d like to chat with her about.”

  Cole’s satisfaction died, replaced by the full force of his jealousy. He had a few things to tell her himself. The last thing he wanted was a guy who didn’t know hippies had gone the way of the dodo bird to monopolize the only chance he had at a conversation.

  “I’d say that’s up to Harper,” he said, more sharply than he should have.

  “Good! She said to ask you.”

  Well, shit, he thought. Showed how important a night out with him was to Harper.

  “Guess it’s settled then.”

  “Appreciate it, man.” Tristan smiled at him.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Tristan stood. “I’ve got a few people to chat with before we’re done at ten. See you in a few. Looking forward to it.”

  “Sure thing. Who isn’t?”

  The man had to be an idiot not to hear the insincerity in his voice, but he smiled anyway.

  He stood once Tristan had melted into the small crowd, walked around a corner to the men’s room, sneaked in, and poured his champagne down the nearest sink. Somehow, the shine of Harper’s triumphant night had taken on some unwelcome tarnish.

  Chapter Nine

  HARPER KNEW COLE didn’t like Tristan. In a way his jealousy was flattering, even though it was completely unnecessary. The two men couldn’t have been more different than a stallion was from a loyal puppy. Tristan had been a very-short-term love affair four years ago, but he’d turned rapidly into nothing but an amazing mentor and friend. Cole was . . . Well, she didn’t have a clue what Cole was. She did know he definitely didn’t have to be jealous of anyone.

  But tonight she didn’t worry for one second about smoothing things over. Cole would be fine. All that mattered was he and Tris were two of the most important people in her life, and they were both here after the most important event of her life. She felt the significance of this like a celestial sign. Life was about to change.

  All the memories that had held her down—the childhood teasing about having her head in the clouds, her bad choices and weak-minded mistakes and missteps, her father’s lack of belief in her talent, even the way he’d pulled the plug on her official studies—h
ad taken a back seat to the thrill of Cecelia Markham telling her she’d bought the paintings.

  Suddenly Chicago seemed shiny, and her dreams seemed possible again. Even having Cole here, which should have reminded her of her earlier doubts and her homesickness for Wyoming, only told her that it was possible to hang onto both worlds. He’d come, after all. She could go back there, too.

  She took in Cole’s boredom with Tristan’s lengthy description of his latest trip to South America with amusement. Even grumpy and with his blunt cowboy sarcasm at the ready, he was the sexiest man in Pedro’s by far. Maybe the sexiest man in all of Chicago. In fact, the way her blood zipped through her body just looking at him, she believed he might be the sexiest man anywhere.

  For tonight only, she didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. Mia didn’t have to know he’d come. Or maybe she already did know. He’d come as a friend, that was all. Her zooming pulse was her own problem. None of the reasons it was a bad idea to be with Cole had disappeared. But tonight, she couldn’t make herself follow those bad ideas to their ending places.

  Tristan held up a glass of gin and tonic. “And the guy says, ‘that burro won’t take you to the corner, much less the border.’ Proof, I guess, that you shouldn’t go car shopping in Brazil after four caipirinhas and a tequila shot.” He took a swig of his drink.

  “I’m writin’ that down, buddy.” Cole lifted his tall stout to his lips and downed three inches, rolling his eyes at Harper over the rim of his mug.

  She laughed. “I’m glad you didn’t buy either a car or a burro,” she said. “And I’m glad you’re home. Sounds like an amazing trip. You brought back some nice art pieces and learned a new fiber dying process. We all win.”

  “So, Cole my man,” Tris asked. “Where are you off to so early tomorrow? Too bad you can’t hang around a while and absorb some of the Windy City’s culture. Go to an art class taught by our girl here. She’s got some talented kids in the shelter program.”

  Cole looked uncomfortable. Harper set her hand over his and squeezed, loving the hard prominence of his knuckles and the soft patch of masculine hair beneath her fingers.