This Heart Of Mine

by Susan Elizabeth Philips

  Molly settled back and sipped her coffee while Kevin dealt with his admirers. The man made her melt, and there was no use pretending otherwise. If it were just his good looks that attracted her, he wouldn’t be so dangerous, but that cocky charm was chipping away at her defenses. As for the kiss they’d shared…

  Stop right there! Just because their kiss had knocked her off her feet didn’t mean she was going to act on it. She’d only begun to pull out of her emotional tailspin, and she wasn’t self-destructive enough to throw herself back into it. She simply needed to keep reminding herself that Kevin was bored, and he wanted a little hanky-panky. The grim truth was that any woman would do, and she happened to be handy. Still, she could no longer deny that her old crush was back.

  Some women were too dumb to draw breath.

  Kevin tossed down the last of the Daphne books Molly had tried unsuccessfully to hide when they returned to the cottage. He couldn’t believe it! Half of his recent life lay on the pages she’d written. Expurgated, of course. But still…

  He was Benny the Badger! His red Harley… His Jet Ski… That very minor skydiving incident blown way out of proportion… And Benny snowboarding down Old Cold Mountain wearing a pair of silver Revos. He should sue!

  Except he was flattered. She was a terrific writer, and the stories were great—kid-hip and funny. Although there was one thing he didn’t like about the Daphne books—the bunny generally ended up getting the upper hand over the badger. What kind of message was that to send to little boys? Or big ones, for that matter?

  He leaned back on the saggy excuse for a couch and glared toward the bedroom door she’d shut behind her. His good mood from dinner had faded. He’d have to be blind not to know that she was attracted to him. So what was the point?

  She wanted to jerk his chain, that was the point. She wanted to make him beg so she could feel like she had her pride back. This whole thing was some kind of power trip for her. She was getting off on being cute and funny around him, making him enjoy her company, fluffing her hair, wearing funky clothes designed just so he’d itch to pull them off her. Then, when it was time to do exactly that, she jumped back and said she didn’t believe in sex without commitment. Bull.

  He needed a shower—a cold one—but there was only that pint-size bathtub. God, he hated it here. Why was she making such a big frickin’ deal out of this? She might have said no at dinner, but when he’d kissed her, that sweet little body sure had been saying yes. They were married! He was the one who had to compromise himself, not her!

  His policy of never mixing business with pleasure had blown up in his face. The trouble he was having keeping his eyes off the bedroom door filled him with self-disgust. He was Kevin Tucker, damn it, and he didn’t have to beg for any woman’s affections, not when there were so many others standing in line trying to catch his attention.

  Well, he’d had enough. From now on he was going to be all business. He’d take care of the campground and step up his workouts so he was in top shape when training camp started. As for that irritating little brat who happened to be his wife… Until they got back to Chicago, it was strictly hands off.

  Chapter 16

  “My boyfriend’s parents were gone for the night, and he invited me over. As soon as I walked in the door, I knew what was going to happen…”

  “My Boyfriend’s Bedroom”

  for Chik

  Lilly hated herself for saying yes, but what art lover could turn down an invitation to visit Liam Jenner’s house and see his private collection? Not that the invitation had been issued graciously. Lilly had just come in from a Sunday-morning walk when Amy handed her the telephone.

  “If you want to see my paintings, come to my house this afternoon at two,” he’d barked. “No earlier. I’m working, and I won’t answer the bell.”

  She’d definitely been in L.A. too long, because she almost found his rudeness refreshing. As she turned off the highway and onto the side road he’d indicated, she realized how accustomed she’d grown to meaningless compliments and empty flattery. She’d nearly forgotten that people still existed who said exactly what was on their minds.

  She spotted the weather-beaten turquoise mailbox he’d told her to look for. It perched crookedly on a battered metal pole set in a tractor tire filled with cement. The ditch behind the tire held rusted bedsprings and a twisted sheet of corrugated tin, which made the no trespassing sign at the top of the rutted, overgrown lane seem superfluous.

  She turned in and slowed to a crawl. Even so, her car lurched alarmingly in the ruts. She’d just decided to abandon it and walk the rest of the way when the overgrowth disappeared and fresh gravel smoothed the bumpy road surface. Moments later she caught her breath as the house came into view.

  It was a sleekly modern structure with white concrete parapets, stone ledges, and glass. Everything about the design bore Liam Jenner’s signature. As she got out of the car and made her way toward the niche that held the front door, she wondered where he’d found an architect saintly enough to work with him.

  She glanced down at her watch and saw that she was exactly half an hour late for this command performance. Just as she’d intended.

  The door swung open. She waited for him to bark at her for not being on time and was disappointed when he merely nodded, then stepped back to let her in.

  She caught her breath. The glass wall opposite the entrance had been constructed in irregular sections bisected by a narrow iron catwalk some ten feet from the ground floor. Through the glass she could see the sweeping vista of lake, cliffs, and trees.

  “What an amazing house.”

  “Thanks. Would you like something to drink?”

