by Sue Gibson
She focused on her latest painting with a critical eye.
This vignette, a towering wall of limestone rising thirty-some feet from the hiking trail that lay just behind the hotel grounds, spoke of the rugged terrain's imposing beauty. She tipped her head sideways. Did her layers of gray and black paint create an imposing facade, like a fortress guarding the lake?
From the inhospitable rock wall sprouted bunches of twisted shrubbery, each branch loaded down with shiny red berries. Would anyone know they were smooth, not at all like a raspberry?
A fat crow, its claws clamped to a swaying stalk, greedily fed from the bounty. Would someone pick out the glint of aggression in its tiny eye?
Delaney inched across the carpet giving each piece its due. This wasn't work, she marveled once again, after reaching the last painting. This was a job made in heaven. To be paid to do what just came naturally was amazing.
Each day she'd approached her easel with anticipation, and the tiny landscapes had practically poured from her fingertips to the canvas.
As she'd worked her way through the suites, setting up in a new room every second day, there were times when she was sorry there were only twelve rooms on the top floor.
Even now, as she stood to select a small brush to use for signing the paintings, she brushed away the tantalizing thought that kept popping into her head. She didn't have to stop painting the local countryside when the last commissioned painting was finished. It wasn't written in stone that she go to Paris.
She snatched up her palette and dipped her brush into the black paint. Kneeling again, she began adding her initials to the bottom right of each canvas.
Up until a few weeks ago, she needed to be in Paris, a distant, yet inspiring place to prove her artistic talent. But now that she'd faced down her demons and produced close to a dozen paintings, her reason for leaving Buttermilk Falls was fading fast. In fact, over the past two weeks, Alison had repeatedly urged her to join the Co-op.
Delaney's paintbrush stilled, and she stared unseeingly at the waiting canvas. Was a career in Paris, by necessity, a better career than one based on the shores of Loon Lake? Up until lately, she'd always thought so.
Then, of course, there was her irresistible boss. Tipping her head to the side, she pictured his smile and the way that it crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Jumping up, she returned to her desk and tossed the tiny brush into the cleaner. She reached for a pencil and began sketching the strong lines of Trey's face on to a blank piece of paper clipped to the top of her easel.
He smiled a lot, she thought, her pencil flying across the paper trying to capture the turn of his lips. And why not? The world lay at his feet. Travel, excitement.
Trey certainly acted like a man enjoying his time at Loon Lake. The latter thought brought a smile to her lips as she recalled last night's good-night kiss. It had been long and luscious, only ending when the bell of the elevator signaled the arrival of the cleaning staff.
She turned her wrist to check the time. Ten to twelve. Tossing the pencil aside, she dashed for the bathroom. Trey was always on time and several times already this week, he'd caught her paint-smeared and smelling of turpentine. Not that it seemed to matter to him. He'd pull her into his arms for a hug and kiss anyway.
She glanced in the mirror. Her shoulder-length hair was caught up in a slightly messy ponytail. One strap of her once-white overalls dangled down her front. The narrow, baby blue tube top she wore underneath sported a mix of pale yellow and red smears from yesterday's work.
Yanking the ponytail elastic from her hair, it tumbled free, and she realized that Trey wasn't the only one who could use a trim. No time for a makeup job, she settled for a smear of pink lip gloss over her lips.
Not enough time to change either, so lunch would have to be in the suite or out back in the kitchen garden again today.
Her heart sped up with his familiar knock and it was all she could do to keep from skipping like a schoolgirl on her way to answer the door.
"Hi there, beautiful," Trey said, smiling his crinkly smile. Before she knew it, she was being tugged into his arms. He dropped a friendly kiss on the tip on her nose. Tilting her head to return his greeting, her words stuck in her throat. Instead of a jovial twinkle, his eyes were dark, almost sorrowful.
