never guessed you to be so romantic, Scott,” Cate said, still admiring her ring.
Scott straightened and put a plucky smile on his face. “Oh, I’m the most romantic guy in town.”
“Hey, now...” Trent said.
Scott raised both his palms. “Sorry. You’re right. Trent has me beat in the romance department—at least this Christmas. So, can I get you anything? Cocoa? Coffee?”
He didn’t want them asking any embarrassing questions about Isabelle. Because the fact was, he hadn’t heard from her since he left her mother’s house. No call on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. He’d kept the shop open until late Christmas Eve and sold quite a few books. Christmas Day he went to church with his mother, Theresa, and they drove into Chicago for their annual Christmas dinner at the Drake Hotel. It was costly and worth every dime, she always said. She loved the harpist. He loved the food. Then they walked up and down Michigan Avenue, window shopping and looking at the lights, before driving home along Lake Shore Drive.
Each year Scott was thankful that his mother was still alive and that she wanted to keep up their Christmas tradition. He wondered if Isabelle would ever want to do things differently, but she’d never invited him for Christmas. As close as Scott and Isabelle were, they were still just friends and this was their family time, she’d always said. He didn’t intrude.
“Not for me,” Trent said. “But Cate wants to get some activity books for Danny. She didn’t have as much time to shop before Christmas, as you can guess.”
Scott’s eyes widened. “I’m so sorry, Cate. I should have picked out some things for Danny and brought them over. After everything you’ve been through...”
Cate chuckled. “It’s okay, Scott. Santa still paid him a visit. But he did mention some pop-up books you showed him, and I didn’t have a chance to swing by earlier.”
Scott snapped his fingers. “I know just the ones. I’ll get them.”
Scott went to the children’s section which was nearly wiped clean. His new shipments wouldn’t be in until after he did inventory next week. Amazingly, he had one Encyclopedia Prehistorica pop-up left.
Scott rang up the sale and put the book in a shopping bag.
“We should talk about New Year’s,” Cate said. “Tell Isabelle to call me.”
“Will do.” Scott saluted Trent as they walked out.
Trent was just closing the door when he stopped and mouthed to Scott, “I’ll call you later.”
Scott knew from the look in Trent’s eyes that his call had nothing to do with champagne or noisemakers. Trent had information.
With the shop empty, Scott went over to his desk where his laptop waited for his return. Scott had been working on an article for the Indian Lake Herald. For months, the mayor had been downstate lobbying for funds to improve the city streets. Scott had covered the progress each week.
Scott edited his article and then sat back in his chair, staring at the words.
Indian Lake’s infrastructure needed work. Some streets were nearly impassible. It was an important issue for the town, but...
He saved the work and flipped off the computer. He dropped his head into his hands and raked his fingers through his hair. “How much lower can you set your bar?” he groaned.
Concrete and asphalt. That’s all his talent was being used for. When he was in Chicago, he’d covered stories about political corruption. Police brutality. Topics he’d thought would make a difference if he brought them to light.
He drummed his fingers on the desk. His articles used to be well-researched and thought-provoking. Or else he wouldn’t write them.
But that was long ago. Lately, he measured his importance by his relationships to his friends and family. Not in how many minds he could sway with his written words. He was a different Scott now.
Or was he?
The door whooshed open, breaking into his thoughts.
“Hello, Scott.” Her voice floated toward him with the magnetic force it always had.
He spun around in his desk chair. “Isabelle.”
She was stunning, dressed in a winter-white wool coat with a collar that rose up under her chin, two huge black buttons off to the side. Her hair, which fell in torrents nearly to her waist, gleamed in the winter’s sun as it broke through the store window. Her dark-lashed green eyes looked, as always, like she’d just risen from the lake.
He stood, went to her and hugged her. She felt so good in his arms and yet he had the familiar, nagging sense that she could vanish at any moment like one of her faeries.
“I need you,” she said.
He held his breath. Not possible. She was still upset with him, wasn’t she? “Why?”
She lifted her shoulder strap that was attached to a tan leather briefcase. “I brought my iPad. Can you please help me? I have to find the right projects to send to Malcolm.”
“Malcolm.” He blinked. The gallery owner. That’s what she needed him for. Made sense. How could he think she wanted anything else? She was bursting with enthusiasm and he caught its fire.
“Come. Sit down and let’s look,” he said. “Do you want some tea or cocoa? Anything you want.”
She gazed at him with so much anticipation and hope, it made him ache. He remembered being this excited about his own career. Once. He wanted this for her. He did. No matter how much it might hurt her. If she got rejected, he would be here for her. Again. He would do that.
Scott pulled up another chair and they sat nearly forehead to forehead as she scrolled through dozens of photos of her paintings.
“I had over two thousand pictures, Scott. Can you believe it? I spent nearly all of Christmas Day discarding the bad ones, and I came up with these. They’re the best of the best. But I can only send three.”
“Three. Out of two thousand?”
“Well, you can imagine all the duplicate shots. Trying to get the right light. That kind of thing. So,” she said, not taking her eyes from the screen. “This one is my favorite mermaid.”
The watercolor was painted in every shade of green an artist could devise. The mermaid had long dark hair, nearly to the end of her tail fin, which was spun with jewels, starfish and pearls. The expression on the mermaid’s face was one of wonder and bliss as she broke through the surface of glistening, iridescent water. “I’ve never seen this one before.”
“I know. I’ve never shown it. I love it.”
“It’s—astounding.”
“Good. Then that’s number one.
“This is another possibility,” she said, showing him the painting of a faerie who walked among the stars toward a quarter moon where another faerie was sitting, beckoning to her. This one was all in blues. “It’s a mother and daughter. I like to think
