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Family Of His Own
Catherine Lanigan
He's ready to settle down…with or without herScott Abbott has always loved Isabelle Hawks. And he’s always been her rock. Patient, dependable, strong. But lately, she’s been acting like that rock is weighing her down. With her art career taking off, Isabelle has been spending less and less time in Indian Lake…and with him. Scott isn’t even sure what they are to each other anymore. They might be friends with a history, but it sure doesn’t feel like a future. Maybe it’s time for Scott to set her free and focus on his own dreams. A real home. A family. All the things he had hoped to share.


He’s ready to settle down...with or without her
Scott Abbott has always loved Isabelle Hawks. And he’s always been her rock. Patient, dependable, strong. But lately, she’s been acting like that rock is weighing her down. With her art career taking off, Isabelle has been spending less and less time in Indian Lake...and with him. Scott isn’t even sure what they are to each other anymore. They might be friends with a history, but it sure doesn’t feel like a future. Maybe it’s time for Scott to set her free and focus on his own dreams. A real home. A family. All the things he had hoped to share with her...
“Isabelle, I came here tonight to ask you something.”
A sense of foreboding settled over her. “Scott, I don’t think...”
“Hear me out. We’ve always been best friends. We know each other inside and out. I want us to move forward with our lives.” He squeezed her hand earnestly.
“We are moving forward,” she said reflexively.
“I mean together. I realize that writing articles for the local paper is not going to make a difference in this world. But I can change the future for these kids. I can take something horrible and make it happy. It’s my hope that you’d do that with me.”
All Isabelle could do was stare at him. “You just got through saying we were best friends, but you don’t know me at all. I just won the chance of my lifetime. A shot at a gallery show! The one thing I’ve worked for since high school.” Her voice cracked. Her palms were sweating and her heart rammed against her chest. “You are not asking me this right now.”
“Oh, but I am,” he replied quietly.
Dear Reader (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2),
If you have read all of the Shores of Indian Lakes books, you will be familiar with Scott Abbott and Isabelle Hawks. Scott has had a crush on Isabelle for years. However, Isabelle has been hyper-focused on her art.
From the get-go I wanted Isabelle to be that kind of painter who is truly gifted, but the world hasn’t discovered her yet. Her intuition and inner guidance have told her that if she simply keeps trying, working and believing, she will make it someday.
The problem is that Scott wants to begin his life with Isabelle. When she turns him down, choosing her art over him, Scott takes matters into his own hands and becomes a foster parent to two small children.
Isabelle is the oldest of six children and because her mother became a widow at a young age, Isabelle had to mature fast and be a parent to her siblings. Isabelle’s thwarted childhood is one reason she pursues her portraits of faeries and water sprites—and motivation for embracing her freedom now.
What Isabelle hasn’t realized is that she’s been avoiding living her life all for the sake of art. Through Scott’s growing relationship with his foster kids, Isabelle comes to see her choices with a new palette of colors. Finally, she must learn that without love in her life, her art will never flourish. Neither will her heart.
I hope you like Family of His Own. Please contact me on Facebook, Twitter (@cathlanigan (https://twitter.com/cathlanigan?lang=en)), www.catherinelanigan.com (http://www.catherinelanigan.com) and heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com (http://heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.ca). Look for chapters on Wattpad.
Happy reading!
Catherine Lanigan
Family of His Own
Catherine Lanigan


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CATHERINE LANIGAN knew she was born to storytelling at a very young age when she told stories to her younger brothers and sister to entertain them. After years of encouragement from family and high school teachers, Catherine was shocked and brokenhearted when her freshman college creative-writing professor told her that she had “no writing talent whatsoever” and that she would never earn a dime as a writer. He promised her that he would be her crutches and get her through his demanding class with a B grade so as not to destroy her high grade point average too much, if Catherine would promise never to write again. Catherine assumed he was the voice of authority and gave in to the bargain.
For fourteen years she did not write until she was encouraged by a television journalist to give her dream a shot. She wrote a six-hundred-page historical romantic spy thriller set against World War I. The journalist sent the manuscript to his agent, who then garnered bids from two publishers. That was nearly forty published novels, nonfiction books and anthologies ago.
This book is dedicated to my late husband,
Jed Nolan, my hero and best friend. I will love you to the moon and back, and throughout all the galaxies and universes.
Acknowledgments
This story is all about family. The ones we were born into and the ones we come to create. My years with the entire staff at Harlequin Heartwarming, as well as my Heartwarming author sisters, have woven a strong bond of family between us.
For an author, working with an editor should be the best expression of our thoughts and art.
I have again had the extraordinary pleasure to meld ideas with my editor, Claire Caldwell, and together we have extracted the deepest desires and dreams from both Scott and Isabelle about what they truly want from life.
I greatly appreciate Victoria Curran’s guidance in keeping our stories filled with enough heart to warm our readers. Our characters, stories and uplifting style are needed now in the world like never before. Kudos to you, Victoria, and all the team for all your hard work, genius and the long hours it takes to make Harlequin Heartwarming an exceptional line of romance novels.
And to Lissy Peace, my agent, always: I love you and honor our decades of working together.
Contents
Cover (#ucbc77cc8-86af-59c7-9632-b293d4d2aaf0)
Back Cover Text (#u9ccd33bc-8b8a-510b-81b6-f48ee4e123a4)
Introduction (#u6e42f1ac-3bf1-51fa-b1e2-b4d86a80cb79)
Dear Reader (#u069b6808-0efb-5458-996e-9df4eb7f8263)
Title Page (#u04abea8b-a08d-59b8-b72c-75f4403eb94a)
About the Author (#u672ee25d-2f57-5268-9695-f7df92c996f5)
Dedication (#ud1a49c50-a407-534a-a387-2ac4222de5f1)
CHAPTER ONE (#uc79d1c78-5ae0-5708-8e52-509dd2dd14e7)
CHAPTER TWO (#ue541a205-3012-5a27-87fd-3073408563a9)
CHAPTER THREE (#uee2fc6fd-d834-5d22-b701-0c6f60ac3dd1)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ubcc1a49e-cbf7-5072-a48c-727b4e40bc16)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u2da380bf-72f0-5ee8-ba03-2ebbf406c7a3)
CHAPTER SIX (#uda84b9b7-b5aa-575b-a924-91ebf9a865d2)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#u82a9ee33-00f0-513d-93f8-1ebb82ce1064)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2)
THE SOUND OF gunshots cracked through snow-dusted tree branches and split the brittle December air. A flock of honking Canada geese veered away from the blasts, their wings thudding amid the rippling echoes.
Scott Abbott reloaded his GLOCK, aimed and fired at the paper target in the shape of a person a hundred yards from the plexiglass-protected shooting stand. His shots were all over the place. Only one came close to the heart. Still, he was vastly improved over last month when he stood here in the icy rain shooting through pea-soup fog. Night-vision gear wouldn’t have helped. Scott needed more practice if he wanted to be as good as his friends.
“Good thing my life doesn’t depend on your skills,” Trent Davis, Indian Lake Police Detective, teased as he pulled on a pair of military-issue, noise-canceling earphones and aimed his Smith & Wesson M&P45 and easily squeezed off six shots dead into the target’s heart area.
Scott grimaced at his best friend, Luke Bosworth, whose cool gaze was devoid of mirth. Luke had been a navy SEAL. His new semiautomatic 1911 Colt .45 plowed the target with eight shots, the paper flying off like escaping butterflies.
Scott blew on his freezing hands. “My aim is off. The cold.” He shrugged.
“Yeah, tell it to the judge.” Trent laughed and reloaded.
Scott pulled the sheepskin collar of his scarred leather bomber jacket around his neck. “How do you do it? I’m freezing and you’re not even wearing your parka.”
Trent rammed a new magazine into his gun and without taking his eyes from the target said, “This isn’t a game for me. Never was. Never will be. That’s not a paper man to me. That’s the man who nearly killed my fiancée.” Trent aimed and fired his gun.
Scott, who claimed a byline at the Indian Lake Herald newspaper, knew every last detail and then some about Trent’s brilliant and dangerous plot to bring down the leader of the Le Grande drug ring in Indian Lake only a few short weeks ago.
Trent had headed up the Indian Lake PD’s drug task force for nearly two years, resulting in many arrests, but it was the capture of Brad Kramer, AKA Raoul Le Grande, that brought national attention to their small Indiana town—and to Trent. He’d denied all interview requests, though, except Scott’s. Trent had many reasons to avoid the press. Accuracy was one. Trent had trusted only Scott to report sensitive details about the intricate sting he’d set up to catch Le Grande. Cate Sullivan, Le Grande’s ex-wife, had been at the center of the plan. Scott had met Cate when Luke hired her to sell his home after his first wife died of cancer. Cate was a private woman and had kept her personal life quiet. When Scott learned that Cate had been living in disguise in Indian Lake for the past six years, Scott was as surprised as everyone else.
