Family of His Own

by Catherine Lanigan

  “Mom,” he replied with exasperation. “All of Isabelle’s family will be there. In fact, I think everyone we know in Indian Lake is going.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful? All her friends showing their support like that?” The last word was lost in a fit of coughs.

  “It is, Mom. Well, I’ll figure something out. Take care of yourself.”

  “I will. Love you.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  Bella took the brush from Scott’s hand before sliding a black velvet headband onto her head. “Gramma’s not coming today?”

  “No, honey. She’s sick.”

  “Like my mom?” Bella’s eyes grew wide with the old fear he hadn’t seen her express in two months.

  Scott gathered her into his arms and hugged her. “No. She just has the flu. She’ll stay in bed, drink hot tea and honey and she’ll be fine.”

  “Promise?”

  He tweaked her nose. “I promise.” He slapped his thighs. “Well, I guess there’s no way around it. I can’t miss this show.”

  “Is it a movie?”

  “It’s Miss Isabelle’s showing of her art. She’s worked a very long time on her paintings and she wants me to be there. And since Gramma can’t take you, both you and Michael will have to come with me to Chicago.”

  “Really?” She jumped up and clapped excitedly. “I get to spend the day with you and see Miss Isabelle again.”

  “You like her, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “A lot of reasons.”

  Scott glanced at his watch. “We need to hit it. You get your coat. I’ll get Michael. You can tell me the reasons why you like her on the way.”

  “Okay. And you tell me yours,” she said, rushing off to the closet.

  * * *

  ISABELLE DIDN’T KNOW whether to panic or to pray. Her churning stomach was making the case for the former, but she chose the latter.

  And staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror of her Chicago hotel room, she prayed hard.

  The day before, she’d driven into the city with her paintings, and despite Malcolm’s compliments and assurances that he was pleased with her work, Isabelle knew the jury was still out. She wouldn’t be able to relax until she’d sold something.

  Isabelle had expected to see Wes yesterday, but he hadn’t shown up. He’d called Malcolm several times explaining that he was still tweaking his pieces for the show. She blamed her nerves about her first gallery showing for the excitement she felt each time she heard Malcolm pick up his phone and say his nephew’s name.

  She was almost surprised at her disappointment when she realized she wouldn’t see him before the show. Almost.

  A nearly sleepless night of checking the clock every hour and overthinking every one of her paintings hadn’t helped with her emotional state.

  She clamped her hands to her cheeks. Isabelle, what is the matter with you? Terror of critics? I get that. But why does not seeing Wes bother you?

  She blinked. Over the past two weeks, immersed in painting, holed up in her apartment, she hadn’t thought about Wes once.

  Yet when she hadn’t been painting, she’d seen more of Scott these past two weeks than ever before. Well, she hadn’t actually spent much time with him, but she’d talked to him on the phone. Run to the grocery late at night for children’s cough syrup and more diapers. She’d made macaroni and cheese for the kids. Baked a turkey breast and two vegetable casseroles.

  Her empathy for Scott and his situation went deeper than she’d imagined. It had rallied her to action and at the very least she’d proven she wasn’t as self-centered as she’d thought.

  But here in Chicago, everything reminded her of Wes. His openness with her about his past. The way he was able to focus on her and no one else in the room. The way he made her feel that her passion for her art was a legitimate path in life. She was getting in deep.

  She turned on the cold water and splashed some on her face, but it didn’t stop her cheeks from burning. She leaned on the sink and pressed her forehead to the mirror. “Isabelle! Get a grip, girl. Wes is a famous artist. You’re a beginner and quite obviously untested in the market. Who knows how many protégé types he’s met and found uninteresting.” Yes, she’d bonded with the man, but she didn’t know him. Not really. And mapping uncharted territory made her uncomfortable.

  She’d no more than gotten the words out when the vision of Scott’s face rose before her.

  Scott had told her he would come to the show, and Isabelle realized how much she’d counted on him.

