by Francis Ray
Kristen placed hands that had started to tremble in her lap. “You thought there might be some validity in the accusation?”
He waved her words aside. “If I thought that, I never would have hired you. This is more than a business, it’s my passion. It was you I wasn’t sure about.”
Twin lines furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand.”
The door behind him opened. “Excuse me.” Kristen stood and went to greet a group of teenagers.
Despite her uneasiness about the conversation with Jacques, her smile didn’t show it. “Welcome to St. Clair’s. If you have any question you have only to ask.” Her hand extended toward the T-shaped gallery. “Enjoy.”
Too nervous to return to her seat, she went to stand by Jacques. “You were saying.”
He nodded toward the five laughing teenagers who wore bagging jeans and sported tattoos and multiple piercings. “Do you think they’re potential buyers?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She didn’t like to judge people. She’d done too much of that in the past with horrendous results. “The pictures here are for the serious buyer or art lover. From the way they’re laughing and playing, I don’t think they’re either.”
“Yet you treated them as if they were.”
The twin furrows returned. “How else was I to treat them? Just because they may not have the money to buy or aren’t interested in buying doesn’t mean they don’t have the mental capability to appreciate art.”
“That’s what I meant,” he said, catching her by the arms. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to relate to the customers, to make them feel at home. The few times I’d met you, you seemed rather withdrawn or—” he paused briefly “unsure of yourself.”
She didn’t take offense. He’d described the old Kristen perfectly. “And now?”
“I’m thinking about giving you a raise so you won’t leave.”
Her face blossomed into a smile. “Jacques, thank you.”
“Later,” the teenagers chorused as they left the shop.
“Later,” Jacques and Kristen said, then grinned at each other.
Almost immediately, the door opened. In walked Angelique dressed in black, her thick auburn hair in a single braid down her slim back.
“You came,” Kristen said, going to greet her friend. Angelique could take art or leave it. Usually she left it.
“I had an appointment later at the club so I was in the area.” Angelique closed the door, then glanced around the gallery, lifting her oversized shades to peer closer at the discreet price tag on a painting near the entrance of the gallery. “Disbelief is right.”
Unsure if she meant the outlandish price or the abstract painting itself, Kristen drew Angelique to Jacques. “Angelique, neighbor and best friend, meet Jacques Broussard, my boss.”
“And friend,” Jacques added, taking Angelique’s hand and kissing the air just above it. “It’s always a pleasure to meet a beautiful, intelligent woman.”
Angelique lifted a naturally arched brow. “I’ll bite. How do you know I’m intelligent?”
“Because you’re Kristen’s friend and you’re intelligent enough to know that at five thousand dollars, Rene’s painting is overpriced,” he told her.
“Then why have it on display?” Angelique asked with her usual straightforwardness.
“Angelique, didn’t you come to see me?” Kristen asked, although she had wondered the same thing.
“And outspoken,” Jacques said not unkindly. “Rene is a wonderful artist, but not in abstract. He wanted a chance to display the new direction of his work and, as a friend and gallery owner, I gave it to him. Hopefully, he will soon come to realize where his talent lies and return to portraits.”
“If not?” Kristen asked, finally understanding Rene’s daily call to see if the work had sold.
“He will,” Jacques stated emphatically. “Above all else, Rene is practical. He enjoys the praise his works garnish and the money that goes with it too much to do otherwise.”
Kristen studied the painting with its sharp angles and bold slashes of garish purple and orange, and felt a distinct kinship with the artist. “Too bad he couldn’t have both.”
“Very few can,” Angelique said from beside her. “It takes a special person to stick to their dreams when confronted with stark reality. You’re one of them.”
Surprise had Kristen turning sharply toward her friend. “Me?”
“You. You stayed instead of leaving.” Angelique glanced at Jacques, her dark lashes swept down flirtatiously over her light brown eyes. “But considering you have such a charming boss, I don’t blame you. Perhaps I should have majored in art instead of psychology.”