Le Grande hadn’t only wanted to use Indian Lake as a way station for trafficking drugs from Chicago up to Detroit and eventually to Toronto. The drug lord had wanted his ex-wife and six-year-old son, Danny, back.
Trent had convinced Cate to act as bait to smoke Le Grande out. The plan was well orchestrated, yet even Trent had not calculated the extent of Le Grande’s twisted, maniacal mind.
Thanks to Trent’s Special Forces military training and his exceptional perceptive genius, Cate and Danny survived, and Le Grande was now in prison awaiting trial.
Scott had been at the Christmas Pageant at St. Mark’s school when Le Grande had attempted to kidnap Danny, and he’d managed to capture the entire, harrowing scene on his iPhone. His eyewitness reporting, along with his photos and videos, were still getting attention across the country.
Not since had Scott worked for the Chicago Tribune right after graduation from Northwestern University had he dared to dream of prizes and awards. Now those possibilities seemed once again in reach.
“Hey!” Luke shouted over the blast of Trent’s final bullet. “Back up there, buddy.” He put his hand on Trent’s shoulder. “Did you just say fiancée?”
Scott also did a double take. “What? You and Cate?”
Trent’s half smile grew into a full-blown grin. “Yeah. Can you believe it? She said yes!”
“No,” Scott said, feeling an odd sense of disbelief and disquietude. “I don’t. You’ve only known her—what, a couple months?”
Scott stared at Trent, who had a goofy look on his face. Trent had just become the town hero. He could outshoot and outsmart master criminals. But when he talked about Cate, he turned to mush. It had been a long time since Scott had felt that way about Isabelle. Come to think of it, he’d never seen her get dewy-eyed over him. And if she had, he’d missed it. Maybe that was a good reason to rush into marriage. Grab the feeling while it was new and fresh, like a spring sapling. Let it grow over time.
Trent’s laughter broke through Scott’s thoughts.
“Yeah, man, intense days, I’ll tell you. But—” He glanced down at his gun. “I can’t imagine another day without her.”
“Wow!” Luke grabbed Trent in a bear hug. “That’s awesome, man. Did she like the ring?”
“Actually, I haven’t gotten her one yet. I want it to be a Christmas present.” Trent looked from Luke to Scott. “Do you think I should surprise her or have her go with me to pick it out?”
“Surprise her,” Luke said emphatically.
“I dunno...” Scott shook his head. “Women can be weird about rings. I’d take her shopping. What if you pick out something she hates and then she’s stuck wearing it the rest of her life?”
Trent and Luke took a moment to consider his advice.
Luke put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “This is why he’s been my best friend since high school. He considers all the angles. Very observant. Better take her shopping. But to surprise her—you could put the empty box under the tree. Then tell her you’re taking her to the jeweler the next day.”
“Ah, good one,” Trent agreed. “So, Luke, what are you getting Sarah for Christmas?”
“I was thinking about some new drill bits,” Luke deadpanned.
“Right,” Scott said. “She’ll be thrilled.”
Luke broke into laughter. “Nah. I got her a sapphire bracelet. To match her eyes.” He smiled wistfully.
“Very romantic,” Scott replied.
Trent grabbed his box of shells. “So what are you giving Isabelle? Want to make that a double date to the jeweler’s?”
Scott’s mouth went dry. “Uh, we don’t exchange gifts.”
“You what?” Trent and Luke said in unison.
“Man, no wonder...” Luke didn’t finish his thought. He went over to his gear and fussed with his holster.
“Isabelle and I aren’t like that,” Scott began.
“You mean not romantic?” Trent asked.
“Uh, no. Not really.” Scott aimed at the target again, pretending interest in the exercise. He felt more like the bull’s-eye was drawn on the middle of his chest. “Isabelle and I are friends. You know?”
“Yeah?” Luke narrowed his eyes. “Is that because that’s how she wants it or how you want it?”
“It’s how it is.”
Trent unloaded his gun into the target, then turned to Scott. “I thought you told me you two were sweethearts in high school?”
“We were just kids then.” Scott turned away, avoiding Luke’s steely gaze. He knew exactly what his best friend was thinking.
Scott had returned to Indian Lake four years ago to take care of his mother, who had needed a new heart valve. He’d had to leave his job at the Chicago Tribune, but he’d sensed a layoff was around the corner anyway; journalists had been losing their jobs across the nation, and it was only getting worse.
He’d been in town a few months when he’d run into Isabelle at one of Mrs. Beabots’s Sunday dessert parties. Sarah Jensen had invited him, and since Sarah’s mother had recently died, Scott thought he was doing the friendly thing by attending. Sarah’s girlfriends were all there, including Isabelle.
In minutes they’d struck up a conversation. Scott had been surprised she didn’t seem to hate him for not staying in touch as he’d promised.
Isabelle had told him she was now the bookkeeper and sometimes-hostess at the Tall Pines Lodges of Indian Lake. He remembered the green-eyed girl who’d painted sea nymphs and faeries for a high school play he’d codirected. Isabelle had designed the backdrops: stunningly beautiful moonlit forests that pulled the viewer into their magic. Scott had been mesmerized by her back then.
However, Scott’s ambitions had been strong and he’d already been accepted to Northwestern which tempered his romantic feelings. Once Scott left for Chicago, Indian Lake and the girl back home had seemed like part of another life. He had immersed himself in creative writing and political science, spent nights huddled with new friends from California, New York and Beijing whose viewpoints stretched his thinking and blew apart what he thought he knew about the world.
Scott had believed then that the world was his oyster and he would only be satisfied with the pearl.
He hadn’t told Isabelle any of this that Sunday evening at Mrs. Beabots’s house. Like the investigative journalist he was, he’d asked her about her life instead.
Isabelle had been taking art classes for years, including a few at the Art Institute of Chicago. She couldn’t stop talking about walking along the shores of Indian Lake and imagining water sprites looking up at her from the cool depths. She was compelled to paint them.
Scott had become mesmerized all over again.
That summer after returning home, Scott had done everything to be near her. He paid Sarah Jensen double the going cost for a booth at the St. Mark’s Summer Festival to make sure his booth for his coffee beans and books was next to Isabelle’s art display.
As the months rolled on, Scott realized Isabelle had changed, as well. When it came to her art, she was fiercely ambitious. He’d recognized the same fire in her eyes that his own had held when he’d worked at the Tribune. Because his situation had altered so drastically, Scott had had to reinvent himself. He’d had to learn to be satisfied with lesser aspirations. Which was why he’d opened his bookstore and coffee shop.
Since those first months of his return, everyone in town had considered him and Isabelle to be a couple. But the truth was that Scott had no idea if Isabelle loved him. The one time he’d told her he loved her, she’d dismissed his declaration, telling him he couldn’t possibly love her because she hadn’t become her true self yet—hadn’t accomplished enough. She intended to do a great many things with her talent and her life. She hadn’t “come into her own.”
Scott had scratched his head over that one, but he’d let it go. He’d made his intentions clear, and he hoped that one day Isabelle would see what was right in front of her. There had never been another woman for him, and to his knowledge Isabelle wasn’t interested in another man. They were good friends. Best friends, really. Isabelle was Team Isabelle. Though not in a selfish way.
“Guys. What can I say? We’re just not ‘there’ yet.”
Luke shot a glance at Trent, who shrugged. “So, this gives you another year to save up for a really big rock.”
Scott shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think a diamond would impress this woman.”
“What would?” Luke asked.
“That’s easy. Hanging her paintings in The Guggenheim.”
Trent whistled and slapped Scott on the back. “Come on, I want you guys to help me with something before we leave.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” Scott asked as he put away his GLOCK and gathered his ammunition and protective glasses.
Trent stuck his arms through his black jacket and stuffed his gloves in his pockets. “I received a call from Richard Schmitz at CPD...”
“He’s your counterpart in Chicago, right?” Scott asked. “I interviewed him for my articles.”
Luke led the way out of the shooting range, waving to the attendant as they left. “By the way, Scott. That article was fantastic. Great writing. I felt like I was right there in the middle of the action.” Luke stopped short, and Scott nearly ran into him. “Wait! What am I saying?” Luke snickered. “I was in the middle of the action.”
Scott didn’t need reminding. Luke’s daughter, Annie, had been talking to little Danny when Le Grande had appeared, grabbed Danny like a sack of flour and raced off with him.
