wondered what kind of delivery. Classified documents no doubt.
He’d heard how beautiful Manhattan was when it was decorated for this time of year. He’d been to the Big Apple a number of times, but never around the holidays. “Once I make the delivery, sir. Then what?”
“That, Lieutenant, is up to you. If you decide to take your holiday leave, then you won’t have to report back here until the end of January as scheduled. However, if you still want to give up your leave, then you’re free to come back here and I’ll find more work for you to do.”
Laramie nodded. He might take a week off to enjoy the sights and sounds of New York, but there was no doubt in his mind that he would be returning to San Diego for more work.
* * *
Bristol glanced around the art gallery. She always felt a sense of pride and accomplishment whenever she saw one of her paintings on display. Especially here at the Jazlyn Art Gallery of New York. She wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
She had worked so hard for this moment.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?”
She glanced up at her manager, Margie Townsend. “Yes, I have to admit that it does.”
Margie’s tenacious pit bull–like skills had landed Bristol a showing at this gallery, one of the most well-known and highly respected galleries in New York. She and Margie had met last year on the subway and struck up a conversation. When Bristol discovered what Margie did for a living, she felt their chance encounter must have been an omen. She’d invited Margie to her home to see her work, and the excitement reflected in the woman’s eyes had been incredible. Margie promised to change Bristol’s life. She promised that Bristol would get to the point where she could quit her job as an assistant magazine editor and make her living as the artist she was born to be.
Less than eight months later, Margie had sold one of Bristol’s paintings. The buyer had been so taken with her work that he’d also purchased several others. The money had been enough to bring about the change in Bristol’s life Margie had guaranteed. She had turned in her resignation and now painted full-time in her home.
Bristol was happy with the direction of her career. She got to spend more time with her son since she kept him with her every day instead of taking him to day care like she used to do.
Her son.
She smiled when she thought about her rambunctious two-year old—the most important person in her life. He was her life. Every decision she made was done with him in mind. She’d already started a college fund for him and couldn’t wait to share the holidays with him. Last night they had put up their Christmas tree. Correction, she thought, widening her smile. She had put up the tree. Laramie had gotten in the way with his anxiousness to help.
Laramie...
It was hard not to think of Laramie’s father whenever she thought of her son. She had named him after his biological father, Laramie Cooper, who had died way too young, and without knowing about the child they’d created together. Sometimes she wondered what he would have done had he lived and gotten the letter she’d tried to send him.
Would he have been just as happy as she’d been? Or would he have claimed the child wasn’t his? She might not have known Laramie Cooper long, but she wanted to believe he was a man who would have wanted to be a part of his child’s life. The way her father had wanted to be a part of hers. The two years she’d shared with the man who’d fathered her had not been enough.
“Are you ready to go? You have a big day tomorrow and I want you well rested.”
She chuckled as she tightened her coat around her. “And I will be.”
Margie rolled her eyes. “I guess as much as you can be with a two-year-old running around the place.”
She knew what Margie was hinting at. Bristol was spending less and less time painting now that Laramie was in the terrible twos. It was also the get-into-everything twos. The only time she really got to paint was during his nap time or while he slept at night.
“Did you give any more thought to what I said?”
Margie had suggested that she send Laramie to day care two to three days a week. “Yes, but I’m thinking of hiring someone to come to my home instead of me having to take him somewhere.”
“That might work, but he has to start learning to interact with other kids, Bristol.” As they walked toward the waiting private car that was compliments of the gallery, Margie changed the subject. “Have you decided to go out with Steven?”
Bristol shrugged. Steven Culpepper was nice enough, and good-looking, too. However, he was moving too fast. At least, faster than she liked. They’d met a few weeks ago when she’d closed a huge deal for a commissioned piece. He was the corporation’s attorney. He’d asked for her number and, without thinking much about it, she’d given it to him. Since then he’d called constantly, trying to get her to go out with him. So far, she hadn’t. She hated pushy men and Steven, she thought, was one of the pushiest.
“No.”
“I like him.”
Bristol grinned. “You would. You have a thing for wealthy businessmen.” She knew Margie had been married to one. Or two. She was on her third marriage and not even fifty yet. But the one thing all three men had in common was the size of their bank accounts.
“Well, I know you still have a thing for Laramie’s father and—”
“What makes you think that?”
“Bristol, you make it quite obvious that you haven’t gotten over him.”
Did she? The only thing she’d told Margie about Laramie’s father was that he’d been in the military and had died in the line of duty without knowing he’d fathered a son. She’d even fabricated a tale that Laramie had been her deceased husband and not just her lover.
It had been pretty easy. Dionne’s fiancé, Mark, had helped. Mark worked for a judge in Paris and had falsified the papers before Bristol left France. It was a way to make sure her son had his father’s last name without people wondering why her last name was different. It wasn’t as if she was trying to cash in on her son’s father’s military benefits or anything.
“If you ask me, I think you should finally move on...with Steven,” Margie said, interrupting Bristol’s thoughts.
Bristol wanted to say that nobody had asked Margie. But deep down, a part of her knew Margie was right. It was time for Bristol to move on. However, she doubted very seriously that it would be with Steven.
A short while later she was entering her home, a beautiful brownstone in Brooklyn that she’d inherited from her aunt Dolly. She loved the place and knew the neighborhood well. She’d come to live here with her aunt ten years ago, when she was fifteen. That had been the year her mother died.
She didn’t want to think sad thoughts, especially after her positive meeting with Maurice Jazlyn, the owner of the gallery. The man was excited about tomorrow night’s showing and expected a huge crowd. He loved all the artworks she would be exhibiting.
“How did things go tonight?”
She