“Should I make an appointment for your couch?” Jacques bantered.
Angelique grinned. “I’ll hold you to that in about a year.”
The door opened. A man in a gray chauffeur’s uniform held it open for a silver-haired woman with a polished teak, heavily carved walking stick. “I’ll take care of Mrs. Moreau,” Jacques said, quickly moving to assist the matronly woman inside.
“Your boss is great,” Angelique said, bracing her hips against the desk.
“He is, isn’t he?” Kristen glanced over her shoulder at Jacques as he stopped with Mrs. Moreau in front of a painting by Paul Goodnight. “I took this job out of desperation, but I’ve quickly come to enjoy working here. I couldn’t truthfully say that when I was at the museum.”
“Considering the fringe benefits, I don’t blame you.” Angelique came off the desk and pointed outside. “Now, that’s what I call a man’s man. Built and good-looking, in an earthy sort of way.”
Kristen followed the direction of Angelique’s gaze and couldn’t believe her eyes. Rafe, looking lost and uncertain, stood on the sidewalk, clutching a package wrapped in bubble wrap beneath his right arm.
She hadn’t seen or spoken with him since the night she got the job. She’d called twice, but always got his machine. He’d called, but always when she was at work. She didn’t think the timing of his calls had been an accident.
Their gazes met, he clutched the package, then started to walk away. Oh, no, you don’t.
“I’ll be back.”
Rushing out the door, Kristen called to him. “Rafe, wait!” Afraid he wouldn’t comply, she caught him by the arm, felt the flex of his muscles, and agreed with Angelique’s estimation of his physique. He was in excellent condition. “You were leaving without coming in?”
He shifted uneasily. “You were busy.” The excuse was weak at best. He was a coward, plain and simple.
“Angelique just dropped by to say hi.” Kristen took his arm and started back inside. “She’s been dying to meet you.”
He balked, the uncertainty on his face growing. “I don’t want to be in the way. I just brought you this.” He shoved the wrapped bundle toward her.
Her hands automatically closed around the bubble wrap, then tightened at its weight. “It’s too heavy for food unless you plan to feed the customers as well,” she teased.
He smiled before he could help himself. “It’s something I made for you.”
Her dark eyes lit with delight. “I’m worse than Adam Jr. when it comes to presents.” She gave it back to him. “I’ll get the door.”
Aware that it was her way of getting him inside the gallery, but unable to think of a reasonable excuse, he went in and placed the package on the desk.
“Angelique Fleming, meet Rafe Crawford, my sister-in-law’s stepson, and if he tries to leave, sit on him. Rafe. Angelique.” Kristen began opening her drawers, looking for her scissors.
Rafe, who had begun edging back, stopped. He hadn’t thought she’d pay any more attention to him.
“Hello, Rafe,” Angelique said, placing herself in his direct path to the door. “I’d hate to sit on you after such short acquaintance, but good friends are hard to find. Besides, she feeds me when I forget to buy groceries so I’d like to keep her happy.”
“
Eureka.” Brandishing the scissors, Kristen cut the clear wrapping tape, then began to peel the bubble wrap away.
Rafe had meant to give her the gift, then leave. Now he discovered he couldn’t. It had nothing to do with the woman who was half his size who had positioned herself in front of the door, and everything to do with Kristen carefully unwrapping the package as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
He had designed and made it to make up for the inexcusable way he had acted after she got the job. She’d obviously wanted to celebrate, but old fears had kept him from joining her. He just hoped it wasn’t too late for her to realize he was happy for her. But once he’d finished, he had started second-guessing himself. Kristen had enough money to buy anything she wanted. Perhaps he’d overstepped, yet the pounding of his heart told him how much her approval meant.
She gasped when she finally pulled away the final sheet of tissue paper. Her gaze immediately lifted to Rafe’s.
She didn’t have to say a word. The pleasure on her beautiful face said it all. Strangely, the wild beating of his heart increased.