Dozens of people had witnessed the kidnapping. Le Grande might dodge the drug dealing and selling charges, given his high-powered and expensive criminal attorney, but that kidnapping was another matter. Scott hoped Le Grande would be locked up for decades. “Trent. Tell us what’s up.”
“Le Grande has been busy behind bars. Like many powerful people in the drug trade, I’m afraid.”
“That does tend to be the case,” Scott replied. Apprehension seemed to snake across the frozen ground and grab him by the heels. It had only been three weeks since Trent had nailed Le Grande and arrested five of his gang members in Indian Lake. Trent had later told Scott the heroin alone was worth over a quarter million. The meth had a street value of half a million. Scott knew exactly what Trent was about to say. Deals like that didn’t die. They morphed into something bigger and more sinister.
“Come on,” Trent said as they walked quickly toward Luke’s SUV. “I want to drive by the old WWII ammunitions plant that’s just down the road from here.”
“Why?” Scott asked, climbing into the back seat.
“Richard has reason to believe that members of Le Grande’s gang are scouting Indian Lake, Gary and possibly up into Berrien Springs, Michigan, for a place to make methamphetamine.”
“No way,” Scott exhaled. “They’d come back here?”
“Why not? They know the terrain and a lot of the existing dealers.”
Scott peered at Luke, who glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He shook his head. “I was hoping this was behind us.”
Trent turned in the passenger seat to look at Scott. “You both are sworn to secrecy. Off the record, Scott. You got that?”
“This can’t be good.” Scott sighed, his eyes still locked on Trent. “Yeah. Sure.”
“I’ve got a lead on a guy who is making the meth.”
Scott sat up straighter. “And?”
“I’ve been on stakeouts, but the guy moves around a lot. He’s got his playbook down pat. He wheedles his way into friendships with disabled young people he finds in soup kitchens and churches. Lately, he’s been recruiting construction workers, too.”
Luke chimed in. “That’s because it’s winter and guys like me don’t have a lot of work. And they hang out at pool halls, bars.” He turned into an unplowed drive that led through a cluster of trees.
“That’s right,” Trent continued. “So our guy’s name is Frankie Ellis. Or that’s his alias this week. Anyway, he gets these kids to let him bunk with them, then he talks them into making meth. They become accomplices. And he’s got them.” Trent made a fist.
“And you think he’s out here at the old ordinance plant?”
“I do.”
Scott looked out the window. “I was hoping Indian Lake kids would be safer after you nabbed Le Grande.”
“Me, too.” Luke clutched the steering wheel.
“Afraid not,” Trent said, shaking his head.
They’d reached the end of the drive and were approaching a row of long, narrow manufacturing buildings from World War II. The white paint on their exteriors was chipped, and some of the faded green shutters hung at odd angles. A concrete drive circled a naked flagpole and a raised planter that at one time, Scott imagined, had been filled with red, white and blue flowers. Weeds and poison ivy, now strangled by winter’s kill, decorated the front of a matching office building. To the far right were what appeared to be barracks and hangar-like buildings for transport vehicles.
During the war, the compound had been a source of pride and hope for Indian Lake residents. They had thought they were fighting back against the greatest evil of all time.
Luke drove into the complex and stopped at the heavy rusted chain across the entrance. Trent turned to Scott. “Take photos with your phone. I’m going to check it out. You both stay here.”
“What?” Scott stared at him “What if Ellis is in there?”
“Both of you know how to handle yourselves in any situation. I wouldn’t put you in danger. Scott, you’re the best journalist around. You see things that I even miss. I’m relying on your eyes. And Luke, I could take lessons from you, man.”
“We’ve got your back, Trent,” Luke said.
“Yeah, we want to help. It’s our town, too,” Scott added. Scott watched with a clenched jaw as Trent jogged away, ducked under the chain and hustled up to one of the buildings.
“What if this meth dealer has friends? Like some of Le Grande’s murderous gang?”
“I’m sure Trent thought of that.”
“I hope so,” Scott replied warily. “This is nuts.”
Luke shook his head slightly. He had slipped his gun out of its holster and put it on the passenger seat.
Scott swallowed hard. “Okay.” He picked up his phone and took a series of photos, using his zoom. “I need a telephoto lens for this. And the sun is going down.”
Luke pointed out the window. “It’s abandoned. See? No tire tracks on the snow. No footprints around, except Trent’s. It’s probably safe enough.”
“Why do I get the feeling Chief Williams doesn’t know anything about this?”
“Of course he knows. Trent wouldn’t jeopardize his job. He said the chief trusts Trent’s instincts when it comes to intel.”
Luke sighed. “It’s getting dark. He won’t be able to see in there. And if he finds anything substantial, he’ll need to get a warrant.”
Scott was relieved to see Trent hustling back toward the SUV a few moments later. He climbed in and buckled up. “I can’t see anything through the windows and even that broken one didn’t help since I don’t have a flashlight. I should get a warrant.”
Luke laughed to himself and backed out of the drive. Scott’s phone pinged with a text. “Problem there, buddy?” Luke asked.
“No. Just Isabelle. She wants me to bring some ice to the party. She said I’m late.”
“Party?”
“Yeah. Her mother has a Christmas party every year on the twenty-third. It’s tradition. Just family.”
“Really? And she didn’t have you working KP duty all afternoon?” Luke met Scott’s eyes in the mirror, eyebrows raised.
“She asks for lots of other help, but not for the dinner. Except for the ice,” Scott replied. Scott sensed where this conversation was going. His buddies thought they were supporting him with their inquiries and suggestions. But when they brought Isabelle up like this, it embarrassed him that he helped her out with so much, and yet, she wasn’t as serious about him as he wanted her to be. As he felt about her.
He read the text again. It was terse and hurried.
Where are you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago. Bring ice.
Scott would have been on time if not for the unscheduled trip to the ammunitions plant. Maybe only slightly late. This was the third Christmas that Scott had been invited to the Hawkses’ family party. Her two sisters, Sadie and Violet, would be there, of course, since they both lived at home. Dylan, who was twenty-nine and only eleven months younger than Isabelle, would be home from the South Side of Chicago where he was a prosecuting attorney. Christopher, an EMP and first responder, lived north of town and Ross, a forensic CPA who commuted into downtown Chicago for work, would also be on hand.
Scott liked all of Isabelle’s family but for some reason, she always seemed tense during this party. When he’d asked her about it in the past, she’d always said she was fine and that there was a lot of work to be done. But Scott had long wondered if her family made her nervous.
Or was it possible that his presence at Christmas upset her?
Luke and Trent were talking about their families and the threat of the rising drug problems. They both vowed to risk their lives to save their loved ones.
Scott slid his phone back into his pocket.
He knew, without a doubt, he would put his life on the line for Isabelle. But suddenly, he wondered if she had ever felt that strongly about him.
CHAPTER TWO (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2)
ISABELLE WIPED THE sweat from her forehead with her sleeve as she hoisted the stack of Christmas plates out of the cupboard in the storage room. After steadying herself, she placed the stack on the counter below and climbed down the ladder. When her mother had designed this storage area, Isabelle had praised her for it. She hadn’t realized that she’d be just about the only family member using this room.
It was always this way on holidays. Isabelle’s family talked for months about these big gatherings, the food they’d buy at the deli, the bakery, the butcher—nearly all premade since her mother, Connie, didn’t have time or the desire to cook for everyone. Neither did Sadie or Violet. All three boys were excellent at ordering takeout. Isabelle was the only one in the family whose culinary skills were self-taught. She was no gourmet, but she could get by. But she drew the line at preparing a feast when no one else seemed willing to lift a finger.
The food wasn’t the problem. Connie ordered turkey, mashed potatoes and green bean casserole from the grocery store. Pumpkin pies came from the bakery. Sadie made stuffing out of a box on top of the stove. Gravy came from a jar and was heated in the microwave.
But as had been the case for nearly all their lives, everyone left the rest of the details up to Isabelle. Today, she’d arrived at her mother’s house to find that not only had the table not been set, but the linens for it hadn’t even been laundered.
Isabelle felt like she was ten years old again, when all the household responsibilities and childcare had fallen on her shoulders.
That was the year her father had dropped dead at the age of thirty-six from a heart attack. The doctors told her mother that he’d had an undetected congenital heart condition. Isabelle had helped her mother dress the younger kids for the funeral. She remembered half the town showing up at their little house off Main Street where there was barely enough room for all of them, let alone guests. Her mother’s friends brought food enough to feed them for weeks.
