Family of His Own

by Catherine Lanigan

  Scott had goals of his own and he had decided to pursue them.

  It was no different than what she was doing. Isabelle believed in her art, her talent, in the opportunities she could make for herself in Chicago. She believed she could make her own dreams come true.

  But if the future was so magnificent and wondrous, then why was her heart so heavy?

  She thrust the door open and squinted into the street.

  The sun was as brutal and blinding as her awareness that she’d lost Scott forever.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SCOTT DROVE THROUGH the I-Pass lane on the Chicago Skyway. The GPS directed him to Stony Island Drive. Then he’d take the Outer Drive up to Evanston. He wanted to drive by the lake since it was a rare sunny winter’s day in Chicago, which was usually slate gray and dreary this time of year. But even if it had been gloomy, nothing could have dampened Scott’s spirits. He was bone tired from being up all night with Michael, who was teething and had a runny nose, but he’d never been happier. The kids had changed his life for the better and this was the first time he’d been alone with Isabelle for weeks. He was on top of the world.

  “I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me, Scott,” Isabelle said from the passenger seat.

  “It’s okay.”

  “But I really mean it. There’s no way I could have gotten these paintings to the gallery without your help.”

  “Yeah, that new one is huge,” he replied, giving her a sidelong glance. She was as nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. He supposed that was to be expected. If this meeting today didn’t go well, her dreams would turn to ash. But Scott suspected there was more going on in Isabelle’s head than career anxiety. She couldn’t possibly be thinking about him. Or could she?

  When she turned to face him, her smile was stretched too thin. She wasn’t feeling it. He knew her too well. “Scott, you haven’t told me what Theresa thinks of all this...of your, er, new family.”

  “Mom? She loves them already.” He grinned.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, Isabelle. Really.”

  She shook her head.

  “What?”

  “I guess—I mean, I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this. You made this decision so quickly.”

  He gripped the steering wheel and shot her a steely glance. “What was I supposed to do, Isabelle? They had no place to sleep! There wasn’t a single foster bed available. Zoey Phillips stayed overnight with them in the DCS facility before she called me. They have no one.”

  “But now they have you.”

  “They do. Thank God.”

  “Thanks to you, you mean,” she replied softly.

  “Are you passing judgment on me, Isabelle?”

  “No. No, it’s just so out of character for you. You always think things through. Plot out your next move. You spend weeks poring over the new children’s book releases before you place an order. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have any decent furniture in your apartment, if you remember.”

  “I remember.”

  “And if we go to one of our friends’ parties you call me to ask what you should wear. I’ve seen you deliberate more over which sweater to wear with which pants than I do. But you decided to become a parent overnight. How do you explain that?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.”

  “But we haven’t talked about it,” she shot back.

  “You’re right, Isabelle. I stopped bringing up kids with you. If I even mention how cute a little girl is at a restaurant or the kids playing at the beach, you stiffen up.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do.”

  She paused and considered this. “I do that?”

  “Yup.” He turned onto the Outer Drive. They drove past McCormick Place, the Field Museum and Adler Planetarium. “Man, this city is fantastic. Even in the dead of winter. Look at the lake.”

  Isabelle gazed out the window. “The sunlight on the lake water. It’s like thousands of—”

  “Faeries dancing,” he said aloud, remembering that Isabelle had often made that remark about the sun on Indian Lake.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “You remembered.”

  “I remember a lot,” he replied, clenching his teeth. He remembered New Year’s Eve and her revelation that she didn’t want a family. She didn’t want the same things he did. She didn’t want him. That was what he remembered most.

  Yet here he was, driving her into the city. Throwing himself into the fire again. Too bad having insta-kids hadn’t put out the flames in his heart that still burned for Isabelle.

  “Look, Isabelle, I think I should tell you that when we get back to Indian Lake, I’ll be getting rid of the truck. So I won’t be your delivery service anymore.”

  Isabelle whirled around. “Scott. I have never thought of you as my delivery service. But if that’s how I came across, I’m so, so sorry. I needed your help, but I also wanted to spend the day with you. We haven’t had a chance to talk since the children came to live with you—”

  “They are demanding.” He smiled. “Just as you said they’d be.”

  “I have to be honest, Scott. I need you with me today. This is crunch time for me and if it goes badly, I want you with me. For...”

  “A shoulder to cry on?” he asked, wondering if that was all he’d ever been to her. Maybe that was it. He was “Team Isabelle” and though he did want her to be happy, what he mostly wanted was for her to be happy with him.

  “Is that awful of me? No. Don’t answer that. It is. It’s self-centered. I know.”

  He put his hand over hers. “It’s okay, Isabelle. I’m your number one fan. Always have been.”

  She sighed deeply. “I’m glad I can count on you.”

  They came to a stoplight and Scott checked the GPS for the next directions.

  “By the way, why are you selling the truck?”

  “Trading it in. I got a deal on a minivan. My mother found it, actually.”

  “Theresa is that excited?”

