a temper. Instead, there was silence. He strode down the hall, then stopped. Shaking his head, he turned around and walked back to his sister’s door. He was sorry to have spoken so harshly. After all, he did know how difficult his mother could be and how she could strain anyone’s patience.
He grasped the knob of Vanessa’s door, but he didn’t open it. He couldn’t. At the age of twenty, he’d had to thrust aside all his dreams and hopes for the future. He’d had to grow up fast. To assume responsibility for both his siblings and his mother, not to mention an entire corporation and the workers who depended on him.
If he wanted Vanessa to be a credit to him and to their family, to become the lovely woman he knew she could be, then this rebelliousness of hers needed to be reined in.
He released the knob and headed for the stairs. This time, he didn’t look back.
Chapter Two
On Monday, Chick left for Oregon and a buying trip, so Joanna put the phone on voice mail and took a couple of hours for lunch. Luckily, it was a pretty day—cool but sunny—so she walked the fifteen blocks from Chick’s office to Up and Coming’s trendy location in Belltown, right on the fringes of Queen Anne.
Joanna had read about Up and Coming in Phoebe Lancaster’s column in the July issue of Around Puget Sound magazine. The gallery featured new artists, and apparently they weren’t limited to painters and sculptors because sometime this fall they were scheduled to showcase the work of a jewelry designer. When Joanna had read that, she’d immediately wondered if it might be possible to have her work shown there, too. After all, she was an artist—every bit as much as someone who designed jewelry. The idea had excited her, and she’d filed it in the back of her mind, thinking it might be something she could explore in the future.
Well, the future was here. Up and Coming was one of her last resorts. Maybe her very last resort.
Located on a shady, tree-lined street where several restaurants and boutiques mingled with half a dozen galleries, Up and Coming had an elegant facade with double walnut doors flanked by old-fashioned gas lamps. Its two large display windows held vividly colored ceramic vases and bowls, along with fanciful animals carved from what looked like mahogany. One—a mouse with an impudent expression—made her smile. It also gave her hope that the owner had an open mind about what constituted art.
Tiny silver bells tinkled when Joanna opened the door and walked inside. A tall blonde with a severe hairdo, slicked back and fashioned into a tiny ballerina bun, looked up at Joanna’s entrance.
“Yes?” She didn’t smile. Instead, her gaze flicked to Joanna’s knee-high boots with their four-inch heels, then traveled up and over her diamond-patterned black stockings, black miniskirt and tight leather jacket.
“Hello,” Joanna said brightly. Walking over to the counter where the woman stood with an open catalogue in front of her, Joanna extended her right hand. “I’m Joanna Spinelli. I wrote to you last week about the possibility of showing my work here.”
The blonde ignored the hand. “And what might that work be?” Still no smile. In fact, her eyes, a frosty dark blue that matched her long-sleeved, high-necked wool dress, were looking at Joanna as if she had wandered into the gallery by mistake.
“I’m a, um, fashion designer.” Joanna could have kicked herself for the hesitation in her voice. “You may have heard of my label? JS Designs? I did the bridesmaids’ gowns for the Fairchild wedding in the spring. There was a spread in Puget Sound Magazine—”
“We are an art gallery, Miss...”
“Spinelli,” Joanna repeated.
The blonde fingered her double strand of pearls. “Spinelli.” This was said as if the name itself was distasteful.
“And I know you’re an art gallery,” Joanna said, “but I read an article recently about how you’ll be showing some jewelry by a local artist and I thought—”
“Yes. Well. That designer is the sister of the owner.”
“Oh.” Joanna’s heart sank. This was not going well. “Um, then, perhaps I could speak to the owner? I brought my portfolio with me to show—”
“Mr. Barlow is a busy man and rarely here.”
Telling herself not to be cowed by this snobby woman, Joanna drew herself up to her full five feet three plus the four-inch heels. “And you are?”
The blonde’s eyes narrowed as if she couldn’t quite believe Joanna had the audacity to ask her name. For a moment, Joanna was sure she didn’t intend to answer, but finally she said, “I am the manager of the gallery. Brenda Garfield.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Garfield. Now, if you could just take a look at my designs...”
Lifting the portfolio to the glass countertop, Joanna opened it to the first photograph. The model, a favorite of Joanna’s, was an ethereal-looking redhead—a Nicole Kidman type, Joanna had always thought—and she was wearing one of Joanna’s hand-crocheted dresses—a pale apricot confection with a swirling skirt, worn over a matching silk slip. The photographer had created the illusion of sun-kissed clouds drifting around her. It had cost Joanna the earth to have these photographs shot, but she figured the investment in her future was worth it.
The Garfield woman barely glanced at the photo.
Determined not to give up, Joanna turned the page. This photo featured a willowy, dark-haired model standing on a moonlit balcony. She was wearing a midnight-blue satin evening dress overlaid with ecru lace and held a champagne glass in her hand.
Brenda Garfield’s eyes briefly skimmed the photograph, then rose to meet Joanna’s own. “I doubt Mr. Barlow would be interested,” she said coldly.
Joanna would have liked to say what she was thinking, but stopped herself just in time. Never burn bridges. How often had her mother advised that? “I’ll just leave my card,” she said politely. “He can look at my designs on my website.”
“As you wish.”
Joanna figured the card would be thrown in the trash the moment she was out the door. Suppressing a sigh, she closed her portfolio and, head held high, said, “Thank you for your time.”
Joanna waited until she’d walked outside and out of sight of the snooty Brenda Garfield before giving vent to her feelings. I won’t cry, she told herself as the full weight of her crushed hopes and lost dreams bore down on her shoulders.
“I might as well forget about this damn place,” she said aloud. “She isn’t going to tell the owner about me.” For one second, she almost pitched the album containing the photos into the trash container standing on the curb.
But something stopped her.
Maybe the portfolio was worthless. Maybe no one else would ever look at her designs again. Maybe things looked dark right now, but tomorrow was another day.
And she was not a quitter.
Besides, these photos were too beautiful and had cost too much to end up in a public trash receptacle.
* * *
Cornelia Fairchild Hunt had just finished arranging