Within a week, Connie had applied for a position as a receptionist at an architect’s firm. A few months later she bought a used drafting table to tinker with blueprints in the evenings. A few months after that she signed up for night classes at Purdue University. By the time Isabelle was thirteen, Connie’s talent and training had landed her a job as an apprentice architect. Nineteen years after the sudden death of her husband, Connie was now a partner in the firm and had helped finance portions of each of her children’s postsecondary education.
Yet this had come at a cost. Isabelle had become the housekeeper, the nanny, the errand girl, the stand-in parent and all-around Cinderella to her younger siblings. Though Connie often expressed her gratitude for all that Isabelle had done during those years, she’d also told Isabelle that she’d provided her with invaluable preparation for adult life.
Isabelle wished she’d been a little less ready for adulthood, with more happy memories under her belt. Instead, she had spent her teen years worried about her mother working so many hours. Overwhelming herself with extra design classes instead of enjoying summer picnics at the beach. If Isabelle had missed out on a great deal of fun, Connie had had even less.
Isabelle pulled the red tablecloth out of the dryer and brought it up to the dining room. Earlier, she’d clipped an armload of fir, spruce, cedar and pine branches outside. Once she’d spread out the tablecloth, she arranged the pines in the center along with silver and gold beads, red votive candles and shiny red balls. She scattered a bag of cranberries along the length of the table then made the place settings.
From the den, she could hear her brothers shouting as their football team executed another touchdown. They clinked their beer bottles together and high-fived each other.
“It’s beautiful, Isabelle,” Connie said as she hauled a precooked glazed honey ham out of the stainless steel convection oven. It only needed to be warmed. Ironically, when Connie designed this house five years ago, after finding a secluded three acres surrounded by forest and fruit trees, she’d installed a massive, high-tech, cook’s dream of a kitchen.
The house was one story, with red barn siding. Isabelle loved the glass walls that surrounded this section of the house, which contained the kitchen, living and dining areas; the vaulted wood ceilings and three-sixty-degree view made her feel like they were living outside. The only paintings were Isabelle’s water nymphs: one above the fireplace on the south wall and one above the built-in redwood buffet on the north wall.
Connie knew her craft well.
“Thanks.” Her gaze veered to the den. “You’d think just once somebody could help me. Volunteer at least.”
“C’mon, let them be,” Violet said, opening a can of jellied cranberry sauce. Violet was twenty-three and would be graduating in June from the University Police Academy in Bloomington. “They never get to all be together anymore. Football is a male bonding thing.”
“I like football as much as anyone. What if I wanted to watch the game and not help with the food, set the table, do the laundry...”
“Oh, Isabelle.” Sadie walked into the kitchen. She was wearing a University of Notre Dame sweatshirt, her dark hair in a ponytail. Sadie went straight to the stuffing that Violet was making and pinched a taste. “Yum.”
Isabelle poured heavy cream into a bowl and turned on the mixer. “And where have you been all day? You could have been helping, as well.”
Sadie’s green eyes matched Isabelle’s spark and brilliance. Isabelle always had a hard time staying mad at Sadie.
“I was with a client,” she replied haughtily.
“What, how? You only just started law school,” Isabelle countered.
Sadie tilted her chin defiantly. “I have an internship already. A prestigious Chicago firm. Actually, the job doesn’t start until next semester, but I’ll be working on real cases.”
Isabelle looked at her mother. “Seriously?”
“Dylan arranged it. Apparently, he has a lot of connections. He’s so proud of Sadie getting into Notre Dame,” Connie gushed. She put her arm around Sadie’s shoulders and scrunched her to her chest. “We all are.”
“This is great news!” Isabelle was thrilled for her younger sister. There was no question. Sadie was smart and quick and honest. She would do well as a lawyer. She threw her arms around Sadie and gave her long hug. “They must have you on a very fast track.”
“I put me on a fast track. That’s why I asked Dylan to help. If all goes well, I can test out of more classes and finish up law school sooner than the three years I’d planned.”
Then Sadie leaned over and whispered, “I’ll save Mom a bundle. Then I’ll pay her back for everything.” She winked.
“Sadie, you are the best,” Isabelle said. Though her mother’s job paid well and Connie had garnered a stellar reputation throughout the Midwest for her design and structures, paying tuition for her children had strained her bank account. Her brothers had already paid Connie back, and Isabelle had never borrowed from her, even when she’d taken art courses at universities across the region. Still, Isabelle was in awe of her mother’s generosity, the way she always just “made it work.”
And as much as Isabelle admonished her siblings for not helping with chores, she wanted the best for them. She wanted them to succeed. Though she sometimes wished her childhood had been different, she also believed she was doing what her father would have wanted her to do for her younger brothers and sisters. And once they were all fully fledged, which wouldn’t be long now, she could finally focus on herself.
“So,” Violet said, scooping the stuffing into a pretty aqua serving dish. “Is Scott coming to dinner?”
Isabelle looked at her watch. “Yes, he said he’d bring ice. Nearly an hour ago...”
“Uh, oh,” Sadie teased. “You better watch it, Isabelle. Maybe he got a better offer.” She laughed and stole a Christmas cookie out of the white bakery box.
Isabelle sucked in a breath. Scott with another woman? Impossible. Wasn’t it? “No, he was at the shooting range with Trent and Luke.”
“Wow.” Violet was now placing parsley sprigs around the turkey.
“‘Wow’ what?”
“Trent Davis? He’s the talk of the academy right now. Before break, half the people in my class asked me to get a selfie with him. He’s a legend,” Violet said, respect and awe thrumming through her voice. “Hey, maybe Scott could introduce me. I’d love to talk to him. Pick his brain. Absorb.”
“I’ll ask Scott, if you want me to,” Isabelle offered.
“Absolutely!” Violet’s eyes filled with anticipation.
The sound of tires crunching against cold gravel and the slam of a car door signaled Scott’s arrival.
“That’s him!” Violet squealed and raced past Isabelle. “I’ll ask him myself.”
“Sure,” Isabelle said as the timer went off in the second oven. “The dinner rolls.”
Connie handed her a pair of oven mitts and then breezed past her. “Scott! How lovely to see you. And you brought the ice.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle saw her mother give Scott a big hug.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hawks.” Scott handed her a gold foil-wrapped box.
Isabelle suspected they were chocolate turtles made by the confectioner who had just opened in town. They were the best Isabelle had ever tasted.
She took the rolls out of the oven and placed them on top of the stove. She waved at Scott as she took off the mitts.
Sadie shouted, “Isabelle! The whipped cream! You forgot. It’s probably butter by now.”
Isabelle reached over to the mixer and turned it off, took off the towel and inspected the firm peaks. “It’s fine. I’ll add the sugar.”
“Give it extra for me,” Sadie said, taking two casseroles to the table.
“Oh, Sadie.”
“Hey, Scott!” Dylan, Christopher and Ross got up from the game to greet him.
Isabelle moved the ham to the pineapple-shaped wood carving board. Dylan was less than a year younger than Isabelle, and when she was very young she’d liked telling kids at school they were twins. Now, Dylan was as immersed in his career as she was in her art. He never talked about his cases until they were over, but she knew his stance against the drug dealers that had infiltrated his district consumed him. He was passionate about delivering justice and keeping schools and streets safe.
Though Chris didn’t live far from town, it was amazing how little he got out to the country to see his mother. He spent even less time in Indian Lake. Honestly, if it weren’t for holidays and special occasions, Isabelle didn’t think she would see him at all.
Ross was the most private of the bunch, even though he lived here. Everything about him was top secret. He didn’t talk about work, and none of them knew if he had a girlfriend—or any friends, for that matter. Ross was observant, quiet and pensive. Isabelle often worried about him, though he assured her he was fine.
She went up to Scott and took the two bags of ice from him. “I was hoping you’d be here sooner,” she said pointedly.
“I’m sorry. Trent had...well, I couldn’t get away earlier.”
“That’s so cool!” Violet said. “You were with Trent Davis. What’s he like?”
Isabelle took the ice to the kitchen. She filled the water glasses and put them on the table. Of all the days for Scott to be late, he had to pick this one.
Today was important to her. She’d been bursting with good news, and had wanted to tell Scott first. Not even her mother knew. She had planned to tell the whole family at dinner, but now that plan was flushed.
She was irritated with him, but also frustrated with everything about this holiday. She didn’t know why today’s party should bother her more than any other. She was always the one to put all the final pieces together at family gatherings. She surveyed the food waiting for her to put out on the table.
While everyone greeted Scott, teasing and joking about his lack of skills with a gun, Isabelle continued getting the dinner ready. She placed the turkey at one end of the table for Ross to carve, while the ham went to her mother’s place at the other end. Connie would say the blessing and serve the ham.