Kristen’s trembling fingers grazed the burled walnut of the museum-quality domed writing box, the brass hinges. She lifted the circular ring to reveal the red velvet lining. “It’s beautiful,” she finally said. “It looks authentic.”
“I should hope so,” Rafe said, pride in his voice. Picking up the fourteen-by-six-inch box, Rafe carefully turned it over and pointed to the discreet initials in a corner. RBC.
“There’s a lot of old wood in buildings around here, plus furniture that is too badly damaged to be restored. I buy it.” The pad of his scarred thumb swept across the brass hinges. “I get the hardware and the fabric from an antiques dealer.” He set the box back on Kristen’s desk. “After seeing this, she asked me to make a tea caddy for her.”
“Could you make me one?” Kristen asked, her hand resting on the burled top. “Mother’s birthday is in a few months and she loves tea.”
Before Rafe could speak, a woman from behind him said, “Young man, could I order one, too?”
Rafe turned to see who had spoken and saw an elderly woman, her gaze direct, her bearing regal despite the wooden cane she leaned on. She wore diamonds and pearls. Her white suit was tailored. He’d been around the Wakefields and his wealthier clients enough to recognize affluence and authority when he saw it. This woman oozed both. Her patronage could do a lot for his business, but he found himself tongue-tied. He wasn’t used to being around this many people or being the center of attention.
“I’m sure he could,” Kristen interjected. “As you can see, he is meticulous about every piece he creates.”
His head jerked toward Kristen. He saw the smile, but more so the almost imperceptible working of her mouth. Say yes.
He gave his attention back to the woman. “I don’t have any cards with me, but I could call you after I’ve made some sketches for you to look at.”
“Excellent. Jacques has my number.” The matron started toward the door Jacques held open. She paused, leaning heavily on her cane. “Do you have other reproductions?”
“Yes, ma’am, but this is the first box I’ve made,” he confessed. “I make reproductions of furniture from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.”
“I’d like to see what you have. Call me.” It was an order.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She had barely set her tiny foot on the crowded sidewalk before the chauffeur was there to take her slim arm and lead her to a black Bentley a short distance away.
“Well, now,” Jacques said, going to the desk and gazing briefly at the writing box. “Considering you picked up customers in my shop, I think it’s only fair that I charge you a commission.”
seven
Before Rafe could answer, Jacques extended his hand. “A poor joke. Jacques Broussard.”
“Rafe Crawford.” The handshake was firm. “But I wouldn’t have had the possibility of a sale if I hadn’t been in your shop. You’re entitled to a cut.”
Jacques eyed him closer. “A fair and honest man. Qualities our young people need to learn.”
“Old ones, too,” Angelique quipped.
Jacques nodded. “My sentiments exactly. You’re a wise woman.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I get the feeling you’re no slouch yourself.”
“Thank you,” he said, then, “I’m having a soirée Saturday night at my home for an art critic friend of mine who’s just moved from Charleston. I’d like all of you to come.”
Rafe’s mouth had opened to decline when Kristen said, “I think it’s best for your sake if I don’t come.”
“Why?” Jacques asked, genuinely puzzled.
Kristen’s hand clenched atop the box. “You probably have a lot of friends in the art world who will be there. The person who made the accusation against me may be in attendance. It would be awkward.”
“You can’t let him rule your life,” Rafe said, getting angry all over again.
“I agree,” Angelique said. “Remember what I said.” Her hand lifted, clenched, twisted.
Jacques winced. “I never want to make you angry.”
“Most men don’t,” Angelique retorted.
Rafe kept his gaze on Kristen.
“I’m not going.” Kristen took her seat. She’d never been the brave type. “Rafe, thank you for the box. It’s beautiful. Angelique, you said you have an appointment.”
Angelique nudged Rafe with her elbow. “I think she’s trying to throw us out. You going?”
