would.”
“Good answer.” Wes stepped toward her. “I’m off. I wish you luck, Isabelle. Clearly, my uncle is charmed.” He extended his hand.
As she slipped her hand into his chapped palm, he whispered, “But not as charmed as I am.” Without another word, he walked out of the office. Isabelle listened for his boot heels on the wood floor.
After a few moments the sound faded. Then silence. She turned to Malcolm. She wondered if he could see the hot flush in her cheeks and rising up her neck. “Wes is...”
“Talented,” Malcolm said curtly, still watching the door. “Impressively talented and he knows it. I apologize if you found him rude.”
“It’s all right, I’m hardly the caliber of artist—”
“Stop. Don’t denigrate yourself, Isabelle.” He lifted his chin and fixed her with an imperious gaze. “You should know that I pride myself on finding raw talent. I enjoy being the maestro sometimes. I’ve been wrong on occasion, but usually when the student wasn’t as committed as me. Do you understand?”
“I’m beginning to.”
“I like these three paintings, but when I went over the others in the file you sent, I was not as enamored. I feel you can do better. I want you to think about it, Isabelle. Think about what you truly want for yourself and your future.”
He went over to the pile of bubble wrap and began rewrapping her paintings.
“You don’t want me to leave them?”
“Not yet. I like them a great deal, but I’d planned for my spring show to be contemporary art. I want to strategize. Look over my client list and evaluate their needs.”
“I see,” she replied, swallowing her disappointment.
“I’ll call you,” he said, handing her the paintings and gesturing toward the door.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Malcolm. And I want you to know I’ve already given consideration to your advice. I will start working with oils. Perhaps I’ll have something for you soon.”
Malcolm’s eyebrow cocked and a smile spread across his face. “Entice me, Isabelle.”
“I intend to.”
Isabelle left the gallery, memorizing each wall and corner, imagining her pieces, new creations that came from the saplings of desire she felt growing inside her.
From the second she’d opened the door at Whitestone Gallery, she’d felt the promise of change and challenge whirling around her, pulling her toward her future. Malcolm and Wes spoke of master artists, icons she’d revered since she was in middle school and stumbled upon her first art history book in the Indian Lake library. She’d been drawn to art nouveau—Toulouse Lautrec and Aubrey Beardsley as well as Klimt and Mucha. She’d adored Erte and his movement into art deco, but it was the short span between 1890 and 1905 that fascinated her, as if she’d been a part of it somehow. Perhaps she’d underestimated the universal appeal of her faeries and nymphs along with her talent. The only place her paintings had hung was in the gift shop at the Lodges.
Malcolm had said he was fascinated with the faeries’ expressions. Odd. She’d never put much thought into their expressions. She knew from art school that other painters labored over faces, the nuances of the eyes, of the lips, hoping to capture the next Mona Lisa smile. She did not. Often, Isabelle simply closed her eyes and waited for her heart to guide her hand. Her faeries were the faces she saw in her dreams. She knew them well.
Malcolm hadn’t commissioned her projects or presented her with a contract. Yet her elation was undeniable. Only Scott had ever made her feel this hopeful.
All these years, it had been Scott who had shored up her crumbling emotions when she’d been rejected—again.
For the first time, she realized he’d been the one pushing her to try again. Paint again. Submit again.
Scott...
He was the first person she wanted to tell about her visit with Malcolm.
NEW YEAR’S EVE was the last night the Lodges was open for the season. Edgar Clayton preferred to close the cabins and facilities for the winter, though he’d confessed to liking the solemn yet dazzling interlude between autumn and spring more than any other time of year. Edgar was a pensive soul, Isabelle had decided. Never married, he devoted himself to making the Lodges a memorable experience for his guests.
She had to admit she admired Edgar’s sentimental side, which was why she would not abandon him this New Year’s Eve. Once again, she’d agreed to organize the decorations, the flowers and the menu for an extravagant party...at least to the extent that his somewhat limited budget would allow.
Aqua, silver and indigo helium balloons with long, metallic ribbons that nearly skimmed the heads of the tallest guests covered the ceilings of the main dining room and the enclosed patio. Isabelle always used a lake or water theme for her New Year’s decorations and this year was no exception. She’d filled the center of each table with silver netting studded with glitter. Aqua tapers and votive candles nested among silver and aqua glass balls and branches that resembled coral. Soft cedar and bells of Ireland created the illusion of seaweed, and the overall effect was that of a mystic lake.
The silver-banded wine and champagne glasses and the matching bone china had belonged to Edgar’s mother. Each time Isabelle helped the serving crew place the dinnerware, she wished she’d met the older woman, but she’d died years ago.
Odd, she thought, that she yearned for guidance from Edgar’s mother but not her own.
Connie didn’t feel the joy of creating “tablescapes” or planning parties the way Isabelle did. When Isabelle was a child, she’d told herself that her mother simply wasn’t creative and artistic the way Isabelle was. However, Connie was a gifted architect. She had phenomenal vision and was capable of creating entire cities in her head, then rendering them on graph paper and in the intricate and time-consuming balsa wood and paper model layouts she perched on bookshelves in her den.
Still, Connie had shunned all domestic duties once Isabelle’s father died. Those duties had gone to Isabelle and she still resented them. She had felt too much like a servant to the needs of her brothers and sisters. She didn’t blame them for her fate; it was the way it was. The heartbreaking truth was that Connie had become emotionally disconnected from her children once she became the sole provider. As much as Isabelle understood that, now that she was an adult, it didn’t mend the fissure in her heart. A dull ache, perpetual and reliable, thrummed inside Isabelle, underscoring her decisions, actions and needs. Connie had sacrificed her love and care for her children and had burdened Isabelle with responsibilities that were too great for a ten-year-old to bear.
Isabelle admired her mother’s career, but deplored the mundane, day-to-day rut of domesticity. Children held an artist back and Isabelle decided it would be best for her career if she never had babies. Isabelle had seen what having a family and an absorbing career could cost. And the price was too high.
“Isabelle.” Scott wrapped his arm around her waist. He’d walked up from behind,
