“Serious artist,” she whispered. Once her work was in Whitestone Gallery, she wouldn’t be a fledgling anymore. She would no longer be overlooked. Even if she was never famous, she would always be able to claim her day...her moment.
She stared at the woman in the reflection. Unafraid, nearly audacious. Isabelle felt a change happening inside her and around her. Her own green eyes gazed back at her. She imagined she saw them twinkle.
CHAPTER FIVE
NORTH OF DOWNTOWN CHICAGO, a half mile from Lake Michigan and centered in a block of shops, cafés and boutiques stood Whitestone Gallery. Its massive black awning, white Greek key design fringe and a bold white W stretched imperiously over the beveled glass door, which was executed in an art deco design that reminded Isabelle of the water spray in her nymph paintings. It was the first sign that perhaps she was meeting her destiny.
Isabelle gathered her paintings, which she had carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, out of the back of her SUV. Apparently, Chicago had not been the recipient of any of the lake-effect snow that had been dumped on Indian Lake last night. The sidewalk here was so pristine, it looked as if someone had used a blow dryer to remove any hint of dampness. Along the wall of glass that formed the front of the gallery was a window box holding perfectly shaped boxwoods. Two more English box planters on either side of the front door held round topiary trees. As she walked up the red carpet, also meticulously devoid of dirt, slush or leaves, she couldn’t help but reach out and touch one of the plants.
She shifted the bubble-wrapped canvases under her left arm and pushed the polished brass door latch. A waft of fresh pine and cedar scent drifted through the air. Mellow classical piano music put her instantly at ease.
Framed and unframed paintings, from impressionist, cubist, abstract impressionist to contemporary, hung in strategic patterns against putty-colored walls.
A tall man emerged from behind the center partition. Thick, pearl white hair ringed his handsome face. He walked toward her, his hands outstretched. “You must be none other than Isabelle Hawks.”
“I am,” she replied with a smile, though inside she felt daunted and intimidated. If the skilled artwork on the walls hadn’t caused her nerves to jump, the self-assured man who held the golden ticket to her future surely did. She extended her hand toward him then quickly retracted it. She’d forgotten to take off her driving gloves, and her index finger poked through a hole. With her other hand clutching her canvases, she had no choice but to pluck off the glove with her teeth. “Pleasure,” she mumbled.
“Malcolm,” he said with two raised brows and a hearty chuckle. “Here, let me help you. That’s quite a load.”
As he took the paintings, Isabelle snatched the glove out of her mouth and shoved it into her coat pocket.
“We’ll go into my office,” he said politely. Taking a step back, he held out his hand with a slight bow, indicating the way.
Isabelle thought the movement so exquisite she was reminded of a ballerina.
“Thank you.” Isabelle rounded the show wall into an even larger display area. The wood plank floor was polished to such a mirror’s gleam, she felt guilty walking on it. There were four smaller viewing rooms off the two main ones, and a back hallway held four offices.
“To the left,” Malcolm said. “Mine is the largest office, and with the natural light from the window, I’ll be able to see your paintings to their full potential.”
“Lovely,” Isabelle replied sweetly. Inside, she was a mess. Why on earth had she agreed to come here and show this erudite curator her absurdly inadequate water sprite and faerie watercolors and acrylics?
Isabelle. Isabelle, you idiot. You need to go right back home as fast as you can before what’s left of your self-esteem is annihilated. Forever.
Even the office was imposing. It was as huge as the front showroom and the exterior wall was all glass. White art deco sofas filled the space, and she had no doubt they were re-covered originals from the 1930s. Two square chairs in black leather sat opposite a glass and steel coffee table. An enormous vase held at least five dozen white gladiolas.
Isabelle couldn’t help wondering where the gladiolas had been flown in from. California? South America?
“I have a box cutter here in my desk,” Malcolm said.
Her mouth fell open. He’d seen her work already? He hated them so much he was going to rip them to shreds?
