Family of His Own

by Catherine Lanigan

  All she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and hug him. Even if the gallery show went badly, she’d had this moment, this accolade from a bona fide, celebrated contemporary artist. That kind of thing didn’t happen to Isabelle Hawks.

  “I can’t wait till my uncle sees this one. It’s good, Isabelle.”

  “Good,” she repeated. Though she couldn’t believe it, Wes liked her work. It was only a single painting, this lake scene with tiny water sprites hiding under and among the water lilies, at sundown on a late summer evening. Fireflies vied with the faeries as dragonflies swooped across the water, their iridescent wings mirrored in the placid surface. Ribbons of lavender, pink, tangerine, lilac and aqua spun across the sky and looped around the blazing golden sun as it lowered into the horizon. It was the scene she saw evening after evening as she worked the books for Edgar at the Lodges. A thousand scenes like it nestled in her head, dormant, waiting their turn to be brought to life on canvas. Isabelle was their keeper. Their guardian.

  “I wouldn’t change a thing, Isabelle.” Wes’s deep, husky voice cut through her thoughts.

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No. You should leave it. I’ll tell my uncle it’s a must for the show.”

  “Oh, Wes!” Impulsively, she grabbed his hand. “That’s just...so great of you. So sweet.”

  “It’s not sweet at all. I expect it will bring a good price and my uncle will make a few bucks on you, sweetheart.”

  She cocked her head and shot him a sideways glance. “You’re trying to be mercenary and it’s not working.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “My uncle is always trying to get me to think like a businessman. How’d I do?”

  She scrunched her nose. “Not so good.”

  He shrugged and laughed. “Oh, well. I tried.”

  He looked over her shoulder. “Uh, Isabelle, I was going to ask you to have lunch with me, but that storm out there...”

  She turned, following his gaze out the window.

  “I can’t even see your car,” he said.

  “Oh my gosh!” Another inch of snow had accumulated while they’d been talking. “This isn’t happening. I have to get back to Indian Lake. I’m the bridesmaid in my girlfriend’s wedding this evening.”

  He looked at his watch. “What time?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “It’s twenty after one right now. If it’s like this from here to Indiana, you might not make it...even if they don’t close the interstate.”

  “Close? They wouldn’t!”

  “Give me your keys.” He held out his hand.

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s no way I’m letting you drive back to Indiana by yourself in a storm like this.”

  “But...”

  He shook his head. “No arguments.” He wiggled his fingers, signaling her to hand over the keys.

  Isabelle dug around in her purse and gave him the keys.

  Wes. In Indian Lake. All her friends, her family, her mother, Mrs. Beabots—they’d all be at the wedding.

  Most important, Scott would be walking her down the aisle.

  Lately, despite her determination to express her artistic talent and her desire to plunge forward in her career, she’d been daydreaming more and more frequently about seeing Scott at the wedding. She didn’t know if the kids would be with him or not. She’d hoped to have a chance to talk to him.

  She wondered if Scott had been looking forward to seeing her.

  Right now, as thrilled as she was about her accomplishments, all she wanted was to make it through this snowstorm and see Scott.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WES HAD MANEUVERED them out of Evanston, though the snow had already begun to snarl local traffic.

  “Here,” he said, taking his iPhone out of his coat pocket. He tapped an app with his thumb. “Check this out to see which southbound route is moving.”

  All the traffic icons seemed to be blinking red. “Surface streets are blocked. The Dan Ryan is nearly at a standstill. Lakeshore Drive is moving well past Grant Park.”

  “Excellent. The good news is that while we’re in the city, the moving cars will actually help with visibility.”

  Isabelle looked through the windshield, which, between each swipe of the wipers, became covered in fresh snow. Through the lacy snow pattern she could see the red taillights of the car in front of them.

  They drove down Sheridan Drive and eased onto Lake Shore. Isabelle couldn’t even see Lake Michigan, one of her favorite sights in Chicago. She’d always been drawn to water. Lakes, especially, held a mystery for her that she could not explain, but endeavored to explore through her art. “Too bad I can’t see the lake. I love it.”

  “Me, too,” he said as the light changed and they moved past Grant Park where the traffic picked up speed. “Actually, it’s boats that I really love.”

  “For real? I adore boats.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The painting of the boy sailing to the stars.”

  Scott. Forever Scott. And now he’s sailing away from me.

  Isabelle’s mind skidded to a halt. Had she just thought that? Of course Scott was moving on; he’d made his choices.

  Now she had to do the same.

  “Do you sail or motor?” Wes asked.

  “Uh, neither, actually. I row. Well, I scull with my girlfriends. But I love all boats.”

  “And if you had your choice?”

  She sighed wistfully. “There’s nothing so majestic as a sailboat. I’ve got shelves of history books on sailing, from schooners to clipper ships to catamarans. I scull every weekend with my girlfriends. Uh, in the summer,” she quipped.

  “Well,” he grinned. “Aren’t you a surprise.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “I’ve been sailing Lake Michigan since, oh, I dunno—since I was six. Seven.” His smile vanished and he gripped the steering wheel tighter. “My uncle taught me to sail. It was actually his yacht that I learned in.”