With the rolls, vegetables and stuffing steaming hot and two bottles of wine on the table, Isabelle called everyone to supper.
Isabelle sat opposite Scott. They bowed their heads, said a prayer, toasted Christmas and began the meal.
Everyone in the family asked Scott questions about his article and the drug bust, and Violet peppered him with questions about Trent until Scott told her he was buying Cate Sullivan an engagement ring. Isabelle stayed silent as Scott stole glances at her.
“I want to talk to you after dinner,” she said, when Violet was distracted by passing the stuffing to Dylan. “Alone.”
“Sure,” he replied and took a deep slug of wine.
* * *
SCOTT CARRIED TWO heavy wool serapes and followed Isabelle out to the patio where Ross had started a fire in the brass fire pit earlier. Isabelle had made hot buttered rum for everyone, another of their Christmas traditions.
Scott remembered last year when the whole family sat around the fire beneath falling snow, sharing stories. Laughing. Living.
He glanced inside. Everyone had pitched in to handle the cleanup. “I’m surprised we got out of doing the dishes,” he said. “As I remember, you and I are usually the last ones out here.”
“I told them I wanted to talk to you privately.”
“Oh,” he said, placing the red-and-white serape around Isabelle’s shoulders. She lifted her thick, caramel hair for him. Then settled back into the chair.
With the firelight dancing across her face and her green eyes glimmering like bits of emerald, she looked like one of the water sprites she painted. “You’re beautiful tonight,” he told her.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s probably because I’m so excited.”
“Excited?” He took a sip of his drink. “I thought you were mad at me.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because of that clipped text you sent me. And then you didn’t even hug me when I came in. Frankly, I was a bit put off myself.”
“To be fair, you were late. And when you got here you were mobbed by my family and I was busy putting the meal together. My mother gave you a hug,” she added petulantly.
“Not the same thing.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” He glanced at her, then at the fire. Then back at her. He felt his insides untwist just looking at her.
She smiled at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually been mad at you,” she countered. “Anyway. I’m not now.”
“Good.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was wrong about the firelight. It was her own incandescence. She was glowing. “Tell me why you’re so excited.”
“I’ve had some good news. Fantastic news. I was hoping you’d be here earlier so I could tell you. I wanted you to be the first to know. I haven’t said a word to my family.”
Scott moved forward. She’d never acted like this before. She almost always discussed important stuff with her mother and sisters first. He wasn’t quite sure how he should take this. He held his breath. “Go on.”
“You, of all people, know how many queries I’ve sent to gallery owners, buyers and collectors, hoping I’d get my break.”
“I do.” In fact, Scott had spent countless hours working his journalism contacts to help Isabelle get placed. Each time a rejection came, he felt her pain.
He’d spent many a summer’s night sitting on a towel at Cove Beach with his arm around her shoulders while she sobbed. He’d been with her fireside at the Lodges as she cried into a glass of wine. One year, he’d brought her to the annual Halloween hay ride thinking to cheer her, but all she’d done was lay her head on his shoulder and talk about “what ifs.” Several Christmases and Valentine’s Days had been ruined by the arrival of another rejection.
He didn’t know what kept her going. How she found the strength and courage to pit herself against the brick wall that the art world threw up. Time after time they all told her the same thing: her work was commercial, but not exceptional. Her attempts at Impressionism lacked the “je ne sais quoi,” that special something that would make curators or art dealers give her a chance.
“Well, I finally got some interest,” she said now. “A gallery in Chicago. He said he loved my work.”
And that’s what Isabelle wanted. Recognition. She craved it. She was obsessed with it.
Now she had it.
He leaned over and took her hand. “I’m really happy for you, Isabelle. Truly.” He kissed her palm.
Her smile was bursting with energy, and he leaned closer, so their lips almost brushed. All she had to do was tilt her head slightly, and they’d be kissing.
Instead, she took a deep breath and kept talking. “It’s happening, Scott. My dream. I’m going to get my dream,” she whispered so low he barely heard her, but he saw the tears slip down her cheeks. “I’ve waited so long.”
“And worked very hard for this. You deserve it all. Now give me the details. Who is the owner? What are his credentials? Have you looked him up on the internet? Is this one of the galleries you approached?”
“Okay, Mr. Reporter. One question at a time. Yes, I did approach him. Malcolm Whitestone, that’s the owner. Whitestone Gallery is in Evanston.”
Scott was thoughtful for a moment. “I’ve heard of him, haven’t I?”
“Possibly. Maybe when we were making lists of potential galleries a couple years ago. Anyway, he wants me to branch out. You know I’ve always thought my impressionistic water sprites were fine for the tourists here, but I can do better.”
“I’ve always liked them,” he mused, tracing the rim of his glass. “Some are so fantastical I want them to be real.”
“That’s sweet, but the critics want depth and bold ideas.”
He studied her. She still amazed him. She kept digging inside herself for something that he didn’t know if he would ever understand. She was never satisfied. She always kept reaching.
“So what’s the next step?”
“He wants me to pick out more pieces and send them to him. This was just an initial introduction.”
“So you don’t have a show lined up,” he said, a bit surprised she was this excited when it could all fall apart in a subsequent email.
Her jaw tightened and her face turned to stone. “It’s a chance, Scott. Can’t you see that?”
“I do see—”
“This is just like you. Always negative.”
“Isabelle—”
Her voice rose as she continued. “I shouldn’t have told you. I should have waited until I had everything wrapped up. A contract signed and in hand before I said anything. You’ve always doubted my art.”
“That is not true!” His tone was harsher than he’d intended, but Isabelle’s words were like a punch to the gut. “I’ve always supported you. I adore your mermaids and nymphs. Wasn’t I the one who said we should go to Paris and see the impressionist and art nouveau paintings that inspired them?”
“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You think I’m only capable of my water sprites.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with them,” he said. “They’ve brought you a second income, a loyal following and admiration from practically everyone who meets you. And I love them. Why isn’t that enough?”
She shot to her feet. “Because it’s not, Scott. It’s just not.”
Isabelle stormed into the house and slammed the door. He watched through the glass walls as she marched through the kitchen past the den and disappeared down the hall to the wing of bedrooms.
He looked down at his drink. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Scott.”
Going after her would get him nowhere. He was floored. He’d always been there for her. He’d truly believed he was supporting her. But clearly Isabelle didn’t agree.
He’d wanted to kiss her and she pulled away. Her rejection cut deep, and he wasn’t sure how he would heal from it.
It was time for him to reassess things.
He dug in his pocket for his car keys and went inside to say goodbye to Isabelle’s family.
CHAPTER THREE (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2)
THE DAY AFTER Christmas was always a good business day for Scott. Kids had Christmas money to spend on the books, games, puzzles and toys he stocked in his children’s section. Parents were always in need of the hot coffee, cocoa and extra whipped cream that he served up while they browsed his extensive classic literature and bestseller sections.
Scott’s espresso bar was not in the same league as Maddie Strong Barzonni’s Cupcakes and Cappuccino, but then he’d never intended it to be. His shop was about the books with hot beverages served on the side for convenience and to get the customers to stay longer and buy more books.
After he’d moved back to Indian Lake and his mother had recovered from her surgery, she’d insisted on loaning him the money to open up his shop. Scott had hired Luke Bosworth, the best carpenter in town, to renovate the historic but demolition-ready building he’d bought for a song. Between having a mortgage and investing in his coffee equipment and inventory, Scott now felt tied to the shop, to Indian Lake.
Throughout his days at Northwestern and then at the Chicago Tribune, he’d dreamed of traveling the world in search of news stories. He’d wanted to meet intriguing people. Heads of state. Visionaries who molded the future. Scientists searching for cures to the most deadly diseases.
His life was different now. Those dreams had morphed into a quieter and yet still fulfilling life, which he now lived...for the most part. A great deal of his new visions for the future had Isabelle at the core.
“Scott!” A familiar voice boomed as the bell over the front door tingled.
Whisking away the cobwebs of his long-ago dreams, Scott smiled at Trent and Cate. He held out his hand to shake theirs. “Great to see you. How was your Christmas?”
“Super,” Trent said with a wink.
“Magical,” Cate added, putting an arm around Trent’s waist. “We’ve been shopping today. Next door, actually,” she said with a brilliant smile.
“Go on,” Trent said. “Show him.”
Cate extended her left hand. “You’re the first to see it.” Cate blushed.
Scott gazed at the pretty solitaire diamond. Then he peered more closely. “What is that? It’s not exactly round.”
“It’s an antique ring,” Trent said. “We bought it at the antique dealer.”