He looked at her and gave his head a shake. “For the bubble wrap,” he said, holding the box cutter up. “I’ll save it for you. Little costs add up, don’t they?”
“They do,” she agreed, trying to ignore the sting of his condescension.
He pulled the wrap off and hoisted the painting up and put it on the desk so he could view it properly. His face was expressionless.
But wait. Was that a lift to the corner of his mouth? Admiration?
Isabelle’s heart leapt in her chest. When he opened the second painting, the faerie walking among the stars, she heard an intake of breath. It was only a slight puff of air, but it gave her so much encouragement that her heart whacked itself against her breastbone. She was stunned. Was this happiness?
He whisked away the wrap on the third painting and smiled. “I like this boy in the boat.” He looked at her, blue-gray eyes shining. “You have the heart of a French Impressionist, even though your style is art nouveau in so many respects. Yet the faces...the faces are ethereal, unlike any other artist I’ve seen. I wanted to view them up close to make sure what I thought I was seeing in the photos you sent me was real.”
Isabelle wasn’t sure she was hearing him correctly. He liked her work? This man whose gallery had been lauded for being on the cutting edge of what collectors wanted before they knew they wanted it?
She couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. She had to know. “Is there anything there you like? I can always bring you something else, something more...”
He turned to face her. “They’re perfect for what I want in the spring.”
Isabelle was at a loss for words. As she stared at him, trying to formulate something coherent, he crossed the room briskly and opened a white lacquered cabinet to reveal a refrigerator filled with wine, champagne, water bottles and...were those strawberries in that silver footed dish?
He handed her a bottle of French spring water. “Here. Drink this. You may need it for what I’m about to tell you.”
Isabelle thanked him and drank deeply. She felt the blood rush back to her head and knees. She was almost back to normal. Until he spoke again.
“I want all three.”
“You what?” Isabelle doubted she’d ever been as stunned. She didn’t want to appear ridiculous or not deserving of the honor, but now that she’d gotten over the initial shock, she just couldn’t hold back her excitement. “This is amazing. I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Whitestone. I had hoped, obviously, but I never dreamed you would accept me...”
The heavy clomp of heels against the wood floor outside the office made her pause. Isabelle turned toward the doorway.
Backlit against the hall lights stood a tall man dressed in scuffed cowboy boots, faded jeans and a black, paint-splattered T-shirt. His shoulders were wide and nearly filled the doorway. Though it was just below freezing outside, he wore no hat or gloves, and Isabelle wondered where he’d put his coat. His sky-blue eyes lingered on her face and he sent her an audaciously appreciative smile.
He held out two takeout coffees, gesturing toward Malcolm. Isabelle couldn’t help but notice how his biceps bulged as he raised his hand.
“I brought cappuccinos for two. I didn’t know you were expecting company.”
He never took his eyes off Isabelle, and she didn’t mind one bit.
“Wes,” Malcolm replied, propping Isabelle’s painting on the floor next to his desk. “Come meet Isabelle.”
Wes
moved toward her stealthily, as if still sizing her up. He handed Malcolm his cappuccino. “No sweetener and an extra shot. Just how you like it, uncle.”
Isabelle tore her gaze from the masculine vision in cowboy boots back to the man who was about to define her future. “Uncle?”
“Yes. This is Wes Adams. My sister’s one and only. Thank God.”
“Oh, Malcolm.” Wes laughed and turned back to Isabelle. “He says things like that to keep me on my toes.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. “This is really good. Best I’ve had since Italy. Where is this from?”
“The new café down the street,” Wes said. “I told you. Cupcakes and Cappuccino Café. It’s different. I like it.”
“Maddie’s place,” Isabelle gushed. Malcolm and Wes shot her quizzical expressions. “My friend from Indian Lake owns those cafés. She started the first one over a decade ago in our town. I forgot that she’d just opened up her third here in Evanston.”
Wes’s smile got broader, if that was possible. “I’m a fan already. And they stay open till midnight, which is when I need a triple caffeine fix. The cupcakes aren’t bad, either.”