  She was torn between her best friend and the man who could offer her a future.

  At a time when she should be filled with excitement and even pride for her accomplishments, she’d never felt more adrift. No matter which direction she chose, she would lose something.

  * * *

  “YOU’RE HERE!” WES SWEPT Isabelle into his arms and kissed her forehead the moment she stepped into the Whitestone Gallery. Just like before, the touch of his lips seemed to brand her. She could no more stop her imagination from going to the next step—a kiss on the mouth—than fly. As she struggled to regain her composure, the door opened and a bevy of fashionably dressed men and women breezed into the gallery as if they owned the place.

  Wes dropped his arms, stepped around Isabelle and extended his hands to them. “Consuelo! I can’t believe you made it in from Buenos Aires! You said there was a problem with the airlines.”

  Isabelle stepped aside, hearing French, German and Spanish accents around the room. The entourage apparently all knew each other, and from Wes’s gregarious demeanor and the way Malcolm rushed from the back room to the front like a bolt of lightning, Isabelle inferred that they all bought art together.

  Clearly, the party had begun.

  Waiters, all handsome men in their early twenties, carried silver trays bearing elegant morsels of smoked salmon on toast points, cucumber rounds filled with feta cheese and spicy crab meat and lots of champagne.

  Over the next half hour all of Isabelle’s family arrived, much to her surprise. “Mom!” Isabelle hugged Connie and rolled her eyes at Violet and Sadie, whose attention was on the waiters and not the art. “I was hoping you’d be here, but I didn’t expect you all would come.”

  Connie put her hand to Isabelle’s cheek. “That makes me a bit sad. We all love you very much, Isabelle. We wouldn’t miss this for the world. This is what you’ve always dreamed of, and you’ve worked so hard. I’m so proud of you.” Connie hugged her again.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Christopher, tall, dark and more handsome than anyone in the gallery except for Wes, perhaps, said, “I suppose your pieces are out of my price range, huh?”

  “Just a little.”

  Ross walked up, wearing a tan sports jacket, camel cashmere sweater and dark khakis, every hair precision cut; he looked every inch the forensic CPA he was. “It wasn’t a bad drive up from midtown. I can’t stay long. I have a meeting with a client.”

  “On Saturday?” Isabelle asked.

  “It’s a divorce case. He’s in Vegas for the weekend. My client found a second set of his business accounting books behind the freezer in the garage. Apparently, he didn’t think she’d clean back there. Oops.” He laughed.

  “I thought people kept all that stuff on QuickBooks,” Christopher said.

  “Not if you’re hiding twenty-seven million dollars,” Ross replied, taking a sesame thin piled with coconut ceviche off a silver tray. “This is good. Try some,” he urged Isabelle.

  “I’m too nervous.”

  “Yeah?” Dylan said from behind her. “So how much is your least expensive piece?” He chuckled, snagging a flute of champagne as a waiter passed.

  “Three thousand,” she replied. Her brother near
ly spat out his drink, and his eyes watered.

  Connie’s eyes rounded. “I had no idea.”

  “That’s for the watercolors. The oils are more.”

  “How much more?” Sadie asked.

  “A bit.” Isabelle didn’t want to sound smug, but she felt it. She’d waited for this moment forever.

  “Great. When you’re rich, I’ll get to charge you more for your taxes,” Ross joked.

  “I do my own, thank you very much,” Isabelle shot back, enjoying the camaraderie their newfound respect for her brought. For once, her family wasn’t asking her to do something for them. Wait on them. Care for them. They were here to show solidarity. They were proud of her and sincerely hoped she’d succeed.

  Or perhaps she was the one whose eyes had opened. Had they always been there for her and she just hadn’t seen it? Flashing back to family holiday parties and dinners, she couldn’t remember anything but the pressure to get the meal to the table while it was hot. Making sure everyone else was happy.

  This time, she was making herself happy.

  Violet took Christopher’s arm. “Come on, let’s go see what three thousand dollars looks like.”