“Mrs. Beabots told us about him,” Cate said. “It’s a rose cut. Doesn’t it look just like a flower? The dealer said it dates back to 1898.”
Scott lifted his eyes. “The art nouveau period. My favorite.”
“I 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 it’s my mom and me.”
“Fantastic. I’ve never seen better,” Scott said. “This is pick number two.”
They perused another dozen photos before Scott stopped her. “I like this one. It’s so...so real.” A boy sat in a sailboat, gazing up at the moon as a faerie sprinkled stardust on him. It was fantasy, yes, but there was something so genuine in the boy’s expression.
“You don’t think it’s too, well, childish?”
“Absolutely not. And it’s a departure. There’s such longing in his face. He’s so unhappy.”
Isabelle considered the boy. “He’s you.”
“What?”
“I painted him two years ago. He reminds me of you. Looking to the stars for something, but he doesn’t know what. At least not yet.”
Scott stared at her. She’d done it again. Stopped his heart. Mesmerized him. He took her hands. “I’m sorry we argue so much, Isabelle. I don’t want us to be like that.”
“Neither do I. It’s my fault. I’m too ambitious for my own good.” She squeezed his hands. “But I can’t help it, Scott. I have so much I want to do with my life.”
“Isabelle, I don’t want to hold you back or do anything to discourage you.”
She turned off her iPad. “I hate it when we argue. I need to be able to count on you, Scott. But this is my golden opportunity. You do see that, right?”
“It’s just that I don’t want you to be hurt again...if it...if it doesn’t work out.”
She moved close and dropped her eyes to his lips. “It will work out. I can feel it. Have faith.”
Then she pressed her lips lightly to his. It was a good thing he was sitting down because he was completely under her spell.
His cell phone buzzed and played the screechy, sci-fi sound that Scott thought was funny, but which was annoying to just about anyone in listening distance. Isabelle broke the kiss and passed him his phone. “You better answer this,” she said. “It’s Trent.”
“I can talk to him later,” Scott replied.
“No. I have to go anyway.” She rose quickly as his phone rang again.
The doorbell tinkled. “Are you still open, Scott?” a woman’s voice called.
“Sure am.” He turned around. “Hi, Mrs. Knowland. How are you? You remember Isabelle?”
“Of course. Isabelle, how are you? And your mother? Did you have a nice Christmas?”
“My mother is fine and it was the best Christmas ever,” Isabelle gushed.
Helen Knowland looked between them, a knowing smirk on her face.
Scott turned, wiped off Isabelle’s lip gloss and rose. He held out his hand. “I’ll call you later, Isabelle,” he said.
“Great,” Isabelle said and kissed his cheek. “Bye.”
Isabelle gave Helen a little wave as she left.
“Lovely girl,” Helen said, watching Isabelle’s back for an inordinately long moment, no doubt formulating a new round of gossip, Scott thought. Finally, she looked down at Scott’s lighted glass case. “Are those the South African coffee beans that Mr. Knowland bought me for Christmas? If so, I’ll take those last three bags.”
“Great.” His phone rang again, and he smiled apologetically at Helen as he answered while ringing her through. “Trent. What’s up?”
Scott handed the coffee to Helen, swiped her credit card and handed her the receipt and a pen while he listened to Trent telling him about a bust that had just gone down.
Helen took her coffee and left.
“I’m closing the shop right now,” Scott said. “Be there in ten.”
CHAPTER FOUR (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2)
SNUGGLED AMID TOWERING sugar maple trees, just a block off Main Street and three blocks from Maple Boulevard stood the only remaining apartment building in Indian Lake. Four stories high, built in the early 1920s with masses of heavy oak and walnut stairs, doors, coping, molding and trim, the building creaked, moaned and extolled its history and brittle bones to Isabelle’s artistic soul. Isabelle had first seen the apartment when her mother had been commissioned to build an estate-sized home for a Chicago investment banker who wanted to retire to Indian Lake. The man and his wife had rented the north-facing top floor apartment of La Bellevue on a month-by-month basis during the construction of their home. With only two apartments per floor and eight units in the building, Connie Hawks had deemed the residence safe, suitable and affordable for Isabelle.
Isabelle had no idea how many times the building had changed hands, but in the ten years she’d lived in 4A, she’d not seen a single improvement. The plumbing, electricity and heating worked fine, and the landlord’s hired maintenance company claimed they weren’t responsible for anything else.
On the flip side, Isabelle had been free, if not encouraged, to paint and decorate in any way she pleased—at her own cost, of course.
Isabelle unlocked the heavy iron dead bolt with her antique key. There were no chains on her door, no keypads forcing her to remember codes. The walnut door was ten feet tall and weighed a ton. A weightlifter would have a hard time breaking it down, she thought, as she placed her keys on the half-moon entry table in her miniscule foyer. Because all the apartments had twelve-foot-high ceilings, the climb to the fourth floor was a workout. Intruders would have to be in excellent shape to want to break into La Bellevue—at least her unit.
Climbing the stairs, along with sculling on Indian Lake with Sarah Jensen Bosworth, Olivia Melton, Maddie Strong Barzonni and Liz Barzonni, the two sisters-in-law who would soon be welcoming Olivia to their family, and occasionally Cate Sullivan, meant Isabelle didn’t have to worry about workouts. Besides, she didn’t have time, she rationalized. A gym rat, she was not.
She hefted her heavy bag onto the scarred antique dining room table she’d bought at an estate sale for twenty dollars. She’d intended to fix the uneven, wobbling pedestal, but never got around to it. She was always in a rush to get to her painting and put the vision in her head on canvas and make her dreams become real. Today was no exception.
The bag contained supplies for three new canvases; Isabelle preferred to stretch her own to save money. However, with the possibility of showing her work in a gallery, time was of the essence. She wondered if she could get Scott to help her.
She moved to the kitchen with her groceries: some yogurt, a bag of spring salad and a baguette. Her kitchen was barely eight feet by eight feet. She’d painted the walls in pewter, dove and pearl grays and had hand-painted angels and faeries in the corners of the cabinets as if they were peeking out at her. She hoped their inspiration would never fade.
Isabelle shoved the food into the seventies-era refrigerator, the newest feature in the entire apartment. The sink was a wide single bay porcelain monstrosity that still bore the year of its manufacture: 1919. It stood on black wrought iron legs.
Just as she hung her wool coat on the peg, next to a shelf filled with model sailboats, her phone pinged with a text.
“Scott,” she said aloud as she scrolled through his long message. The gist was that he was happy they had “made up.”
Isabelle smiled, relieved he wasn’t upset anymore. She punched out his number. He answered on the first ring. “What? No customers?”
“Not at the moment. Are you home?”
“I am. I just got here. I had to run some errands,” she replied, her eyes darting to the dining table and the empty canvas. She forced her gaze away in order to concentrate on what Scott was saying.
She walked over to the living room window and looked across the bare treetops to the snow-covered county courthouse clock tower. December days were unbearably short, and though it was only four in the afternoon, the lights on the massive Christmas tree on the courthouse lawn came on as she watched. Spotlights showcased the red sandstone courthouse walls. Up and down Main Street, crystal lights twinkled in the pear trees along the sidewalks. It was the one time of year her town resembled the magical images that flitted across her mind day and night.
“I thought you might stop off at the art supply store.” He chuckled.
“The trouble with us is that you know me too well. I have no mystery for you.”
“Sure you do,” he countered. “So. Tell me. Why are you buying more stuff right now when we just picked out what you’re going to send to Malcolm?”
“I should start something serious.”
“Tonight?”
“Well, I should...”
“Isabelle, I can tell when you’re feeling guilty that you aren’t working, and the lilt of your words when you’re inspired. You’re just nervous. Admit it.”
Isabelle’s shoulders slumped as his truth settled over her. “I am. Time passes so quickly when I’m working. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep tonight, so I thought—”
“You called me so I could tell you stories.”
“Oh, Scott. You don’t have any stories.” She laughed.
There was dead silence on the other end, and she felt the cold between them stretch from her apartment to Scott’s shop.
She backtracked. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. We just know each other so well that—”
He cut her off. “No, actually, you’re right, Isabelle. I don’t have any stories. Stories should be my life, and they aren’t. Look, I have a customer. I need to go. Good luck tomorrow.” He hung up.
Isabelle held the cell phone to her ear as the call disconnected. She hadn’t heard the bell over the door ring or any other voice on Scott’s end. He’d never faked a reason to get off the phone with her. If anything, she was the one who usually had to go first.
She had hurt his feelings.
They’d been doing that a lot lately, but she couldn’t seem to figure out why they both were so on edge.