“They’re the best.” Isabelle replied feeling a flutter of defensiveness. She was as protective of her friends as she was of her family.
“I’m sure they are,” Malcolm said. “Neither of us is very into sugar. Nasty stuff. Bad for the brain.” Malcolm grimaced and shook his head. “And since Wes is my most talented protégé—” he shot his nephew a purposeful stare “—I try to keep him in check.”
“This is true. Sadly. I’d be freer in prison than under my uncle’s watch.” Wes chuckled and slapped Malcolm’s shoulder good-naturedly. “I am grateful for all he’s done for me.”
“Which is a lot.” Malcolm nodded sternly. “And I won’t apologize for my mercenary ways. I believe my investment will pay off in the long run.”
Isabelle gaped at them. For the first time, she wondered if getting involved with Whitestone Gallery was a good idea.
Wes burst into laughter. “We’re just kidding,” he said. “From the horrified look on your face, I’m guessing we should dial it down. You know how it is with family sometimes.”
“Oh.” She let out a breath. “I understand now.”
When had she become so uptight? She couldn’t even take a simple joke for what it was. Maybe if she hadn’t dreamed of this kind of interview since she was a kid, she might be more at ease. Without a mentor, without a supporter who knew the ropes of the art world, had connections with the critics and acquisitions houses, she didn’t think she would ever be able to succeed. She attempted a smile at Malcolm and Wes. She needed this.
“I should explain, Isabelle. Wes fancies himself a contemporary artist and I have recently landed him a large commissioned painting.”
“Enormous is more the word for it,” Wes interjected. “One of the old residential buildings on Lake Shore Drive is being renovated, and I’m painting three murals for their lobby.”
“Wow, congratulations,” Isabelle said. She couldn’t imagine being sought after enough to have her work hung in one of the Gold Coast historical buildings. The thought gave her goose bumps. When she smiled at Wes, she realized he was beaming at her. The moment seemed suspended, reminded her of what it felt like whenever she was painting. She wasn’t exactly on the earth, yet she hadn’t left it, either. She could feel the paintbrush in her hand, but the energy that flowed through her arm to the brush and onto the canvas came from somewhere else. She didn’t know where. But she knew instantly that Wes understood. He went to those places, too.
And he recognized the artist in her.
Isabelle thought she’d melt on the spot, which would cause a great deal of trauma to perfectionist Malcolm.
Wes finally tore his eyes from her and glanced down at the paintings. “You did these?”
She blinked. Her paintings. Yes. That’s what she was here for. To sell her paintings. To impress Malcolm. Not flirt with Wes. Not conjure romantic daydreams about an artist, no matter how perfect he seemed to be.
“Yes.” she gulped back a huge block of fear. “I did.”
Wes’s gaze snapped to Malcolm. “This is what you were talking about last night? For the art nouveau showing in the spring?”
“Precisely.” Malcolm finished off his cappuccino and put the paper cup in the wastebasket, being careful not to splash any errant drops on the floor. “Isabelle’s work intrigues me.”
“Because it’s rudimentary,” Wes quipped. “I don’t mean to insult,” he said to Isabelle. “I just know how fastidious my uncle is when he’s selecting pieces for the gallery. Trust me, if Gustav Klimt were to sail in here with the Woman in Gold, Malcolm wouldn’t be impressed.”
“Oh, stop. Of course I would.” Malcolm folded his arms over his chest. “I want something startling.”
Isabelle looked at her acrylic of the blue faeries. “And are they startling?”
Malcolm went to stand by Isabelle as they studied the painting. “It’s their expressions, their demeanor. Their apparel is luscious. I’m fascinated by your use of figurative, abstract and decorative combinations. There’s an overlay of silver, here, is there not?”
“An underlay,” Isabelle said, not taking her eyes from the faerie’s face. “Then an overlay. You’re right.”