Was he feeling the same bittersweet happiness as she was? It was unsettling to feel so happy yet sad at the same time. Things were good between them. Really good. She thought about him night and day. She thought about seeing him again the second he dropped her at the door.
But could she tell him? Would he tell her? They'd sworn they wouldn't go there.
And did she really want to go there? Once she laid her feelings bare, it would irrevocably change everything, for both of them.
Instead, she pressed her cheek into the lapel of his Armani suit. She didn't need the discreet monogram stitched to the pocket to know it was expensive, the smooth texture and fine stitching was enough. She also knew that the men who wore this uniform didn't languish for long on the shores of a backwater lake.
Briefly, she tightened her arms about his neck before dropping back to her heels.
"Hi yourself," she finally said, admiring his freshlyshaven face. "Don't you look all the big-time corporate tycoon today."
He shrugged off the compliment, a blush of color seeping above his shirt collar. "Met with my accounting team from the head office this morning. They just took the van back over to the airport. Not a moment too soon either," he said, folding her hand into his. "I was afraid they were going to run over into our lunchtime."
Our lunchtime. It was her turn to feel a flush of warmth at his proprietary words. Were these the words of a man sworn to avoid commitment? Hope flared in her heart. Could he be having second thoughts about the pact too?
"Like I'd eat lunch without you?" she joked, instead of acknowledging the elephant in the room. "You're the one with the free pass to the kitchen."
"That's true. But I wasn't worried about that. I figured out a long time ago that the way to your heart is through your stomach."
"Smart man." My heart? I thought hearts were off the table? It's just an expression, she reminded herself, but as if it had a mind of its own, her body swung to face him again.
"Delaney?" he said softly.
Her heart thudded in her chest. "What?"
"Do you remember the night we made our deal about keeping things ... er ... light?"
"Sure," she said as lightly as she could muster. She'd thought of practically nothing else except their impulsive pact for days. "Big relief when we discovered that we were on the same page, remember."
His expression was inscrutable.
"Back then," she threw the two words out like a politician's spin doctor releasing a trial balloon.
"Yeah. Sure was a relief...." His words tapered off.
She stared at the carpet. The happy voices of children swimming in the outdoor pool drifted through the partially opened balcony door while she waited for more words.
She raised her head slowly. Maybe there wasn't any more?
Finally his deep voice broke the silence. "Back then."
Her limbs loosened, her breath released. She smiled. "Oh:'
Okay, here was her big chance. Should she admit she wanted more than a summer fling? That she didn't even need Paris anymore. That because of his trust in her talent, her frightened muse had come out of hiding. She now knew that love didn't smother a muse, it fed its hunger.
The lump in her throat grew bigger, and her chest felt constricted. A really bad time to have a heart attack, she considered.
Suddenly, his chest vibrated under her cheek. She leapt back.
He shot her a look of confusion, as his hand disappeared into his breast pocket. Extracting a slim cell phone, he flipped it open. "Sullivan here"
"Mr. Weatherall!" He straightened his shoulders and turned his body slightly toward the door. His face grew animated as he listened to voice on the other end, obviously
the senior Weatherall, majority owner of the international hotel chain.
"Yes, sir. I understand. I'll look forward to it. And thank you. You won't be disappointed." He snapped closed the phone, his movie star smile firmly back in place.
The mood broken, she acknowledged the interruption that had completely derailed their personal conversation. "What's up?" she asked brightly, rallying up a smile while bemoaning the invention of the cell phone.
"Good news. Roland Weatherall is coming here for the grand opening of the penthouse-Friday. With loads of press, too"
"Press?"
He paced the carpeted hallway. "Big opportunity for the hotel here," he said, his arms spread wide to back up his statement. Suddenly his eyes focused tightly on her face. "Can you have everything in place in six days?"
She clenched her hands behind her back and banked down her panic. Forcing herself to focus, she ran an inventory of to-do's through her mind. "I think so. I've only got two landscapes left to do. All of our orders from Alison and Kimberly are here. I just need to do some fine-tuning on arrangement-and your guys to place the furniture."