  His request sounded cordial, but she was even more impressed that he’d traded in his paint-stained denim shirt and shorts for a black silk shirt and light gray slacks. Ironically, his civilized clothes only emphasized the Sturm und Drang of that rugged face.

  She declined his offer for a drink. “I’d love a tour, though.”

  “All right.”

  The house hugged the terrain in two uneven sections, the larger of which held an open living area, kitchen, library, and cantilevered dining room, with several smaller bedrooms tucked into lower levels. The catwalk she’d seen when she’d entered led to a glass-enclosed tower that Liam told her held his studio. She hoped he’d let her see it, but he showed her only the master bedroom below, a space designed with an almost monastic simplicity.

  Magnificent works of art were on display everywhere, and Liam talked about them with passion and discernment. An enormous Jasper Johns canvas hung not far from a contemplative composition in blues and beige by Agnes Martin. One of Bruce Nauman’s neon sculptures flickered near the library archway. Across from it hung a work by David Hockney, then a portrait of Liam done by Chuck Close. An imposing Helen Frankenthaler canvas occupied one long wall of the living area, and a totemlike stone-and-wood sculpture dominated a hallway. The very best of the world’s contemporary artists were represented in this house. All except Liam Jenner.

  Lilly waited until the tour was over and they’d returned to the central living area before she asked about it. “Why haven’t you hung any of your own paintings?”

  “Looking at my work when I’m not in the studio feels too much like a busman’s holiday.”

  “I suppose. But they’d be so joyous in this house.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. Then the craggy lines of his face softened in a smile. “You really are a fan, aren’t you?”

  “I’m afraid so. I bid on one of your paintings a few months ago—Composition #3. My business manager forced me to drop out at two hundred and fifty thousand.”

  “Obscene, isn’t it?”

  He looked so pleased that she laughed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. It wasn’t worth a penny over two hundred thousand. And I’m just beginning to realize how much I hate giving you compliments. You truly are the most overbearing man.”

  “It makes life easier.”
r />   “Keeps the masses at a distance?”

  “I value my privacy.”

  “Which explains why you’ve built such an extraordinary house in the wilds of northern Michigan instead of Big Sur or Cap d’Antibes.”

  “Already you know me well.”

  “You’re such a diva. I’m certain I’ve had my privacy invaded far more than you have, but it hasn’t turned me into a hermit. Do you know that I still can’t go anywhere without people recognizing me?”

  “My nightmare.”

  “Why is it such a big deal to you?”

  “Old baggage.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s an incredibly boring story. You don’t want to hear it.”

  “Believe me, I do.” She sat on the couch to encourage him. “I love hearing people’s stories.”

  He gazed at her, then sighed. “The critics discovered me just before my twenty-sixth birthday. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Definitely.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered toward the windows. “I became the proverbial overnight sensation—on everybody’s guest list, the subject of national magazine articles. I had people throwing money at me.”

  “I remember what that was like.”

  The fact that she understood what he’d gone through in ways most people couldn’t seemed to relax him. He left the windows to sprawl down across from her, dominating the chair he’d chosen in the same way he dominated every space he occupied. She felt a moment of uneasiness. Craig had been overpowering like that.

  “It went to my head,” he said, “and I started believing all the hype. Do you remember that, too?”

  “I was lucky. My husband kept me grounded in reality.” Too grounded, she thought now. Craig never understood that she’d needed his praise more than his criticism.

  “I wasn’t lucky. I forgot that it was about the work, not about the artist. I partied instead of painted. I drank too much. I developed a taste for nose candy and free sex.”

  “Except sex never is free, is it?”

  “Not when you’re married to a woman you love. Ah, but I justified my behavior, you see, because she was my true love and all that other sex was meaningless. I justified it because she was having a tough pregnancy, and the doctor had told me to leave her alone until after the baby was born.”

  Lilly heard his self-contempt. This was a man who judged himself even more harshly than he judged others.

  “My wife found out, of course, and did the right thing by walking out on me. A week later she went into labor, but the baby was born dead.”

  “Oh, Liam…”

  He turned away her sympathy with an arch twist of his mouth. “There’s a happy ending. She married a magazine editor and went on to have three healthy, well-adjusted children. As for me… I learned an important lesson about what is important and what isn’t.”

  “And you’ve lived in lonely isolation ever since?”

  He smiled. “Hardly that. I do have friends, Lilly. Genuine ones.”

  “People you’ve known for a hundred years,” she guessed. “Newcomers need not apply.”

  “I think all of us get set in our friendships as we grow older. Haven’t you?”

  “I suppose.” She started to ask why he’d invited her here, since she was definitely a newcomer, but a more important question was on her mind. “Am I mistaken, or didn’t you leave something important out of the house tour?”

  He sank deeper into his chair and looked annoyed. “You want to see my studio.”

  “I’m sure you don’t make a habit of opening it up to everyone, but—”

  “No one goes in there but me and an occasional model.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” she said smoothly. “Still, I’d be grateful if I could just have a peek.”

  A calculating glint appeared in his eyes. “How grateful?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Grateful enough to pose for me?”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “It’s part of my charm.”