  “Yeah, she said she thought it would never happen. Grandchildren.” He stole a glance at her and saw her crestfallen look as his words hit. His mother had wanted what all moms her age dreamed of, he supposed. She’d often hinted that she thought Scott should either push for a commitment from Isabelle or move on. Maybe it was from Theresa that the germ of his decision to take Bella and Michael had grown. “Anyway, she’s even getting beds for them at her house, a high chair for Michael for when they come to stay... That stuff all costs a fortune. I’ll need a bank loan for everything I’ve bought and still need to buy for them.”

  “Oh, Scott.”

  “I’m kidding. It’s not that bad.”

  Isabelle was quiet for a moment. “I wonder how my mother feels about grandkids.”

  “Maybe you should ask her sometime.” The rest of the drive was mostly silent. When they got to Evanston, Scott parked in the back alley of the gallery and helped Isabelle unload her paintings. Though he hadn’t seen the rest of the building yet, the art-filled hallway filled him with awe.

  “I like this place,” he whispered to Isabelle as they waited for the warehouse attendant to announce them to Malcolm Whitestone.

  Scott wandered farther inside, studying bronze sculptures in plexiglass cubes.

  “This is amazing.” He pointed at a sculpture that looked like twisted glass and bronze ram’s horns.

  “It’s from Russia.” A man emerged from a pool of light at the end of the hall. “One of my favorites. I’ll die when I actually sell it.”

  He extended his hand. Scott shook it. “Malcolm Whitestone. And you are?”

  “Scott Abbott. Friend of Isabelle Hawks.”

  “Ah,” Malcolm replied with a cocked eyebrow. />
  “Where do you want me to put Isabelle’s paintings?” Scott asked.

  “For the time being they’ll remain in the back warehouse room. And where is Isabelle?”

  “Right here,” she said, closing her purse and hoisting the strap onto her shoulder. “Hi, Malcolm. I see you’ve met Scott.” She shook Malcolm’s hand.

  “I have. And I must say, I admire your taste in men. Very handsome.” He looked at Scott again with a discerning scrutiny that made Scott feel as if he were one of the pieces of art. “Hang around, Scott. You make the gallery look good.”

  Scott bit his tongue so he wouldn’t laugh. “Okay.”

  “Just kidding. Isabelle knows her way around, but how about a tour?”

  “I’d love it,” Scott replied, slipping his arm through Isabelle’s as they followed Malcolm past the offices.

  The four private rooms displayed sculpture, watercolors, oils and acrylics. Each had been curated according to theme, Malcolm explained.

  “Many of these works must be new acquisitions,” Isabelle said. “I don’t recall them from my last visit.”

  “They are. We had quite a good Christmas, I’m happy to say,” Malcolm replied proudly. “Frankly, this last room is a bit sparse. I’m gathering our art nouveau works in here. We’ll keep it closed off until the show. I understand you have a new piece for me, Isabelle?”

  “I do.”

  Scott noticed there was no excitement in her tone. No gleam in her eye like she always had when she proudly displayed her newest work at the Lodges. She was still anxious and unsure. He put his arm around her waist and hoped she felt his support.

  “It’s remarkable,” Scott said with a wide smile.

  Malcolm faced her. “Then I can’t wait to see it. Go bring it to me, then, Isabelle. If I like it, we’ll find a place for it here immediately.”

  “Sure.” Isabelle hustled back down the hall.

  Malcolm clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “She shows promise.”

  “I’ve always thought that,” Scott said, still watching her retreating down the hall.

  “And how long have you known her?”

  “Since high school. Although we didn’t...there wasn’t anything serious.” He swallowed back a strange lump. Regret? He continued. “I went to Northwestern. Journalism. Then I went to work here in Chicago for the Trib.”

  “Ah!” Malcolm’s eyes lit up. “Great publication. Keen on the arts here in Chicago. Their critics are coming to the spring show.”

  “Is that right?”

  “They’re tough to please. The LA Times is difficult, but these guys here are merciless.”

  “Merciless,” Scott repeated as Isabelle came toward them, her unwrapped painting at her side and her face filled with trepidation.

  Malcolm took the painting. “Let’s bring it into the light where I can see it properly.”

  He went to an empty space close to an original Alphonse Mucha poster and propped Isabelle’s butterfly-wing faerie up against the wall.

  Scott’s stomach turned. Malcolm is comparing Isabelle’s work to masterpieces! How could any newcomer survive competition like that? The gown on her faerie was as good as Gustav Klimt in Scott’s opinion, but he was no art critic.

  No wonder Isabelle was wary. He’d have a tough time keeping his sanity in a place like this.

  He glanced at her. She looked the epitome of cool and poise. This was what she’d dreamed. She was up to it.

  A few weeks ago, BK (before the kids), he would have counseled her about the challenges she would be facing. But she’d chosen this. Not him. It wasn’t his place anymore.

  Scott took a step closer to the painting. As he peered at it, he realized the faerie was a man. His wings were massive and his near-naked chest and arms resembled the depictions he’d seen of archangels fighting evil. The faerie’s tunic was belted with a gold sash. Though the skirt matched the butterfly-like wings, there was no question the faerie was male.

