He rubbed his hands together with a bit of glee. “Then this could be the answer for all of us.”
“Yeah, Isabelle said you’ve got it rough with the kids,” Violet said. “At first I thought you wanted to spend your weekends with her. Up in Chicago.”
“Nah, she’s busy painting and I’m trying to get the house renovated. I’d thought I’d have more of it done by Easter.”
“Easter’s only a couple weeks away. Isabelle said your house was...er, needs a lot of work.”
Violet’s candor reminded Scott of himself when he first started at the Tribune. She was raw and intense like a litigator, prosecutor or an unpolished journalist. One thing he suspected, Violet would be a good cop.
“It does.” Scott’s thoughts flew back to the last time he was with Isabelle. She’d refused his proposal once before, and though she’d essentially told him “no” again, he wasn’t buying it.
For the first time, she’d admitted that she loved him. For a split second he’d let his hopes expand.
That was a fault of his when it came to Isabelle. He would forever look on the positive side.
And for Scott, positive meant waiting for her to realize that his love and the life he offered her was as valuable as a show in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
He didn’t care that she spent her weekends with iconic Wes. She’d told him that she loved him—Scott.
And that meant something. He’d sent her text messages every other day or so and kept them simple. Good morning. Have a good day. Hope all went well for you. That kind of thing. He didn’t want to pressure her because he felt that if he did, he’d lose her for certain. Her messages back to him were equally shallow. Fine. How are kids? How’s the new store layout look? Stuff like that. Even during the days when she was back in Indian Lake, she didn’t make time to stop by and see him.
He knew what she was doing.
She was hiding out. She’d made a declaration that he’d waited years to hear. Now that she’d blurted it out, he wondered if she actually believed she wanted her life in the art world more than him.
He couldn’t be sure of anything.
They were tiptoeing. All he could do was get the house fixed up and throw one heck of an Easter brunch for the kids, Isabelle’s family and his mother. She’d texted him that she’d attend. That gave him another chance to see her. Perhaps it was foolhardy to hope, but Scott didn’t know any other way to be. He loved Isabelle and he would always love her.
“So, let’s get started,” Scott said to Sadie and Violet. He went around the display counter to the register. “Let me show you the cash.”
Scott went through the mechanics of the digital register and chip reader.
“I’m really glad you don’t have one of those monster cappuccino machines like Maddie has over at her café,” Violet said. “I don’t think I’d ever get the hang of steaming milk. Isabelle would be great at it, but not me. I’m all thumbs.”
Scott couldn’t help scoffing at her. “You? All thumbs? I heard you took top honors in the police marksman course.”
Her green eyes flashed, reminding him of Isabelle. “I did. What I meant to say is that kitchens and I don’t mix.”
Sadie nodded. “Yeah. I’m with you on that one. I’m gonna marry a guy who can cook.”
“Good for you. But in our family, Isabelle does it all.”
Scott felt a surge of defensiveness for Isabelle. Her family always expected her to do the work. “And what does Isabelle want?” he asked, hand on his hip.
“Huh?” Violet scrunched her nose and tossed him a quizzical look. “What are talking about?”
“Have either of you asked Isabelle if she likes to cook?”
“Sure she does. She’s great at it.”
“Hmm.” He pursed his lips. “I think she’s good because she doesn’t do anything that isn’t perfect. I’ve seen the stack of cooking magazines she references when a holiday is coming up. But she hardly cooks for herself at home. I think she does a lot of things to please others. Especially her family.” But is she pleasing herself? Maybe that’s what she’s doing now. Finding Isabelle.
“I never thought about it,” Sadie replied. “I always assumed she liked taking over. Being the boss.”
“She was bossy when we were little,” Violet agreed. “I resented her for it, too.”
Scott leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. “She had to be the boss. You lost your father, and your mother was at work trying to make a living. Raising the family fell on the shoulders of a ten-year-old girl who never got a chance to finish out her childhood. If that had happened to me, I’d be pretty angry.”
Violet and Sadie shared a private look. Violet swallowed. “So we were a burden to her.”
“All I’m saying is that in the future, maybe you and your brothers could help her out a little more. Show your appreciation. I know I’m trying to understand her in a way I never did before.”
Sadie put her hand on Scott’s shoulder. Her voice quaked slightly, reminding him of little Michael’s whimper. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” Violet chirped, but Scott saw the mist in her sparkling eyes.
Sadie and Violet loved Isabelle. So did he. They all thought they knew her well, but did anybody ever really know the person they loved?
* * *
SCOTT’S RELENTLESS TEXTS finally convinced Isabelle to agree to go to dinner with him on Wednesday night. Maybe if he went about his relationship with her as he always had, somehow, some way, she might realize that the only thing in life worth living for was love. His love.
He was dead tired from plastering and painting his dining room, taking care of the kids and managing the bookshop, which was busier than ever.
“There’s only one remedy for this level of exhaustion,” Scott said to Isabelle as he parked his minivan outside the restaurant and pointed to the sign. “Thai food.”
