and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
“Serious artist,” she whispered. Once her work was in Whitestone Gallery, she wouldn’t be a fledgling anymore. She would no longer be overlooked. Even if she was never famous, she would always be able to claim her day...her moment.
She stared at the woman in the reflection. Unafraid, nearly audacious. Isabelle felt a change happening inside her and around her. Her own green eyes gazed back at her. She imagined she saw them twinkle.
NORTH OF DOWNTOWN CHICAGO, a half mile from Lake Michigan and centered in a block of shops, cafés and boutiques stood Whitestone Gallery. Its massive black awning, white Greek key design fringe and a bold white W stretched imperiously over the beveled glass door, which was executed in an art deco design that reminded Isabelle of the water spray in her nymph paintings. It was the first sign that perhaps she was meeting her destiny.
Isabelle gathered her paintings, which she had carefully wrapped in bubble wrap, out of the back of her SUV. Apparently, Chicago had not been the recipient of any of the lake-effect snow that had been dumped on Indian Lake last night. The sidewalk here was so pristine, it looked as if someone had used a blow dryer to remove any hint of dampness. Along the wall of glass that formed the front of the gallery was a window box holding perfectly shaped boxwoods. Two more English box planters on either side of the front door held round topiary trees. As she walked up the red carpet, also meticulously devoid of dirt, slush or leaves, she couldn’t help but reach out and touch one of the plants.
She shifted the bubble-wrapped canvases under her left arm and pushed the polished brass door latch. A waft of fresh pine and cedar scent drifted through the air. Mellow classical piano music put her instantly at ease.
Framed and unframed paintings, from impressionist, cubist, abstract impressionist to contemporary, hung in strategic patterns against putty-colored walls.
A tall man emerged from behind the center partition. Thick, pearl white hair ringed his handsome face. He walked toward her, his hands outstretched. “You must be none other than Isabelle Hawks.”
“I am,” she replied with a smile, though inside she felt daunted and intimidated. If the skilled artwork on the walls hadn’t caused her nerves to jump, the self-assured man who held the golden ticket to her future surely did. She extended her hand toward him then quickly retracted it. She’d forgotten to take off her driving gloves, and her index finger poked through a hole. With her other hand clutching her canvases, she had no choice but to pluck off the glove with her teeth. “Pleasure,” she mumbled.
“Malcolm,” he said with two raised brows and a hearty chuckle. “Here, let me help you. That’s quite a load.”
As he took the paintings, Isabelle snatched the glove out of her mouth and shoved it into her coat pocket.
“We’ll go into my office,” he said politely. Taking a step back, he held out his hand with a slight bow, indicating the way.
Isabelle thought the movement so exquisite she was reminded of a ballerina.
“Thank you.” Isabelle rounded the show wall into an even larger display area. The wood plank floor was polished to such a mirror’s gleam, she felt guilty walking on it. There were four smaller viewing rooms off the two main ones, and a back hallway held four offices.
“To the left,” Malcolm said. “Mine is the largest office, and with the natural light from the window, I’ll be able to see your paintings to their full potential.”
“Lovely,” Isabelle replied sweetly. Inside, she was a mess. Why on earth had she agreed to come here and show this erudite curator her absurdly inadequate water sprite and faerie watercolors and acrylics?
Isabelle. Isabelle, you idiot. You need to go right back home as fast as you can before what’s left of your self-esteem is annihilated. Forever.
Even the office was imposing. It was as huge as the front showroom and the exterior wall was all glass. White art deco sofas filled the space, and she had no doubt they were re-covered originals from the 1930s. Two square chairs in black leather sat opposite a glass and steel coffee table. An enormous vase held at least five dozen white gladiolas.
Isabelle couldn’t help wondering where the gladiolas had been flown in from. California? South America?
“I have a box cutter here in my desk,” Malcolm said.
Her mouth fell open. He’d seen her work already? He hated them so much he was going to rip them to shreds?
He looked at her and gave his head a shake. “For the bubble wrap,” he said, holding the box cutter up. “I’ll save it for you. Little costs add up, don’t they?”
“They do,” she agreed, trying to ignore the sting of his condescension.
He pulled the wrap off and hoisted the painting up and put it on the desk so he could view it properly. His face was expressionless.
But wait. Was that a lift to the corner of his mouth? Admiration?
Isabelle’s heart leapt in her chest. When he opened the second painting, the faerie walking among the stars, she heard an intake of breath. It was only a slight puff of air, but it gave her so much encouragement that her heart whacked itself against her breastbone. She was stunned. Was this happiness?
He whisked away the wrap on the third painting and smiled. “I like this boy in the boat.” He looked at her, blue-gray eyes shining. “You have the heart of a French Impressionist, even though your style is art nouveau in so many respects. Yet the faces...the faces are ethereal, unlike any other artist I’ve seen. I wanted to view them up close to make sure what I thought I was seeing in the photos you sent me was real.”
Isabelle wasn’t sure she was hearing him correctly. He liked her work? This man whose gallery had been lauded for being on the cutting edge of what collectors wanted before they knew they wanted it?
She couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. She had to know. “Is there anything there you like? I can always bring you something else, something more...”
He turned to face her. “They’re perfect for what I want in the spring.”
Isabelle was at a loss for words. As she stared at him, trying to formulate something coherent, he crossed the room briskly and opened a white lacquered cabinet to reveal a refrigerator filled with wine, champagne, water bottles and...were those strawberries in that silver footed dish?
He handed her a bottle of French spring water. “Here. Drink this. You may need it for what I’m about to tell you.”
Isabelle thanked him and drank deeply. She felt the blood rush back to her head and knees. She was almost back to normal. Until he spoke again.
“I want all three.”
“You what?” Isabelle doubted she’d ever been as stunned. She didn’t want to appear ridiculous or not deserving of the honor, but now that she’d gotten over the initial shock, she just couldn’t hold back her excitement. “This is amazing. I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Whitestone. I had hoped, obviously, but I never dreamed you would accept me...”
The