  If they’d been at the B&B or by the stream in the meadow, she might have been able to refuse, but not here. That mysterious space where he created some of the world’s most beautiful art was too near. “I can’t imagine why you’d want to sketch a fat, over-the-hill, forty-five-year-old woman, but if that’s what it takes to see your studio, then, yes, I’ll pose for you.”

  “Good. Follow me.” He vaulted from his chair and headed for a set of stone steps that led to the catwalk. As he reached it, he glanced back at her. “You’re not fat. And you’re older than forty-five.”

  “I am not!”

  “You’ve had work done around your eyes, but no plastic surgeon can cut away the life experience behind them. You’re closer to fifty.”

  “I’m forty-seven.”

  He gazed down at her from the catwalk. “You’re making me lose patience.”

  “Air could make you lose patience,” she grumbled.

  The corner of his mouth curled. “Do you want to see my studio or not?”

  “Oh, I suppose.” Frowning, she swept up the steps, then followed him across the narrow, open structure. She glanced uneasily down at the living area below. “I feel as if I’m walking the plank.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  His statement implied she’d be coming back, an impression she immediately corrected. “I’ll pose for you today, but that’s all.”

  “Stop irritating me.” He’d reached the end of the catwalk, and he turned toward her so he stood silhouetted against the stone arch. She felt a tiny erotic thrill as he watched her approach with his legs braced and his arms crossed over his chest like an ancient warrior.

  She gave him her diva’s gaze. “Remind me again why I even wanted to see it.”

  “Because I’m a genius. Just ask me.”

  “Shut up and get out of my way.”

  His laugh held a deep, pleasing resonance. He turned away and led her around a curve of wall into his studio.

  “Oh, Liam…” She pressed her fingertips to her lips.

  The studio sat suspended above the trees in its own private universe. It was oddly shaped with three of its five sides curved. Late-afternoon light glowed through the northern wall, which was constructed entirely of glass. Overhead, the various skylights had shades that could be adjusted according to the time of day. The layers of colorful paint splatters on the rough walls, the furniture, and the limestone floor had turned the studio into a work of modern art all its own. She had the same sensation she experienced when she stood inside the Getty.

  Half-finished canvases sat on easels while others leaned against the walls. Several large canvases hung on special frames. Her mind whirled as she tried to take it all in. She might not have had much formal education, but she’d studied art on her own for several decades, and she wasn’t a novice. Still, she found his mature work difficult to categorize. All the influences were evident—the teeth-gnashing of the Abstract Expressionists, the studied cool of Pop, the starkness of the Minimalists. But only Liam Jenner had the audacity to superimpose the sentimental over those decidedly unsentimental styles.

  Her eyes drank in the monumental, unfinished Madonna and Child that occupied most of one wall. Of all the great contemporary artists, only Liam Jenner could paint a Madonna and Child without using cow dung as his medium, or smearing an obscenity over her forehead, or adding a flashing Coca-Cola sign in place of a star. Only Liam Jenner had the absolute self-confidence to show the cynical deconstructionists who populated the world of contemporary art the meaning of unabashed reverence.

  Her heart filled with tears she couldn’t let herself shed. Tears of loss for the way she’d let her identity get swallowed up by Craig’s expectations, tears of loss for the son she’d given away. Gazing at the painting, she realized how careless she’d been with what she should have held sacred.

  His hand curled around her shoulder in a gesture as gentle as the wisps
of blue-gold paint softening the Madonna’s hair. His touch seemed both natural and necessary, and as she swallowed her tears, she had to resist the urge to curl into his chest.

  “My poor Lilly,” he said softly. “You’ve made your life even harder for yourself than I have mine.”

  She didn’t question how he knew, but as she stood before that miraculous, unfinished painting and felt the comforting hand on her shoulder, she understood that all these canvases were reflections of the man—his angry intensity, his intelligence, his severity, and the sentiment he worked so hard to hide. Unlike her, Liam Jenner was one with his work.

  “Sit,” he murmured. “Just as you are.” She let him lead her to a simple wooden chair across the room. He caressed her shoulder, then stepped back and reached for one of the blank canvases near his worktable. If he had been any other man, she would have felt manipulated, but manipulation wouldn’t occur to him. He had simply been overcome with the need to create, and for a reason she couldn’t fathom, that involved her.

  She no longer cared. Instead, she gazed at the Madonna and Child and thought about her life, richly blessed in so many ways but barren in others. Instead of concentrating on her losses—her son, her identity, the husband she’d both loved and resented—she thought of all she’d been granted. She’d been blessed with a good brain and the intellectual curiosity to challenge it. She’d been given a beautiful face and body when she’d needed them most. So what if that beauty had faded? Here beside this lake in northern Michigan, it didn’t seem quite so important.

  As she gazed at the Madonna, something began to happen. She saw her herb-garden quilt instead of Liam’s painting, and she began to understand what had eluded her. The herb garden was a metaphor for the woman who now lived inside her—a more mature woman, one who wanted to heal and nurture instead of seduce, a woman with subtle nuances instead of splashy beauty. She was no longer the person she’d been, but she didn’t yet understand the person she’d become. Somehow the quilt held the answer.