  Something must have happened to Wes back then. She didn’t know him well enough to probe, but if she didn’t ask, she might never get to know the real Wes. And she did want to know him. Especially now. He might feature heavily in her future.

  “And Malcolm is your father’s brother?”

  They were moving a bit faster now. Wes straightened in his seat, steered with his right hand and grasped the seat belt with his left hand as if it was constricting him. “Mother’s brother. I never knew my father.”

  She hadn’t expected that. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She looked down at her hands, regretting her venture down this path. Maybe this was too soon.

  Wes, the charismatic artist, the effusive and assertive Chicago celebrity, withdrew like a turtle into his shell. Isabelle watched his transformation with both curiosity and compassion. He’d clearly been hurt back then.

  Instantly, she thought of Bella and all the tragedy she’d seen in her young life. Wes and Bella. Each helped by another human being.

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” she apologized.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” He blew out through his nostrils. “You asked a conversational question, really, and for anyone else, a simple answer would be expected.”

  “But you’re not just anyone else.”

  “Apparently not. My mother was an artist, as well. Runs in the family. Talent like ours isn’t understood by the—” he swooped his hand across the space between them “—general public.”

  The misunderstandings that had plagued her all her life seemed to float over her, bringing up uncomfortable memories. “I know the feeling.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  They settled into silence as he turned up the speed on the wipers and they m
ounted the overpass off Stony Island Drive that would take them to the Chicago Skyway and to the Indiana Toll Road, where they expected the traffic to be lighter and less hazardous than I-94.

  The windows were plastered with snow and only the front and rear wipers kept any view of the outside world open to them. Isabelle felt as if she were cocooned inside a mountaintop cabin, warmed by the car’s heater as if it were a blazing fireplace and they had nothing to do but...share fragments of themselves with each other.

  “She was a hippie, my mother,” Wes said. “An aging hippie by the time I arrived, but she’d spent all of the seventies and early eighties in San Francisco painting, living off friends and searching for—something. She decided that ‘something’ wasn’t me once I was school age. When she could still cart me around in a sling over her chest and later in a back carrier and even later in a stroller she’d found at Goodwill, all was fine. I didn’t get in her way.”

  Isabelle stifled a gasp with her hand. Bella’s mother had said nearly the same thing. One mother used drugs to escape the world, the other disappeared into her art. Was that what Isabelle had been doing all these years?

  She had always believed she had a duty to explore her gift, that she had a responsibility to her own talent. But what happened to that responsibility when others came along? When an artist became a parent? It was why she’d decided long ago that she couldn’t have kids of her own.

  Wes continued. “Malcolm came to visit one summer while we were living in a shelter. He’d suspected that my mother was on drugs, but she wasn’t. She was addicted to her art. Each time she sold a painting she used the money to buy more paint. Another canvas. Not food for me. Not cold medicine when I needed it.”

  “Oh, Wes.” She felt the horror of recognition. “She was me. I mean, I am her. I do that. All my spending money winds up in my next painting.”

  Lifting his right shoulder, he laughed. “Me, too. Cut from the same cloth.”

  “You do that?”

  “Yeah. Always have. Un-artists, that’s what I call lay people, who don’t understand us. We would die for our talent. We push ourselves beyond human endurance. We stay up all night and day when we know we should sleep. We don’t eat. That fast food burger is a tube of azure blue oil. Instead of saving money, we risk it on that next vision that screams for freedom and exposure and life on our canvas.”

  “Wes, do you think we’re fools?”

  His blue eyes flashed in her direction. “We’re not like other people, Isabelle. We create something out of nothing. We see worlds that most people can’t even dream of.” He touched her cheek with his right hand. “You see worlds that I know are there, but I can’t see them. You do, though. And that’s magic.”

  Chills scurried down her spine. What he said struck a chord in her. She’d always thought her art was trying to talk to her. Say something. But she didn’t know what, exactly.

  His hand was warm and strong, and his touch was gentle. She wanted to cover his hand with hers, but she was afraid it was too soon—and too much.

  There was no question that something inexplicable and momentous was happening between them. She had to admit she was attracted to him. But she hadn’t expected this heartbreaking soul who had clearly overcome any bitterness he might have had and used his past to make his present triumphant.

  “Your mom—is she still alive?” Isabelle asked, wanting to redirect the conversation, which was moving in a dangerous direction.

  “Yes. She lives in Carmel now. She still paints. Fortunately, Malcolm and I have a friend who owns a gallery where she works, so she has an income and can afford her apartment.”

  “Do you talk to her?”

  “From time to time. Not very much. She feels guilty for foisting me on Malcolm, but I don’t blame her. I got in her way. Malcolm was always successful and had money, so he gave me the education I wanted. Took me to Europe nearly every summer.”

  “That’s fantastic. I’ve always wanted to see Barcelona and Paris. For the light.”

  “You should,” he said firmly. “It’s really true that the light in Paris is pink. And it’s not from pollution, as so many pundits would tell you. It’s been that way for eons.”

  “And the sailing? When do you sail?”