  “Mine are in the room over to the right.” She gestured toward the doorway.

  Then she saw Scott enter the gallery. He caught her eye and smiled broadly. Bella held his right hand and Michael had hold of his left.

  “Scott.” She walked over to him. “You brought the kids.”

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle. My mom got sick and everyone else I knew to call was either here or on their way. Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not,” she replied and bent toward Bella. “How do you like the gallery?”

  Bella’s eyes were on everything except Isabelle. “It’s a lot of people.”

  “It is.” Isabelle chuckled. “Just ask them to move out of the way so you can see the paintings.”

  “Did you paint all these, Miss Isabelle?”

  Isabelle’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “No, sweetie. Just the ones in the art nouveau room. Would you like me to show you?”

  Scott unzipped Michael’s Cubs jacket and hoisted him into his arms. “Lead the way.”

  As they headed toward the room, Malcolm intercepted them. He put both hands on Isabelle’s shoulders. “Hello, everyone. Scott. Good to see you again. And who is this pretty girl?”

  “This is Bella,” Scott said. “And Michael.”

  “Wow, Isabelle, they look like the nymphs in your paintings. But listen, the Tribune is here. They want to meet you.” He nodded conspiratorially at Scott. “Photos, too.” He grasped her chin between his thumb and forefingers. “You look fine. Let’s go.”

  “Bye,” she barely got out before Malcolm whisked her away. She felt like she was being led to the gallows.

  Five dour faces stared at her as they approached, taking in her apparel, jewelry, shoes, the expression on her face and her manner of walking. She’d read their interviews in past copies of their respective magazines and newspapers. They didn’t miss a tick of an eye or a blundered sentence. They were psychologists and investigators and some were embittered artists who couldn’t paint but could ruin the lives of those who were brave enough to try.

  Isabelle’s mouth was a desert. Her brain had crashed ten seconds ago. She could barely remember her own name, much less the brilliant phrases she’d rehearsed to explain her work.

  The fact was, Isabelle didn’t know what drove her. She painted because she saw things in her head.

  Banal statements like that could kill a career.

  She could only hope Malcolm would do the talking.

  Malcolm performed the introductions with practiced manners that reminded her of a Regency drawing room scene she’d read in a novel.

  No one broke a smile, though they shook her hand. Isabelle wondered if they were as acutely aware of the power they wielded as she was.

  Just then Wes walked up and whispered something in Malcolm’s ear before rushing away. Malcolm turned to Isabelle. “We have the first sale of the day. It’s your boy sailing through the stars.”

  “Really?” One of the critics, a scrawny man with a drawn face, perked up. “Do we know the purchaser?”

  “Yes. Rudolph Gethsman. From Munich.”

  “Gethsman is here?” the critic asked, finally taking out a pad and gold Cross pen from his lapel pocket.

  Now he was going to work. Isabelle took it as a good sign. If her family or friends had pitched in to buy a painting to make her look good, these reporters would have discovered it immediately. Malcolm wouldn’t lie in front of them; if he did, both their careers would be shot.

  Malcolm rocked back on his heels. “And Jacqueline Dubois is here from Paris. She’s redecorating her Île de la Cité apartment and, supposedly, a new seaside pied-à-terre. She’s looking at several of Isabelle’s works for the new place.”

  Three more critics reached into their purses and briefcases for recording devices, cameras and iPads to take notes. Suddenly, they broke ranks and scattered.

  Isabelle hadn’t said a word.

  Malcolm leaned in. “Go mingle and get in that room. I expect you to help sell. If anyone wants to commission anything...agree. Got it?”

  “Got it,” she replied as Malcolm whooshed away.

  * * *

  ISABELLE COULDN’T BELIEVE the number of people who came and went from the gallery in the next hour. Wes and Malcolm introduced her to so many collectors and dealers, the names and faces blurred and her hand was sore from all the congratulatory handshakes she’d received.