Earlier, Scott had told her that he admired her for raising her own bar. Challenging herself. Just how deep were his regrets about his past work as a journalist? All these years, she’d thought he was happy in Indian Lake running his coffee shop, selling books and writing for the local newspaper. Most men would be thrilled to have their own business, especially a successful one.
Edgar was more than fulfilled by running the Lodges, she mused. He often remarked how busy he was, and he’d never said he wanted to do anything else with his life.
But then, Isabelle hadn’t exactly asked.
Isabelle sank into her 1940s club chair, a realization taking shape.
She’d worked for Edgar for ten years, yet she barely knew the man at all. She suddenly thought of dozens of questions she’d never asked Scott, despite their years of friendship.
Was she so immersed in her own needs and aspirations that she didn’t take the time to learn what mattered to others?
Tears filled her eyes as she stared out the window at the falling snow.
“There’s one word for you, Isabelle Hawks. Selfish.”
She was so desperate to be recognized that she put her ambitions ahead of everyone in her life. She never made time to see her siblings or her mother on a consistent basis. She was either working at the Lodges or she was at the easel. And Scott. It was amazing the guy still spoke to her. Other than meeting him at her mother’s for their Christmas dinner, she hadn’t made time for him since before Thanksgiving.
If things went well with Malcolm tomorrow and if she was lucky enough to have even a single painting hang in his gallery, she would have no one with whom to share her joy. She needed to start giving more attention to the people she claimed to love.
She picked up her cell phone and punched in Scott’s number.
“Hi. It’s me. I’m ordering a pizza. When you close up would you like to come share it with me?” she asked.
“I...” He hesitated.
“Please?”
“I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Uh, okay. You’ve got plans. I understand.”
“It’s unexpected and unplanned, if you want to know,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why?”
“You never ask me over for dinner....er, pizza.”
“I’m just nervous about Malcolm, and...”
He broke in. “Isabelle. I’m covering a story. I really have to go.”
“Oh, sorry. Sure. Later, then.”
“Later.” He hung up.
Disappointment rattled through Isabelle like an old locomotive. Seldom had Scott turned her down if she asked a favor. She needed to be with someone tonight to help quell her anxieties. Though they hadn’t spent much time together lately, she could usually count on him to find just the right words to help when she felt low and small. Scott was good at things like that.
Tonight was different, though. Yes, she wanted comfort, but she also wanted to explain that she was beginning to see herself in a new light, unflattering as it was. She wanted to make up for hurting his feelings.
But now she’d have to wait. She supposed there would be time when she got back from Chicago. Scott would want to see her then. He always did. For so long, she’d relied on his loyalty and friendship.
Chicago. Isabelle put her cell phone on the small kitchen table and rushed into her bedroom, where she flung open the walnut door to her walk-in closet. Tomorrow could be the turning point of her life. She had to dress for it.
Twice, she ran through her wardrobe. Because she was the hostess at the Lodges, she had over a dozen black sheath dresses for every season and weather condition. Tomorrow would be a conservative black sheath day. With her white wool coat with the black buttons, she would present a picture of a serious artist to Malcolm.
She held up a jersey wool dress with long black sleeves and turned 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.
CHAPTER FIVE (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2)
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 heavy clomp of heels against the wood floor outside the office made her pause. Isabelle turned toward the doorway.
Backlit against the hall lights stood a tall man dressed in scuffed cowboy boots, faded jeans and a black, paint-splattered T-shirt. His shoulders were wide and nearly filled the doorway. Though it was just below freezing outside, he wore no hat or gloves, and Isabelle wondered where he’d put his coat. His sky-blue eyes lingered on her face and he sent her an audaciously appreciative smile.
He held out two takeout coffees, gesturing toward Malcolm. Isabelle couldn’t help but notice how his biceps bulged as he raised his hand.
“I brought cappuccinos for two. I didn’t know you were expecting company.”
He never took his eyes off Isabelle, and she didn’t mind one bit.
“Wes,” Malcolm replied, propping Isabelle’s painting on the floor next to his desk. “Come meet Isabelle.”
Wes moved toward her stealthily, as if still sizing her up. He handed Malcolm his cappuccino. “No sweetener and an extra shot. Just how you like it, uncle.”
Isabelle tore her gaze from the masculine vision in cowboy boots back to the man who was about to define her future. “Uncle?”
“Yes. This is Wes Adams. My sister’s one and only. Thank God.”
“Oh, Malcolm.” Wes laughed and turned back to Isabelle. “He says things like that to keep me on my toes.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. “This is really good. Best I’ve had since Italy. Where is this from?”
“The new café down the street,” Wes said. “I told you. Cupcakes and Cappuccino Café. It’s different. I like it.”
“Maddie’s place,” Isabelle gushed. Malcolm and Wes shot her quizzical expressions. “My friend from Indian Lake owns those cafés. She started the first one over a decade ago in our town. I forgot that she’d just opened up her third here in Evanston.”
Wes’s smile got broader, if that was possible. “I’m a fan already. And they stay open till midnight, which is when I need a triple caffeine fix. The cupcakes aren’t bad, either.”
“They’re the best.” Isabelle replied feeling a flutter of defensiveness. She was as protective of her friends as she was of her family.
“I’m sure they are,” Malcolm said. “Neither of us is very into sugar. Nasty stuff. Bad for the brain.” Malcolm grimaced and shook his head. “And since Wes is my most talented protégé—” he shot his nephew a purposeful stare “—I try to keep him in check.”
“This is true. Sadly. I’d be freer in prison than under my uncle’s watch.” Wes chuckled and slapped Malcolm’s shoulder good-naturedly. “I am grateful for all he’s done for me.”
“Which is a lot.” Malcolm nodded sternly. “And I won’t apologize for my mercenary ways. I believe my investment will pay off in the long run.”
Isabelle gaped at them. For the first time, she wondered if getting involved with Whitestone Gallery was a good idea.
Wes burst into laughter. “We’re just kidding,” he said. “From the horrified look on your face, I’m guessing we should dial it down. You know how it is with family sometimes.”
“Oh.” She let out a breath. “I understand now.”
When had she become so uptight? She couldn’t even take a simple joke for what it was. Maybe if she hadn’t dreamed of this kind of interview since she was a kid, she might be more at ease. Without a mentor, without a supporter who knew the ropes of the art world, had connections with the critics and acquisitions houses, she didn’t think she would ever be able to succeed. She attempted a smile at Malcolm and Wes. She needed this.
“I should explain, Isabelle. Wes fancies himself a contemporary artist and I have recently landed him a large commissioned painting.”
“Enormous is more the word for it,” Wes interjected. “One of the old residential buildings on Lake Shore Drive is being renovated, and I’m painting three murals for their lobby.”
“Wow, congratulations,” Isabelle said. She couldn’t imagine being sought after enough to have her work hung in one of the Gold Coast historical buildings. The thought gave her goose bumps. When she smiled at Wes, she realized he was beaming at her. The moment seemed suspended, reminded her of what it felt like whenever she was painting. She wasn’t exactly on the earth, yet she hadn’t left it, either. She could feel the paintbrush in her hand, but the energy that flowed through her arm to the brush and onto the canvas came from somewhere else. She didn’t know where. But she knew instantly that Wes understood. He went to those places, too.
And he recognized the artist in her.
Isabelle thought she’d melt on the spot, which would cause a great deal of trauma to perfectionist Malcolm.
Wes finally tore his eyes from her and glanced down at the paintings. “You did these?”
She blinked. Her paintings. Yes. That’s what she was here for. To sell her paintings. To impress Malcolm. Not flirt with Wes. Not conjure romantic daydreams about an artist, no matter how perfect he seemed to be.
“Yes.” she gulped back a huge block of fear. “I did.”
Wes’s gaze snapped to Malcolm. “This is what you were talking about last night? For the art nouveau showing in the spring?”
“Precisely.” Malcolm finished off his cappuccino and put the paper cup in the wastebasket, being careful not to splash any errant drops on the floor. “Isabelle’s work intrigues me.”
“Because it’s rudimentary,” Wes quipped. “I don’t mean to insult,” he said to Isabelle. “I just know how fastidious my uncle is when he’s selecting pieces for the gallery. Trust me, if Gustav Klimt were to sail in here with the Woman in Gold, Malcolm wouldn’t be impressed.”
“Oh, stop. Of course I would.” Malcolm folded his arms over his chest. “I want something startling.”
Isabelle looked at her acrylic of the blue faeries. “And are they startling?”
Malcolm went to stand by Isabelle as they studied the painting. “It’s their expressions, their demeanor. Their apparel is luscious. I’m fascinated by your use of figurative, abstract and decorative combinations. There’s an overlay of silver, here, is there not?”