  And then he saw its face. Isabelle had painted his eyes. The cut of the jaw wasn’t as sharp as Scott’s and his nose was more prominent. But Scott’s own gold-flecked brown eyes stared out at him.

  Scott stared at Isabelle in astonishment.

  It’s me. She’s been painting me ever since our “separation.” Scott didn’t know what else to call the distance that had grown between them.

  But she didn’t return his gaze.

  She was looking over his shoulder.

  Scott turned and saw a blond man dressed in tight jeans, cowboy boots and a leather jacket, whose eyes were glued on Isabelle.

  “Scott,” Malcolm said, “I’d like you to meet my nephew—Wes Adams.”

  “Great to meet you, Wes,” Scott said, offering his hand.

  Wes nodded vaguely in Scott’s direction before locking eyes with Isabelle once more.

  “Isabelle and Wes have already met,” Malcolm explained.

  Scott dropped his hand to his side. “I can see that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ISABELLE HAD HEARD of it, being caught between the rock and the hard place. She’d never experienced it.

  Wes was giving her that laser stare she remembered, as if no one else existed, and for him, maybe they didn’t. Scott, surprisingly, did not appear hurt or betrayed, but the curiosity that played across his face was quickly replaced with placidity. She’d seen that face before, when he was interviewing the Indian Lake mayor. It was the expression he used when he was trying to remain objective. See things from a journalistic distance.

  At this moment she was just as interested in Scott as she was in Wes’s powerful, sensual gaze.

  She couldn’t quite wrap her head around the fact that Scott had moved on from her. He wanted a different life and he’d grabbed it. Already, she could tell he was immeasurably happy. Whatever her feelings for Scott were, she would have to temper them. He was showing her he didn’t need her, and she couldn’t afford to fall for a man with such different goals.

  Standing in the center of the gallery, she wondered if this was going to be her new life. Was Wes drawing her toward her future?

  Her eyes tracked from Wes to Scott and then to Malcolm. She couldn’t let herself forget the real reason she was here.

  “Malcolm didn’t tell us you were expected, Wes,” she said so sweetly she swore she tasted honey on her lips.

  “Fortunately, my uncle did tell me of your appointment,” Wes said. “I didn’t want to miss you.” He strode up to Isabelle, grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Not even my canvas could keep me away.”

  He smelled of linseed oil, paint and something spicy that made Isabelle close her eyes. “I’m flattered,” she managed to say. She wriggled out of his grasp. “I suppose you’d like to see my first stab at an oil piece.”

  “Most definitely.” His smile was compelling and she felt her earlobes burn and her cheeks flame.

  She had to get this situation under control before it combusted. “It’s right over here.” She stepped back a good two feet and gestured toward the painting. She wanted him to know she was all about the business at hand. “What do you think?”

  Whether he suddenly understood her discomfort or was genuinely interested in her work, Wes shot over to the painting. It was as if he’d transformed into another person, as he focused on her work. His eyebrows knitted together, then his features softened. He clasped his hands behind his back in exactly the same manner as Malcolm did, and leaned down with his nose nearly to the canvas as he peered at the intricacies of her work.

  Malcolm walked around Scott and stood next to Wes. “Interesting how she made the colors in the wings look transparent.”

  “Excellent use of light,” Wes commented, not taking his eyes from the canvas.

  I
sabelle’s heart thundered in her chest as both men critiqued every line, shade, tone and mood. She didn’t realize she was twisting her hands over each other until Scott took one of them, stopping the motion.

  She looked up at him, grateful, but he didn’t smile. He was still placid. Observing. Yet supporting her.

  She had to give him that. He was a rock when she needed a rock. She felt humbled by his graciousness.

  “I don’t know, uncle.” Wes stood back. “It’ll be interesting to see what she can produce by the show. Perhaps with more guidance...”

  “I see what you’re getting at,” Malcolm interrupted, nodding.

  Scott whispered to Isabelle, “Do they even remember you’re here?”

  “I don’t think they care. Every word they’re saying is true. What they don’t know is that I threw out four other tries before coming up with this version. The thing is, I do need guidance—desperately. When I think how bad my first shot at an oil was, I shudder.”

  “Really? That bad?”

  “It wasn’t good. And this still isn’t good enough.”

  Malcolm turned back to Isabelle. “I’m going to keep it.”

  Isabelle was astounded. Her mouth fell open. “Why?” Had she just said that? She’d just been told by a major gallery owner that he liked her painting enough to display and she was questioning his expertise. Yep. She’d lost her mind.

  “Because I think I’ll sell it, Isabelle. That is the point, you know.” Malcolm’s tone dripped with condescension.

  “I’m sorry.” She backpedaled. “It’s only that, well, I know I can do so much better.”

  “Really?” Wes asked. “How so?”

  “Now that I’ve been working with oils, I’d like to interject silver overlays in the next one.”

  “Try it as an underlay,” Wes suggested. “Then gold as an overlay. Try to imitate Klimt because that’s where your talent is lending itself.”

  “Seriously? You see that?” She was elated, yet her excitement was shot through with threads of doubt. Was he really comparing her style to that of an icon?