Isabelle looked at her watch. “Yes, he said he’d bring ice. Nearly an hour ago...”
“Uh, oh,” Sadie teased. “You better watch it, Isabelle. Maybe he got a better offer.” She laughed and stole a Christmas cookie out of the white bakery box.
Isabelle sucked in a breath. Scott with another woman? Impossible. Wasn’t it? “No, he was at the shooting range with Trent and Luke.”
“Wow.” Violet was now placing parsley sprigs around the turkey.
“‘Wow’ what?”
“Trent Davis? He’s the talk of the academy right now. Before break, half the people in my class asked me to get a selfie with him. He’s a legend,” Violet said, respect and awe thrumming through her voice. “Hey, maybe Scott could introduce me. I’d love to talk to him. Pick his brain. Absorb.”
“I’ll ask Scott, if you want me to,” Isabelle offered.
“Absolutely!” Violet’s eyes filled with anticipation.
The sound of tires crunching against cold gravel and the slam of a car door signaled Scott’s arrival.
“That’s him!” Violet squealed and raced past Isabelle. “I’ll ask him myself.”
“Sure,” Isabelle said as the timer went off in the second oven. “The dinner rolls.”
Connie handed her a pair of oven mitts and then breezed past her. “Scott! How lovely to see you. And you brought the ice.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle saw her mother give Scott a big hug.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hawks.” Scott handed her a gold foil-wrapped box.
Isabelle suspected they were chocolate turtles made by the confectioner who had just opened in town. They were the best Isabelle had ever tasted.
She took the rolls out of the oven and placed them on top of the stove. She waved at Scott as she took off the mitts.
Sadie shouted, “Isabelle! The whipped cream! You forgot. It’s probably butter by now.”
Isabelle reached over to the mixer and turned it off, took off the towel and inspected the firm peaks. “It’s fine. I’ll add the sugar.”
“Give it extra for me,” Sadie said, taking two casseroles to the table.
“Oh, Sadie.”
“Hey, Scott!” Dylan, Christopher and Ross got up from the game to greet him.
Isabelle moved the ham to the pineapple-shaped wood carving board. Dylan was less than a year younger than Isabelle, and when she was very young she’d liked telling kids at school they were twins. Now, Dylan was as immersed in his career as she was in her art. He never talked about his cases until they were over, but she knew his stance against the drug dealers that had infiltrated his district consumed him. He was passionate about delivering justice and keeping schools and streets safe.
Though Chris didn’t live far from town, it was amazing how little he got out to the country to see his mother. He spent even less time in Indian Lake. Honestly, if it weren’t for holidays and special occasions, Isabelle didn’t think she would see him at all.
Ross was the most private of the bunch, even though he lived here. Everything about him was top secret. He didn’t talk about work, and none of them knew if he had a girlfriend—or any friends, for that matter. Ross was observant, quiet and pensive. Isabelle often worried about him, though he assured her he was fine.
She went up to Scott and took the two bags of ice from him. “I was hoping you’d be here sooner,” she said pointedly.
“I’m sorry. Trent had...well, I couldn’t get away earlier.”
“That’s so cool!” Violet said. “You were with Trent Davis. What’s he like?”
Isabelle took the ice to the kitchen. She filled the water glasses and put them on the table. Of all the days for Scott to be late, he had to pick this one.
Today was important to her. She’d been bursting with good news, and had wanted to tell Scott first. Not even her mother knew. She had planned to tell the whole family at dinner, but now that plan was flushed.
She was irritated with him, but also frustrated with everything about this holiday. She didn’t know why today’s party should bother her more than any other. She was always the one to put all the final pieces together at family gatherings. She surveyed the food waiting for her to put out on the table.
While everyone greeted Scott, teasing and joking about his lack of skills with a gun, Isabelle continued getting the dinner ready. She placed the turkey at one end of the table for Ross to carve, while the ham went to her mother’s place at the other end. Connie would say the blessing and serve the ham.
With the rolls, vegetables and stuffing steaming hot and two bottles of wine on the table, Isabelle called everyone to supper.
Isabelle sat opposite Scott. They bowed their heads, said a prayer, toasted Christmas and began the meal.
Everyone in the family asked Scott questions about his article and the drug bust, and Violet peppered him with questions about Trent until Scott told her he was buying Cate Sullivan an engagement ring. Isabelle stayed silent as Scott stole glances at her.
“I want to talk to you after dinner,” she said, when Violet was distracted by passing the stuffing to Dylan. “Alone.”
“Sure,” he replied and took a deep slug of wine.
* * *
SCOTT CARRIED TWO heavy wool serapes and followed Isabelle out to the patio where Ross had started a fire in the brass fire pit earlier. Isabelle had made hot buttered rum for everyone, another of their Christmas traditions.
Scott remembered last year when the whole family sat around the fire beneath falling snow, sharing stories. Laughing. Living.
He glanced inside. Everyone had pitched in to handle the cleanup. “I’m surprised we got out of doing the dishes,” he said. “As I remember, you and I are usually the last ones out here.”
