talked another ten minutes about the baby, which was due the middle of March, and about how the velvet gown could work even around a baby bump, then began to say their goodbyes. Before hanging up, Georgie said, “Hang in there, Jo.”
Joanna made a face. “I will. Actually, on Monday, I plan to visit Up and Coming, that gallery I told you about. Who knows? They might agree to let me show my collection there, and then maybe one of the banks will change its mind and lend me the money I need.” She made a face. “Yeah, and I’ll probably win the lottery, too.”
“See? I knew you’d come up with another idea,” Georgie said, completely ignoring Joanna’s attempt at dark humor. “And if the gallery and loan don’t work out for you, Zach and I will be happy to finance the rest of the collection.”
“I know. You’ve already told me that. But I can’t let you do that, Georgie. What if...” But Joanna couldn’t give voice to her greatest fear, not even to Georgie.
“Do not say it, Joanna! You will not fail. Your collection will be a huge hit. Huge. Listen, I know fashion. So do my sisters. And we all love your clothes.”
With that ringing endorsement still reverberating in her ears, Joanna said goodbye. But the moment the connection was broken, her spirits flagged again. Yes, Georgie and her sisters did love her clothes, but they were prejudiced.
So even if the owner of Up and Coming said yes to her on Monday, and even if one of the banks did change its mind and lend her the money to finish the collection, she could still fail.
As soon as the thought formed, she got mad at herself. What was wrong with her? Why was she even entertaining such a negative idea? She was not and never had been a negative person. She was a chance taker. She believed in herself and in her talent.
Georgie was right. She would succeed!
No matter what it took.
* * *
“Will you be home for dinner tonight, Marcus?”
Marcus Osborne Barlow III shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mother. Walker and I have a dinner meeting scheduled.” Walker Creighton was the family’s longtime lawyer and also sat on the board of Barlow International. When his mother didn’t answer, Marcus looked up from the Seattle Times. Her grayish-blue eyes—whose color he’d inherited—seemed stricken. “What’s wrong?”
She looked down at her half-eaten English muffin. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
It was never nothing with his mother. Ever since his father’s unexpected death of a heart attack fifteen years earlier just before Marcus’s twenty-first birthday in his third year of college, Laurette Bertrand Barlow had been incapable of handling much more than what to have for dinner. And sometimes she seemed incapable of doing even that. She hadn’t always been this way. When his father was alive, she’d been a different woman. Or had she? Maybe, like most young people, he’d simply been too wrapped up in his own life to notice.
Marcus finished the last of his coffee and put the paper down. He’d learned that coaxing his mother didn’t work, so he simply sat there quietly. After long seconds, she finally met his gaze. “It’s Vanessa.”
“What about her?” he said more sharply than he’d intended.
“She talked back to me last night. I will not be talked to that way, Marcus.”
Vanessa was Marcus’s twenty-year-old sister. Only five when their father died, she idolized Marcus. And he adored her, even as he sometimes despaired of making her into the kind of young lady who would do the Barlow family and company proud. The kind of young lady a man so seldom found nowadays.
“What did she say to you?” he asked.
His mother flushed. “She told me I was stupid.”
“Stupid!” Marcus was appalled. Sometimes he understood why Vanessa was impatient with their mother. After all, Laurette was often difficult to deal with. But showing disrespect, no matter the provocation, would not be tolerated. Especially since Creighton had been urging Marcus to assume more international business travel. How could he take charge abroad when his mother and sister still expected him to mediate their disagreements?
Suppressing a sigh, he said, “I’ll speak to her.” He put down his paper, rose and headed for the stairs.
Five minutes later, he knocked on Vanessa’s bedroom door. In the mood he was in, he almost went in without waiting for an answer, but if he was to lead by example, good manners dictated he wait.
“Is that you, Mother?” was followed by the door opening. Vanessa, blond hair still tousled from sleep, stood there in a very short blue bathrobe and bare feet. Her eyes, dark blue like their father’s had been, lost their defiant glare when she realized it was her brother at the door and not her mother.
“I thought you’d already gone to the office,” she said, smiling.
“I have a meeting in Kirkland today.” Wasn’t she cold?
“Oh.”
“Don’t you have a class this morning?” Vanessa was taking a couple of design classes at the Art Institute of Seattle.
“It was canceled. The instructor’s wife went into labor yesterday, so I thought I’d check out that new exhibit at the Frye.” She tightened the skimpy robe around her. For the first time, she seemed to sense his mood. “Is something wrong, Marcus?”
“Mother says last night you called her stupid.”
Vanessa shook her head. “That’s not quite true.”
“Not quite true? How can something be not quite true?”
“I didn’t call her stupid. I said what she’d said was stupid. That’s not the same thing.”
“You’re splitting hairs. Talking to your mother that way is disrespectful, and you know it.”
“Don’t you even want to know what it was she said?”
“No. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you must always treat your mother with respect.”
“But, Marcus—”
“No buts.”
“So I can’t even disagree with her?” The defiant glare was back in full force.
“I didn’t say that. It’s entirely possible to have a difference of opinion without being rude...or disrespectful.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “You know, Marcus, as much as I love you, you have a tendency to sound like some old man. I mean, come on, no one talks the way you do anymore.”
“Excuse me?” he said stiffly. If he sounded older than he was, maybe it was because he’d never had a choice. Did she ever think of that? A week after his father’s death, he’d had to put on a suit and tie and meet with Barstow’s board to convince them he’d be capable of assuming the company’s reins in five years. It wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to do, but who else was there to do it?
And