  Best of all, her friends from Indian Lake had come to the viewing. Sarah and Luke drove up with the kids plus Trent, Cate and Danny. They all planned to go to Maddie’s Cupcakes and Cappuccino afterward.

  At one point, Sarah took Isabelle aside.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” she whispered.

  “Is everything okay?” Isabelle asked, suddenly anxious for her friend.

  Sarah burst into a huge smile. “Yes, more than okay. Isabelle...I’m pregnant. Not everyone knows yet. Luke and I are planning a celebratory dinner party to make the announcement next week. Will you come?”

  “Of course, I’ll be there.” Isabelle wrapped Sarah in a hug. “When did you find out?”

  “Just the other day. I’ve suspected for several weeks, though. With the holidays and then the new medical clinic we just designed, I’ve been so busy. I’ve barely known what day of the week it was, much less the time of the month.” Sarah laughed.

  Isabelle hugged her again. “Make sure you get approval from your doctor to scull with us this spring.”

  “I will.” Sarah beamed.

  “I’m really happy for you, Sarah. This is what you wanted.”

  Sarah put her hand over Isabelle’s. “It is.”

  Together they walked to the door as Mrs. Beabots arrived. She’d ridden up with Katia and Austin McCreary in Austin’s Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. Austin promised to take them all to Spiaggia for an early dinner.

  Mrs. Beabots lifted a flute of champagne from a waiter’s silver tray. “I like the orchids on the trays. Nice touch. Anyway, Isabelle, all I did was tell Austin that I wanted spaghetti and meatballs. He insisted we go to Spiaggia.”

  “It’s the best in town,” Wes interrupted as he came up and placed his hand on Isabelle’s elbow. “Sorry to intrude, but we just sold two more of your paintings. We need you,” he said.

  Mrs. Beabots beamed at her. “I’m so happy for you, Isabelle. You go. This is your time. Drink it in!”

  Isabelle slipped away and introduced herself to a small group of Belgian buyers. Wes explained that they owned a small shop in Brussels not far from the art nouveau house of architect Victor Horta.

  A man in a colorful vest that
reminded her of a Van Gogh painting handed her a business card. “We’re interested in more pieces—for the future.”

  “Yes. But our buyers have specific requests sometimes,” his colleague put in. Her black mink coat gleamed in the soft gallery lighting.

  “I’d be happy to discuss them with you,” Isabelle assured her. “Here’s my card with my email.”

  The ringing of a bell drew everyone’s attention to the center of the room, where Malcolm stood.

  “May I have your attention, everyone.”

  The chattering died down.

  “As you know, Whitestone Gallery is always on the lookout...some would say prowl...” He laughed.

  Twitters of amusement rose and subsided as if on cue.

  He continued, “...for new talent. This season we are showcasing three artists. My nephew, Wes Adams, some of you may know. Certainly, our friends from the Chicago Tribune and Art World magazine know him.” Malcolm gestured toward the critics. “Thank you for your support. I’m happy to announce that Wes provided us with five paintings for this show, and as of fifteen minutes ago, they have all sold.”

  Applause erupted. Oohs and aahs rumbled across the room.

  Isabelle searched for Wes in the crowd, and spotted him accepting hugs and slaps on the back, absorbing the good news. Then she spotted Scott leaning against the door frame leading to the room that housed her pieces.

  He wore that neutral expression she was coming to dislike. He didn’t take his eyes off her—not even as Malcolm spoke.

  “Another artist, Saul Grover from New York, sent one painting that arrived at the last minute. Though it’s not in the program, it has sold, as well. Lastly, we are introducing Isabelle Hawks from Indian Lake, Indiana. We are proud to announce that four of her paintings have sold. Congratulations, Isabelle.”

  A cacophony of applause filled the room. She assumed most of it was from her family and friends. Christopher actually put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. She couldn’t help but laugh. He’d always been such a goofball. She was stunned at how much her heart swelled seeing their smiling faces.