After being seated at a table with a white cloth and a jar of spring tulips in the center, Scott ordered glass noodles, tom kha gai soup, crispy mango fish and a bottle of chilled Chardonnay.
Halfway through their meal, he realized Isabelle had done most, if not all, of the talking. She rhapsodized about Wes’s ability to “will” the paint onto the canvas in the exact form and position he envisioned. Scott didn’t know much about expressionism, but he was certainly going to order a book from one of his vendors on the subject. If this meant so much to Isabelle, he had to be able to talk to her about it.
He poured them each a second glass of wine while Isabelle kept talking. About Wes.
She’d always used her hands a lot when she expounded on her art, but never quite this much, he thought.
Though the lighting in the restaurant was low, he noticed distinct, dark circles under Isabelle’s eyes.
When she finally took a breath and ate a piece of fish, he asked, “Are you sleeping?”
“Huh?” she answered with her mouth full and held her napkin to her lips. “Yeah. Sure.” She sipped her wine. “Why do you ask?”
“You look tired.”
“Thanks,” she bit back as she twirled noodles onto her fork.
“I’m only concerned, Isabelle. I’m not criticizing.”
She nodded and continued twirling the noodles. “Okay. So, I haven’t been sleeping all that much.”
He put his fork down. “Talk to me about you. Not about Wes, but you.”
“I have been talking about me.”
“Uh-huh. Here’s what I see. For over a month before the gallery showing, you worked night and day on your paintings to get ready for the show. Now you tell me that Malcolm is having another show on Wednesday before Easter, which causes you to work doubly long hours both here and in Chicago to be ready for this thing in a little over a week.”
“R
ight. So?”
“So, you have no time for your life. Your sisters say they never hear from you. Not even a text. I text you, but you don’t reply—much. That’s why I was surprised you agreed to come out tonight.” He watched her shovel another forkful into her mouth. He held up his palm. “Don’t tell me. You were hungry.”
“I am,” she mumbled through the glass noodles. “And how do you know about my sisters?”
“They work for me now. If you talked to them, you’d know that. And you’d know that your mother just won the bid on a new commercial building in South Bend.”
“She did?” Isabelle’s eyes widened. But she didn’t smile. He could guess why. Guilt.
“Are you going to Mrs. Beabots’s Palm Sunday party?”
“Her what?”
“Oh, come on. We go every year. It’s tradition.”
“I forgot, okay? Come on, Scott.”
“And you’ll be at my house for Easter Saturday brunch?”
She looked at him sheepishly. “Easter.”
“Yeah.”
He put his napkin on the table.
“Scott. Please. All I’ve thought about is this show next Wednesday. Not parties. This is important.”
“I’m...we’re concerned about you.”
She tossed her napkin over her food and took a long slug of wine. “You can all stop.”
“You’ve changed.”
“No, I haven’t. I’m the same Isabelle. Just a better artist.”
Scott felt like a first responder trying to save a drowning man in a flood. “Isabelle, my mother is making your favorite French toast and that egg frittata thing you love. The kids are decorating Easter eggs for you. And Mrs. Beabots made a special trip to my shop to invite us for Palm Sunday. She’d love to see you. All your girlfriends will be there. They’re very anxious to hear from you.”
Isabelle carefully laid her fork on the rim of her plate. “You don’t understand. No one understands. This is my time. I have to work around the clock and push and push. I have to get better. I just have to.”
Her voice was calm, but her hands shook as she spoke. Scott could tell she was overtired, overworked and judging by the way she’d gulped down her food, she wasn’t eating regularly, either.
“I can’t take the time to see you all. I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” he said, losing his patience.
“Won’t,” she replied resoundingly.
“Fine.” He rose from his chair and took the bill that the waiter had left on the table. “I’ll tell the hostess to call a cab for you. Then I’ll make your excuses to Mrs. Beabots. But don’t be surprised if you don’t get an invitation when the next holiday rolls around.”
“Scott...”
He heard her say his name, but it dissipated into the sounds of clashing dishes, customers talking and the piped-in music.
Scott went to the register, handed the woman the cash and stomped out the door.
He’d imagined dozens of scenarios when he’d made arrangements to see Isabelle tonight, but this wasn’t one of them. He especially hadn’t figured on her rejection of Easter. The Isabelle he remembered adored Easter. It was opening weekend at the Lodges, and Edgar’s Easter brunch was tradition for most of the families they knew in Indian Lake. Isabelle had never missed Mrs. Beabots’s party, or the brunch he threw on the Saturday before Easter Sunday. It was during those early spring mornings that Isabelle used to walk on the cold sand and look for her faeries.
But this new Isabelle didn’t believe in faeries or family traditions or friends.
“Scott!” She yelled, as she rushed out the restaurant door. “Stop!”
He kept walking toward the spot where he’d parked his van.
“Wait!” she shouted. He felt a hand on his arm.
He spun around. “Why? So you can tell me one more time that you don’t need any of us anymore? Look, our seeing each other when you’re so preoccupied was a mistake. A big one.”
“That’s how you see this?”
“I do.”