"Great" He pulled out his phone again. "Excuse me, Delaney. I need to get on this right now. Better skip lunch too. Dinner okay?"
"Sure" So much for handing over her heart and accepting his romantic declaration of love.
She turned and walked toward her easel. The rudimentary sketch of Trey's face clipped to the top waved in the lake breeze, a tiny banner declaring her hidden feelings. She snatched the paper and scrunched it into a ball.
Suddenly he was back, his big hands circling her waist. Picking her up off the floor he swung her easily around in a circle. "Do you realize what great news this is for both of us? My boss is about to realize that this Nirvana is the best of the chain and your landscapes are going to get national attention."
Good news? Then why did her knees feel like water?
Snooty, mean-spirited art critics schooled in the fine art of crushing dreams were about to swarm her tiny little paintings.
Anger flared from the spark of fear that lived in her gut. "Maybe I don't want that kind of attention. What do any of them know about this place? The reasons I paint are personal"
Trey's smile faded. "I thought you'd be pleased." A look of confusion muddied the bright glow of his eyes. "These guys are read and respected by gallery owners and buyers everywhere. Their `discoveries' often become overnight sensations."
"Or never work again."
Trey's hands dropped to his sides, his look of confusion slowly clearing. His hands reached out for her, but she dropped hers to her sides.
"Delaney. I'm sorry," he said, his tender voice bringing the pinprick of tears to her eyes. "I know this must bring up some awful memories."
Instantly she regretted lashing out at him. He'd meant well.
She conjured up a smile. He'd nothing to be sorry for, she knew. But she desperately needed time to think. More air in the room, even. "No, I apologize. I'm overreacting. You know me. I hear `art critic' and I go all crazy."
He didn't budge, his sympathetic gaze trained on her face.
"Go ahead" She waved and nodded toward the door, focusing on a spot just below his chin. "We both have tons to do. I'll catch up with you at dinner, okay?"
"All right." He reached for the doorknob and backed out of the room. "But I don't want you worrying all day. Remember, I'm proud to have your work hanging on these walls. Trust me on this, will you?"
She nodded and pushed her smile wider. Trust him? No matter what he said, she wasn't convinced Trey could be entirely impartial anymore. She'd trusted her art professor when he'd encouraged her to show her work at a trendy gallery. After that devastating experience, she'd put down her paintbrushes for over five years.
Did she have reason to be scared? Darn right she did.
The penthouse floor was a flurry of activity for the rest of the week, with Roland Weatherall's visit exploding into a full-fledged gala.
Delaney and Trey had worked long into the evening for the past six days, making sure every detail was perfect. Up near dawn every day, they worked through lunch most days and generally ate dinner with their crew of helpers.
If Trey wanted to dissolve the pact, he'd have to wait until after the gala.
Delaney had no doubt the response to the penthouse would be positive. She and Trey had worked together like a well-oiled machine, determined to break new ground in the hotel interiors business.
But the response to her tiny oils in particular? A shiver slid up her backbone. Who knew?
Trey thought he did. The heavenly aroma filling her suite pulled her gaze to the roses delivered an hour before. Trey had written on the attached note: Tonight the world will discover what only I have been privileged to see.
She closed her suite's door behind her and gathered her ice-blue, billowing skirt into her gloved hands. Lifting it a few inches off the gleaming slate, she stood for a moment admiring the hallway. What a transformation from the echoing, beige passageway Trey had shown her a month ago.
The walls, now terra-cotta, created a warm, welcoming feel. Recessed lighting brightened the space without slowing the eye in its procession to the far end.
She paused and looked at the massive, polished driftwood sculpture perched on a wrought-iron pedestal placed in front of the expansive end window. She drew in a breath. Exactly as she'd intended, it set the tone for the entire wing: clean, natural, exciting, groundbreaking.