  “Ha! Every chance we get,” he said. “Malcolm has always dreamed of harboring the boat in Miami during the winter so we could sail the Atlantic in February.”

  “Instead, you’re getting ready for another showing.”

  “Yes.” He grinned. “And hoping all our paintings sell out.”

  She matched his smile. “I’d like that, too!”

  * * *

  AFTER SPENDING AN extra two hours on the road, they crept through the blizzard into Indian Lake off the Toll Road and found that the roads in town, though plowed, were snow-covered.

  They had agreed Wes would take the South Shore train back to Chicago. As they drove over the railroad overpass coming into the main part of town, Isabelle saw the lighted clock tower on the red sandstone county courthouse building that had been originally built in the 1880s, but she didn’t need a reminder of the time. She’d been nervously watching the dashboard clock for the entire trip, afraid they wouldn’t make the wedding.

  “I’ve got twenty minutes to get to the church,” Isabelle said anxiously.

  “How far is it from here?” Wes asked.

  “Four blocks.”

  “So, you’ll make it,” he assured her.

  Isabelle picked up her phone and realized she’d turned it off when she’d entered the gallery. Once it was on, a dozen text messages came through from Scott, Olivia and even her mother. They were all wondering where she was. She’d meant to call one of them from the road, but she’d been so enthralled by Wes, it had completely slipped her mind.

  She tapped out replies to Olivia and her mother, letting them know she was moments from the church. She would make the wedding.

  Scott’s text would be more difficult to respond to. He was worried. And mad.

  Why haven’t you answered my calls?

  Where are you?

  Call me. Now.

  “Isabelle?” Wes asked. “Do me a favor and check the train schedule? I thought I’d be here for the four forty-five.”

  “Yeah, we missed that one,” she said and went online. “The next one isn’t until six forty-five. Why don’t you come inside the church? You’ve been so kind to drive me home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks.”

  He drove up to the church and entered the parking lot. “Are you sure this is okay? A stranger coming to their wedding? I don’t want to impose, but...”

  “They won’t mind. They’re wonderful friends. You can sit with my family,” she said, gathering her dress, shoes and purse from the back seat. “I have to hurry.”

  “Let me help,” he said, getting out and taking the long garment bag from her. “Be careful of the snow. I don’t want you to fall.” He took her arm.

  They made their way as best they could over the snow and up the church steps.

  Isabelle flung open the doors and all thoughts of snowstorms vanished. Inside the church it was spring.

  Olivia’s mother, Julia, a caterer and wedding planner had lined the center aisle with artificial trees in full blossom. Draped with crystal lights, they glittered and twinkled. Massive bouquets of pink and white flowers with pink bows and streamers adorned every pew. The church was filled with all her friends.

  The organist was playing the theme from Romeo and Juliet as the groomsmen seated people.

  On the bride’s side, Isabelle saw her mother and her brothers and sisters. Behind them, Mrs. Beabots sat with Luke Bosworth and his children, Annie and Timmy.

  Since Sarah was the matron of honor, she would be i
n the dressing room, where Isabelle was supposed to be.

  Quickly, she turned to Wes. “I see my mother and family.” She took his arm. “You can sit with them.”

  “It’s okay. I can stand back here.”

  “Uh.” She hesitated. In two seconds, Scott and the other groomsmen would be back here and she’d have to explain everything. She didn’t have time for that. “This is where the wedding party has to stand for the trip down the aisle. It would be best if you sat in the church.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Where do you want me to put your dress?”

  “I’ll take it.” She laid everything down on a table filled with yearly calendars and old Advent prayer books. “Come on.”

  Isabelle led the way to where her family was sitting. Christopher was sitting closest to the aisle. Isabelle tapped him on the shoulder. “Chris. This is my friend, Wes. He needs to sit with you during the ceremony and then I have to take him to the train station for the six forty-five South Shore.”

  Christopher’s handsome face blazed with curiosity and then blame. “Where have you been? Mom is going nuts.”

  “I’ll let Wes explain. I gotta get dressed.”

  “Sis!” Christopher started to object.

  She jabbed him with her finger. “Be nice.”

  She turned to Wes. “I’ll see you after.”

  “Sure.” He grinned with impish delight.

  Isabelle rushed up the aisle, scooped her dress and belongings into her arms and charged into the bride’s dressing room. “I’m here!”

  Olivia’s face erupted in relief and joy. “Thank goodness! We all tried calling you.”

  They were all there, her friends from childhood and adulthood. Her world. Sarah Jensen Bosworth, Maddie Strong Barzonni, Liz Barzonni, Katia McCreary, Sophie Carter and Cate Sullivan. Their eyes were filled with concern and questions. Lots of questions.

  “I have to hurry.”

  “Right! We only have ten minutes!” Olivia said.

  Isabelle shimmied into her dress, a pink, tea-length crepe de chine and chiffon gown.

  Sarah held out her shoes, while Liz zipped up the dress.

  “Honestly, Isabelle, this is too much drama. Even for you. Where were you?” Katia McCreary asked, flipping a long lock of auburn hair over her shoulder while she pinned rhinestones into Isabelle’s hair to match the rest of the bridesmaids.