“I told them I wanted to talk to you privately.”
“Oh,” he said, placing the red-and-white serape around Isabelle’s shoulders. She lifted her thick, caramel hair for him. Then settled back into the chair.
With the firelight dancing across her face and her green eyes glimmering like bits of emerald, she looked like one of the water sprites she painted. “You’re beautiful tonight,” he told her.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s probably because I’m so excited.”
“Excited?” He took a sip of his drink. “I thought you were mad at me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because of that clipped text you sent me. And then you didn’t even hug me when I came in. Frankly, I was a bit put off myself.”
“To be fair, you were late. And when you got here you were mobbed by my family and I was busy putting the meal together. My mother gave you a hug,” she added petulantly.
“Not the same thing.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” He glanced at her, then at the fire. Then back at her. He felt his insides untwist just looking at her.
She smiled at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually been mad at you,” she countered. “Anyway. I’m not now.”
“Good.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was wrong about the firelight. It was her own incandescence. She was glowing. “Tell me why you’re so excited.”
“I’ve had some good news. Fantastic news. I was hoping you’d be here earlier so I could tell you. I wanted you to be the first to know. I haven’t said a word to my family.”
Scott moved forward. She’d never acted like this before. She almost always discussed important stuff with her mother and sisters first. He wasn’t quite sure how he should take this. He held his breath. “Go on.”
“You, of all people, know how many queries I’ve sent to gallery owners, buyers and collectors, hoping I’d get my break.”
“I do.” In fact, Scott had spent countless hours working his journalism contacts to help
Isabelle get placed. Each time a rejection came, he felt her pain.
He’d spent many a summer’s night sitting on a towel at Cove Beach with his arm around her shoulders while she sobbed. He’d been with her fireside at the Lodges as she cried into a glass of wine. One year, he’d brought her to the annual Halloween hay ride thinking to cheer her, but all she’d done was lay her head on his shoulder and talk about “what ifs.” Several Christmases and Valentine’s Days had been ruined by the arrival of another rejection.
He didn’t know what kept her going. How she found the strength and courage to pit herself against the brick wall that the art world threw up. Time after time they all told her the same thing: her work was commercial, but not exceptional. Her attempts at Impressionism lacked the “je ne sais quoi,” that special something that would make curators or art dealers give her a chance.
“Well, I finally got some interest,” she said now. “A gallery in Chicago. He said he loved my work.”
And that’s what Isabelle wanted. Recognition. She craved it. She was obsessed with it.
Now she had it.
He leaned over and took her hand. “I’m really happy for you, Isabelle. Truly.” He kissed her palm.
Her smile was bursting with energy, and he leaned closer, so their lips almost brushed. All she had to do was tilt her head slightly, and they’d be kissing.
Instead, she took a deep breath and kept talking. “It’s happening, Scott. My dream. I’m going to get my dream,” she whispered so low he barely heard her, but he saw the tears slip down her cheeks. “I’ve waited so long.”
“And worked very hard for this. You deserve it all. Now give me the details. Who is the owner? What are his credentials? Have you looked him up on the internet? Is this one of the galleries you approached?”
“Okay, Mr. Reporter. One question at a time. Yes, I did approach him. Malcolm Whitestone, that’s the owner. Whitestone Gallery is in Evanston.”
Scott was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ve heard of him, haven’t I?”
“Possibly. Maybe when we were making lists of potential galleries a couple years ago. Anyway, he wants me to branch out. You know I’ve always thought my impressionistic water sprites were fine for the tourists here, but I can do better.”
“I’ve always liked them,” he mused, tracing the rim of his glass. “Some are so fantastical I want them to be real.”
“That’s sweet, but the critics want depth and bold ideas.”
He studied her. She still amazed him. She kept digging inside herself for something that he didn’t know if he would ever understand. She was never satisfied. She always kept reaching.
“So what’s the next step?”
“He wants me to pick out more pieces and send them to him. This was just an initial introduction.”
“So you don’t have a show lined up,” he said, a bit surprised she was this excited when it could all fall apart in a subsequent email.
Her jaw tightened and her face turned to stone. “It’s a chance, Scott. Can’t you see that?”
“I do see—”
“This is just like you. Always negative.”
“Isabelle—”
Her voice rose as she continued. “I shouldn’t have told you. I should have waited until I had everything wrapped up. A contract signed and in hand before I said anything. You’ve always doubted my art.”
“That is not true!” His tone was harsher than he’d intended, but Isabelle’s words were like a punch to the gut. “I’ve always supported you. I adore your mermaids and nymphs. Wasn’t I the one who said we should go to Paris and see the impressionist and art nouveau paintings that inspired them?”
“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You think I’m only capable of my water sprites.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with them,” he said. “They’ve brought you a second income, a loyal following and admiration from practically everyone who meets you. And I love them. Why isn’t that enough?”
She shot to her feet. “Because it’s not, Scott. It’s just not.”
Isabelle stormed into the house and slammed the door. He watched through the glass walls as she marched through the kitchen past the den and disappeared down the hall to the wing of bedrooms.