The ping of the rising elevator broke into her thoughts, and she hurried toward the tiny foyer, the soft swishing of her voluminous dress the only sound on the penthouse floor.
Her fingers tightened their hold on her tiny clutch purse, and her chest constricted. She glanced back at her locked door. She could always say she was sick.
She eyed the flashing light on top of the elevator door. Trey was in there, she knew.
No. She'd stick it out. He'd never forgive her for bailing, especially since his boss, Mr. Weatherall Sr., was in attendance.
The doors slid apart. Trey, looking every bit the successful hotelier and obviously in his comfort zone, was dressed in a black tux. He stepped out, ahead of the crowd, and reached for her hand. Smiling a conspiratorial smile, he swung her to face the sea of suits and shimmering gowns.
Pasting a smile on her face, Delaney began to shake hands politely with the elite group of financiers and hotel magnates. Next, reporters and art critics from the national papers swarmed the passageway.
Her eyes anxiously scanned the name tags the press wore on their left shoulder. Was Noah Cravet here?
"Delaney Forbes!"
She turned to face Britney Carlisle, a style columnist based out of Montreal. "Britney. Great to see you." They'd attended university together and last Delaney had heard, Britney was making a name for herself in the booming industry of home decor.
"I wouldn't miss the opening of this wing for anything, girl," she said, lifting her glass of champagne in salute to her friend. "The buzz about your collaboration with Trey Sullivan is hot, hot, hot!"
Heat rushed to her cheeks and she stared at Britney's perfectly made up face. How could she possibly know about her and Trey? She could barely hear Britney's next words her heartbeat was thumping so loudly in her ears.
"It's all the talk. You know. How Trey orchestrated the initial design stages and how you took his vision and brought it to life."
Of course. Britney meant their teamwork. Her heart rate slowed to somewhere near normal. "Really?"
She wondered how word of their collaboration got out. Britney's effusive take may have been a bit over the top but for the most part, her information was bangon. From the day Trey stepped into her art sale he'd known what he wanted, and it had been a joy to help him flesh it out and find the artwork.
"The design insiders are saying you two are ushering in a new age of hotel decor. Shaking up the industry."
"You're kidding?" Hotel decor was a specialized industry? It continually amaz
ed her at how much she had to learn about the hotel biz.
"Well, I better get to work," Britney said, fishing a notebook and small digital camera from her designer purse. "Talk to you later."
Delaney leaned against the cool plastered wall for a moment, catching her breath. The milling group had thinned as the attendees disappeared into the suites, only to reappear minutes later and enter another. A steady hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated with higher-pitched oohs and ahhs.
"So what do you think?" It was Trey, back at her side. Excitement filled his words. It was no wonder he loved his work so much. Tonight was huge payback for his long hours and dedication.
"I'm thrilled. Blown away." She leaned into his arm. "Scared"
"I know. But if it helps, I overheard an art reporter talking about your paintings. He said your paintings were miniature masterpieces and that you brought a little piece of the outdoors inside to each suite."
Her knees began to shake. "Who? Who said that?" She scanned the hallway needing to put a face to the quote.
Trey nodded to a portly man scribbling notes on a yellow pad. "Richard Brown from The Chronicle."
Delaney knew his column. He was the real deal. Tears of happiness threatened her composure further. "Trey, I can't believe it! You have no idea what this means to me"
"I think I do," he whispered into her hair. "This summer I discovered that you paint from your heart. It's more than what you do, it's who you are."
She blinked back tears for a second time, hoping her mascara was still in place. He really did get her.
"And how about you? Has Mr. Weatherall said anything to you about your next project?" she asked in a bright tone, belying her true feeling about Trey's impending departure from Buttermilk Falls.
"Not yet. He'll probably give me my assignment tomorrow after all the hoopla dies down." He threw his arm around her shoulders and pressed her body next to his side before going on. "Right now I'm just happy to be by your side when you hear how great your paintings are-from somebody besides me."