Rafe hadn’t known what to expect of the woman Kristen called friend. He’d never had a close friend who’d stick up for him no matter what. Lilly had tried and suffered because of it. The scar from his father’s belt would be on her leg until she died. Perhaps it was best that he was alone: Yet … “No. You?”
Angelique sat on the corner of the desk and crossed her long legs. “Not until she says yes.”
Kristen straightened papers on her already-neat desk. “Jacques might have an objection to you two keeping me from working.”
The owner gave a Gallic shrug. “I want you there. People in the art world can become rather insular and boring. You three would liven things up.”
“I’m not going,” Rafe said, looking shell-shocked and shaking his head.
“Why not?” Kristen stopped shifting papers.
“I—I—don’t do well in crowds,” he finally said, his gaze faltering, his hands fisting by his side.
Without thought, Kristen rose and placed her hand on his arm, felt the muscles bunch. In his eyes she saw the loneliness that had stared back at her so many times in the past. And, yes, the same insecurity. She’d missed it before. Perhaps she had been too self-absorbed, too busy trying to conquer her own fears and insecurities. Suddenly it was important that he conquer his as well.
“I’ll go if you will,” she said quietly. If Rafe was a loner by choice or by chance, she couldn’t say. She simply knew she wanted to change that.
“Kristen…” he began, faltered, then tried again. “You’ll have more fun without me.”
“No, I won’t, because I won’t be there.” She folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. “What do you say we go and support each other?”
His hand raked over his hair. She couldn’t realize what she was asking of him. He didn’t want people in his life. People he’d eventually miss. Besides, he wasn’t all that sure what to do with himself around all the important people that were bound to be there. He’d probably embarrass her.
“I need you there with me,” she said softly, her beautiful, dark eyes imploring.
Need. He’d never wanted anyone to need him again, yet inexplicably he had made a promise to himself long ago that he’d never again let anyone else down who did. He’d given up a lot, but never his integrity. “All right.”
“Great!” She lifted her arms to hug him, then saw him stiffen. She brought her hands together and clapped. She’d forgotten public displays of warmth made h
im uncomfortable. Her family showed affection openly. For the first time, she wondered what kind of childhood he’d had. “It will be fun.”
Doubt lingered on his face. “I guess I better get going.”
Jacques stuck out his hand. “Kristen has my address. You can come over anytime after eight. It’s black tie.”
“Black tie,” Rafe repeated, the panic vivid on his face.
Kristen came around the desk. “It won’t be any problem to rent a tux in time,” she told him, wanting to touch him to reassure him, but afraid it would do the opposite. He didn’t look convinced. “Isn’t that right, Angelique?”
“No problem,” Angelique agreed, her practiced gaze going over him. “Forty-two long. Right?”
He gulped. Nodded.
“I’ll call this friend and he’ll put one back for you,” she said. “I’ll give the number to Kristen so you can go by there and pick it up.”
He swallowed again, then looked at Jacques as if expecting him to say he was joking about the party being formal. It was not to be.
Jacques smiled knowingly. “Henri likes to dress, but the caterer is excellent so the food and drink will make up for having to wear a tux. There will also be dancing.”
Rafe’s eyes went wide again.
Kristen didn’t think; she simply took Rafe’s arm and led him out the door. If he heard any more she’d never get him to go, and it was important to her that he did.
On the sidewalk she pulled him into the recessed doorway of a vacant storefront. “It won’t be that bad. I’ll help you pick out a tux and I won’t leave your side the entire time we’re there.”
“I guess you think I’m overreacting,” he said slowly, staring out at the passing crowd.
“Actually, you remind me of my father,” she told him.
His attention whipped back to her, his expression incredulous.
Folding her arms, Kristen leaned against the door frame behind her. “He was a wonderful father, husband, and doctor. His practice kept him extremely busy and when he was home he liked to relax and enjoy his family. In his profession, a fair amount of socialization was necessary.” A wistful smile stole over her face.