He looked down at his drink. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Scott.”
Going after her would get him nowhere. He was floored. He’d always been there for her. He’d truly believed he was supporting her. But clearly Isabelle didn’t agree.
He’d wanted to kiss her and she pulled away. Her rejection cut deep, and he wasn’t sure how he would heal from it.
It was time for him to reassess things.
He dug in his pocket for his car keys and went inside to say goodbye to Isabelle’s family.
CHAPTER THREE
THE DAY AFTER Christmas was always a good business day for Scott. Kids had Christmas money to spend on the books, games, puzzles and toys he stocked in his children’s section. Parents were always in need of the hot coffee, cocoa and extra whipped cream that he served up while they browsed his extensive classic literature and bestseller sections.
Scott’s espresso bar was not in the same league as Maddie Strong Barzonni’s Cupcakes and Cappuccino, but then he’d never intended it to be. His shop was about the books with hot beverages served on the side for convenience and to get the customers to stay longer and buy more books.
After he’d moved back to Indian Lake and his mother had recovered from her surgery, she’d insisted on loaning him the money to open up his shop. Scott had hired Luke Bosworth, the best carpenter in town, to renovate the historic but demolition-ready building he’d bought for a song. Between having a mortgage and investing in his coffee equipment and inventory, Scott now felt tied to the shop, to Indian Lake.
Throughout his days at Northwestern and then at the Chicago Tribune, he’d dreamed of traveling the world in search of news stories. He’d wanted to meet intriguing people. Heads of state. Visionaries who molded the future. Scientists searching for cures to the most deadly diseases.
His life was different now. Those dreams had morphed into a quieter and yet still fulfilling life, which he now lived...for the most part. A great deal of his new visions for the future had Isabelle at the core.
“Scott!” A familiar voice boomed as the bell over the front door tingled.
Whisking away the cobwebs of his long-ago dreams, Scott smiled at Trent and Cate. He held out his hand to shake theirs. “Great to see you. How was your Christmas?”
“Super,” Trent said with a wink.
“Magical,” Cate added, putting an arm around Trent’s waist. “We’ve been shopping today. Next door, actually,” she said with a brilliant smile.
“Go on,” Trent said. “Show him.”
Cate extended her left hand. “You’re the first to see it.” Cate blushed.
Scott gazed at the pretty solitaire diamond. Then he peered more closely. “What is that? It’s not exactly round.”
“It’s an antique ring,” Trent said. “We bought it at the antique dealer.”
“Mrs. Beabots told us about him,” Cate said. “It’s a rose cut. Doesn’t it look just like a flower? The dealer said it dates back to 1898.”
Scott lifted his eyes. “The art nouveau period. My favorite.”
“I never guessed you to be so romantic, Scott,” Cate said, still admiring her ring.
Scott straightened and put a plucky smile on his face. “Oh, I’m the most romantic guy in town.”
“Hey, now...” Trent said.
Scott raised both his palms. “Sorry. You’re right. Trent has me beat in the romance department—at least this Christmas. So, can I get you anything? Cocoa? Coffee?”
He didn’t want them asking any embarrassing questions abo
ut Isabelle. Because the fact was, he hadn’t heard from her since he left her mother’s house. No call on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. He’d kept the shop open until late Christmas Eve and sold quite a few books. Christmas Day he went to church with his mother, Theresa, and they drove into Chicago for their annual Christmas dinner at the Drake Hotel. It was costly and worth every dime, she always said. She loved the harpist. He loved the food. Then they walked up and down Michigan Avenue, window shopping and looking at the lights, before driving home along Lake Shore Drive.
Each year Scott was thankful that his mother was still alive and that she wanted to keep up their Christmas tradition. He wondered if Isabelle would ever want to do things differently, but she’d never invited him for Christmas. As close as Scott and Isabelle were, they were still just friends and this was their family time, she’d always said. He didn’t intrude.
“Not for me,” Trent said. “But Cate wants to get some activity books for Danny. She didn’t have as much time to shop before Christmas, as you can guess.”
Scott’s eyes widened. “I’m so sorry, Cate. I should have picked out some things for Danny and brought them over. After everything you’ve been through...”
Cate chuckled. “It’s okay, Scott. Santa still paid him a visit. But he did mention some pop-up books you showed him, and I didn’t have a chance to swing by earlier.”
Scott snapped his fingers. “I know just the ones. I’ll get them.”
Scott went to the children’s section which was nearly wiped clean. His new shipments wouldn’t be in until after he did inventory next week. Amazingly, he had one Encyclopedia Prehistorica pop-up left.
Scott rang up the sale and put the book in a shopping bag.
“We should talk about New Year’s,” Cate said. “Tell Isabelle to call me.”
“Will do.” Scott saluted Trent as they walked out.
Trent was just closing the door when he stopped and mouthed to Scott, “I’ll call you later.”
Scott knew from the look in Trent’s eyes that his call had nothing to do with champagne or noisemakers. Trent had information.
Family of His Own Page 3