“Gives it depth. I like that. I’m interested to see what you can do with oils,” Malcolm said, twisting his face to her.
“Oils?”
“You have worked with them?”
“Yes. Of course, but...” She wrung her hands. “They’re intimidating.”
“Ah,” Wes interjected. “That’s because they demand the utmost from your talent and vision.”
“They do.” She smiled at him. When his eyes, filled with admiration, met hers, she felt validated in a way she’d never experienced before. These men were professionals with exacting tastes. They saw potential in her. Isabelle could not have been more honored.
“Would you be willing to explore your vision in oils rather than only watercolor and acrylic, Isabelle?” Malcolm asked.
“I would.”
“Good answer.” Wes stepped toward her. “I’m off. I wish you luck, Isabelle. Clearly, my uncle is charmed.” He extended his hand.
As she slipped her hand into his chapped palm, he whispered, “But not as charmed as I am.” Without another word, he walked out of the office. Isabelle listened for his boot heels on the wood floor.
After a few moments the sound faded. Then silence. She turned to Malcolm. She wondered if he could see the hot flush in her cheeks and rising up her neck. “Wes is...”
“Talented,” Malcolm said curtly, still watching the door. “Impressively talented and he knows it. I apologize if you found him rude.”
“It’s all right, I’m hardly the caliber of artist—”
“Stop. Don’t denigrate yourself, Isabelle.” He lifted his chin and fixed her with an imperious gaze. “You should know that I pride myself on finding raw talent. I enjoy being the maestro sometimes. I’ve been wrong on occasion, but usually when the student wasn’t as committed as me. Do you understand?”
“I’m beginning to.”
“I like these three paintings, but when I went over the others in the file you sent, I was not as enamored. I feel you can do better. I want you to think about it, Isabelle. Think about what you truly want for yourself and your future.”
He went over to the pile of bubble wrap and began rewrapping her paintings.
“You don’t want me to leave them?”
“Not yet. I like them a great deal, but I’d planned for my spring show to be contemporary art. I want to strategize. Look over my client list and evaluate their needs.”
“I see,” she replied, swallowing her disappointment.
/> “I’ll call you,” he said, handing her the paintings and gesturing toward the door.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Malcolm. And I want you to know I’ve already given consideration to your advice. I will start working with oils. Perhaps I’ll have something for you soon.”
Malcolm’s eyebrow cocked and a smile spread across his face. “Entice me, Isabelle.”
“I intend to.”
Isabelle left the gallery, memorizing each wall and corner, imagining her pieces, new creations that came from the saplings of desire she felt growing inside her.
From the second she’d opened the door at Whitestone Gallery, she’d felt the promise of change and challenge whirling around her, pulling her toward her future. Malcolm and Wes spoke of master artists, icons she’d revered since she was in middle school and stumbled upon her first art history book in the Indian Lake library. She’d been drawn to art nouveau—Toulouse Lautrec and Aubrey Beardsley as well as Klimt and Mucha. She’d adored Erte and his movement into art deco, but it was the short span between 1890 and 1905 that fascinated her, as if she’d been a part of it somehow. Perhaps she’d underestimated the universal appeal of her faeries and nymphs along with her talent. The only place her paintings had hung was in the gift shop at the Lodges.
Malcolm had said he was fascinated with the faeries’ expressions. Odd. She’d never put much thought into their expressions. She knew from art school that other painters labored over faces, the nuances of the eyes, of the lips, hoping to capture the next Mona Lisa smile. She did not. Often, Isabelle simply closed her eyes and waited for her heart to guide her hand. Her faeries were the faces she saw in her dreams. She knew them well.
Malcolm hadn’t commissioned her projects or presented her with a contract. Yet her elation was undeniable. Only Scott had ever made her feel this hopeful.
All these years, it had been Scott who had shored up her crumbling emotions when she’d been rejected—again.
For the first time, she realized he’d been the one pushing her to try again. Paint again. Submit again.
Family of His Own Page 5