Her face crumpled. Her eyes glistened like cool, green waves, and he felt a fissure open in his heart. “I’m sorry, Scott. I’m truly sorry. I hate it when we both get upset with each other. That’s not what I want.”
“It’s not?”
“No, Scott. Never.”
It was all he could do not to pull her close. He’d heard of guys like him. Fools for love.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I don’t. And you’re right. I have been totally immersed in this new...life. I haven’t been engaged with my friends or my family. And that was wrong of me.”
“So what are you saying?”
“That I’ll find the time for Palm Sunday and I’ll do what I can about Easter brunch. The show is on Wednesday, and I don’t know what will happen after that. You know?”
“Yeah.” He could imagine how the picture would change if she did well. He might lose her forever.
She continued. “I’ll call Mrs. Beabots and accept her invitation. Oh, Scott...” She started crying. “I feel like the worst person in the world. And I do miss you all.”
He put his arms around her and hugged her.
Isabelle never lifted her head from his shoulder as he walked her to the minivan and opened the door for her. Outside La Bellevue, he kissed her goodbye. She didn’t cling to him, but she also didn’t push him away. He slipped his palm around her neck and pulled her closer. He meant this kiss to make her think.
“Good night, Isabelle,” he said softly, touching her cheek as he stepped back.
“Night,” she said, lifting her eyes to his and pausing long enough for him to see the yearning there.
He kissed her forehead. “Sleep well.”
“I will. Promise.” She smiled gently and then walked into her building.
He sat in the minivan for a few moments after she’d gone. He’d felt it—that same electricity that had zinged him before. She was tired. He got that. Her mind was on her work, but her heart beckoned to him and he’d heard it.
Scott believed in their love and he wasn’t about to give up on them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ISABELLE PRESSED HER fingertips to her pounding temples. She couldn’t remember the last headache she’d had. Maybe in high school. This Palm Sunday headache was promising to be one she wouldn’t forget.
Mrs. Beabots came around the kitchen island and stood next to her. “Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m fine.” Isabelle forced a smile, but judging by Mrs. Beabots’s piercing sky-blue eyes, she wasn’t fooling anyone. Still, she had to try. “Your cream puffs are amazing. They’re my favorite.”
“I made them especially for you. The sugar pie is Sarah’s favorite and Maddie likes my tropical layer cake.”
“You went to a lot of trouble for us.” Isabelle sighed, looking at the array of desserts piled on silver caddies and the sterling service for coffee and, no doubt, Mrs. Beabots’s mint-and bourbon-laced tea.
“I love doing it.” She beamed. “All you girls—” She paused.
Isabelle couldn’t believe it. Mrs. Beabots’s eyes had misted over. Not tears, exactly, because she’d never seen Mrs. Beabots cry. No one had, at least to Isabelle’s knowledge. Isabelle reached for her hands. “Mrs. Beabots. You aren’t getting sentimental, are you?”
“Good heavens, no! That would mean I’m getting really old. I’m not ready for that yet. There’s too much to be done.”
Isabelle was intrigued. “What precisely? I should think you’d want to rest these days.”
Mrs. Beabots grasped Isabelle’s chin between her forefinger and thumb. “First, I’m anxious to see this art you’re now creating. It must be joyous to discover a new facet of yourself.”
&n
bsp; Isabelle sighed again. “I wish.”
“What? It’s not going well?”
“I’m trying and working very hard, but I’m missing something. And I can’t figure out what it is.”
“Oh, don’t worry. It will come at the right moment. Revelations always do.”
Tilting her head to the left, Isabelle frowned. “I thought revelation always came late. When hindsight can’t help much.”
“That’s a negative way of viewing life,” Mrs. Beabots countered. “I prefer to look on the lighter side. That’s where you find miracles. You do that, Isabelle. With your faeries. You always show such lovely dimensions in your work.” She patted Isabelle’s cheek, picked up a tray of pecan tarts and left.
Isabelle carried the heavy silver coffee service to the dining room table. The room was jammed with all her friends, chatting and laughing. Down the center of the table, Mrs. Beabots and Sarah had assembled narrow pottery planters to resemble a grassy meadow studded with spring flowers. Tall six-armed silver candelabras held pink candles that flickered merrily. From Maddie’s lemon curd–filled cupcakes, to peach pie, sugar pie, four-tiered tropical citrus cake, cream puffs and éclairs, there was something for every sweet tooth.
“Here, let me help with that.” Scott was at her side the moment she entered the dining room.
“Thanks.”
Scott placed the tray at the end of the table. He fussed with the napkins to the side of it. “Did you talk to Sarah?” he asked.
“Yes. The doctor says she’s doing well. She’s going to keep working right up till the moment the baby comes.”
“She’s a trooper.” Scott took a plate and piled it with two cupcakes and a pecan tart.
Isabelle heard her phone ring from inside her purse.
“You need to get that?” Scott asked, taking a bite of cupcake.
“Not now. I’ll check it later.” Isabelle guessed the call was from Wes. Her family was in the front parlor visiting with Maddie and Nate Barzonni, and all her girlfriends were accounted for. Practically every person who would ever call her was in this house.
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