“An underlay,” Isabelle said, not taking her eyes from the faerie’s face. “Then an overlay. You’re right.”
“Gives it depth. I like that. I’m interested to see what you can do with oils,” Malcolm said, twisting his face to her.
“Oils?”
“You have worked with them?”
“Yes. Of course, but...” She wrung her hands. “They’re intimidating.”
“Ah,” Wes interjected. “That’s because they demand the utmost from your talent and vision.”
“They do.” She smiled at him. When his eyes, filled with admiration, met hers, she felt validated in a way she’d never experienced before. These men were professionals with exacting tastes. They saw potential in her. Isabelle could not have been more honored.
“Would you be willing to explore your vision in oils rather than only watercolor and acrylic, Isabelle?” Malcolm asked.
“I 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.
CHAPTER SIX (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2)
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, surprising her.
“You look amazing,” he said as she turned toward him, his hands still on her waist.
She shrugged, sending ripples through her iridescent silver crepe de chine gown. “I thought I’d blend in. Match the décor.”
Scott’s lips quirked into a rascally grin. “You couldn’t blend in any more than fireworks in a midnight sky.” He pulled her closer. They were nose to nose. “You’re a knockout.”
“I could say the same about you,” she said, glancing down at his blindingly white tuxedo shirt, black silk bow tie. He wore his immaculately cut tuxedo every New Year’s Eve.
Scott in a tuxedo was nothing short of a woman’s dream. His wide shoulders were enhanced by the jacket, though she noticed that this year, his biceps seemed to be straining against the sleeves. But all that was eclipsed by his ease and manner when he wore his tux.
That first New Year’s Eve when Scott had moved back to Indian Lake, she’d commented on the fact that he owned a tux. He told her then he’d bought it his first year at the Tribune and had intended to wear it when he won prizes for his journalism.
She lingered on the gold flecks that sparkled in his eyes. Did he think about those days anymore?
“I aim to please,” he said, holding her gaze.
Isabelle didn’t know what was happening, but she could swear Scott wanted to kiss her. Not one of his friendly pecks on the cheek, but a real kiss. Suddenly she felt uneasy. Why was she noticing how handsome Scott was? He was just Scott. He would dance with her at midnight and she’d finish her chores like they always did on New Year’s Eve. Wouldn’t they? She looked around nervously and gave him a wide, friendly smile.
“Scott, I have to get back to work. I was just checking the champagne glasses.”
His eyes never left her lips. He lifted his hand to her neck and touched her tenderly. “Right. The glasses.”
His thumb traced the line of her jaw. She was melting and she never melted. Everything about this night was orchestrated for romance, including a torchy love ballad being played by the Milo Orchestra in the background.
“Glasses,” she repeated, trying to recover her composure and remember her job. What had she been doing before she’d slipped into this dreamy state?
“Isabelle.”
She’d never paid much attention to his voice before, but now, when he said her name, her stomach fluttered. Why was she reacting to him as if she had a crush on him? She didn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks were flushed.
All she could feel was his hand on her waist. The sound of Scott saying her name echoed in her head.
She swallowed hard. She had to snap out of this. It was this kind of romance that lured women into domesticity.
She had to force herself to focus. “Yes, the glasses. Uh, for the midnight toast.”
He brushed his lips against her cheek. “And I’ll find you for my kiss to ring in the New Year.”
Isabelle hadn’t realized she’d shut her eyes, immersing herself in the moment with Scott.
She felt a whoosh of air, the temperature dropped and she blinked, returning to the present. Scott had left her to join Luke and Sarah at their table.
Luke had risen from his chair to slap Scott on the back. Trent Davis sat nearby, looking more like a GQ model than the Indian Lake police detective that he was. He stood to shake Scott’s hand, then Scott bent down and kissed Cate Sullivan’s cheek before going around the table to hug Sarah. The glimmering, moon-glow lighting Isabelle enhanced Scott’s good looks. Or was she seeing Scott in a new light tonight?
Isabelle had a dozen chores to finish before midnight. There were party favors, hats, noisemakers and streamers to distribute. The servers were busily placing clean champagne glasses at everyone’s place. The soloist who would sing “Auld Lang Syne” had not yet arrived. Edgar always gave the countdown, but as she wended through the dining room, making sure guests were happy, she didn’t see him anywhere.
At midnight, her duties would be over. The kitchen crew and extra bus boys she’d hired would handle the cleanup. Then she would have Scott all to herself and Isabelle planned to dance with him until the band’s contract was up at one in the morning. Admittedly, she felt terrible about the way she’d treated Scott over these past weeks—months, really. Immersed in her ongoing quest to get her work noticed, she’d lost sight of what a good friend he was. He’d always been fun to flirt with and she’d forgotten how much his smile lifted her spirits. Overlooking Scott had become a habit, and she was ashamed of it. She owed him thanks for so much.
This old year was ticking away and Isabelle wanted her regrets where Scott was concerned to die with it. In the new year, she would be more conscientious toward him. She was grateful that he’d been patient with her selfishness. She intended to scrape her egocentric attitudes off her palette. Scott deserved better from her.
The folds of her silver gown eddied around her silver, open-toed, peau de soie heels as she breezed up to his table. She greeted Sarah and Cate again with a little wave. Scott was in deep discussion with Trent.
She placed her hand on his shoulder.
He reached up to touch it, but he didn’t take his focus from Trent, who was now whispering.
“Scott?” Isabelle said.
He turned his face to her.
Why was his expression so disturbed? Lines of worry settled around his eyes. She knew that look and she didn’t like it. “Is everything okay? It’s not your mother again, is it?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “No. Mom is fine. What’s up?”
She leaned closer and smiled. “I just wanted to say that at midnight, Scott, you’re all mine.”
He kissed her palm and smiled. “Ditto.”
* * *
SCOTT WAITED UNTIL Isabelle was out of sight and earshot before he said to Trent, “Why tonight?”
“Captain Williams has given my team the nod. We want to catch Ellis in the act. Remember the ordinance plant?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“He’s set up a lab out there. We found it yesterday. I didn’t tell you because we were waiting on confirmation about an apartment where we thought he was living. I just got the word.”
“Should I wait till the morning? I don’t want to get in the way,” Scott said, though he was already bursting with anticipation of another on-the-scenes story.
“I trust you to hang back until I give you the signal. You can stay in your car, take video and photos. And stay low. Then you come in. And trust me, the chief knows you’re involved.”
Scott nodded. He knew it was his job to be objective when covering a story. At the same time, he admired men and women in uniform who made sacrifices, risked their lives to protect others. They made the world a better place to live. And what had Scott done? He’d reported it. Written a few sentences about some brave men who should have been commemorated in bronze.
Suddenly, he felt ashamed and sharply disappointed in his life lately.
Only he could make the kind of changes he needed to put himself back together and find that feeling of worthiness again.
Scott remembered the prickles of commitment and even flames of ambition spur him when he’d written the article about the bust. He’d lost track of time. He’d investigated, interviewed and researched for every snippet of fact.
“So are you game?” Trent asked.
“I am,” Scott said. He wanted to help. To make a difference in the frightening rise of drug dealing in his town. “So, when is this going down?” Scott asked.
“Right after midnight.”
“Okay.” Scott rubbed his chin thinking of beautiful Isabelle and the fact that they’d both caught the magic of New Year’s. “Isabelle’s not going to like this. And what about you and Cate?”
“Luke and Sarah will take Cate home. Danny’s staying over at their house tonight. Danny’s always up for a sleepover with Timmy and Annie. I don’t know if it’s their golden retriever or playing in the tent in Timmy’s room that he likes most.”
Scott chuckled. “It couldn’t be that cute little red-haired Annie, could it? I mean, I know Danny is only six...”
“Just turned seven.”
Scott spread his hands. “Well then, there you are!”
Their smiles faded as their thoughts went back to the seriousness of their decision.
“I promised Isabelle I’d dance with her at midnight.”
“Sorry,” Trent replied, looking over at Cate, who was pointing to the dance floor. “I’m being summoned. It’s up to you if you want to come, Scott. But I’m leaving at twelve.” Trent rose from his chair and started to walk away. “I forgot to tell you...this is top secret. You can’t tell Isabelle about any of this.”
Scott sighed.
Trent slapped his shoulder. “Tough changing the world, isn’t it?”
“Seriously,” Scott replied as he watched Edgar walk toward the stage with a microphone in his hand. It was nearing midnight. The witching hour. The New Year.
Isabelle walked toward him through the groups of couples making their way to the dance floor for the final countdown. Her face was filled with expectation and more happiness than he’d seen in her green eyes in a long time. Her smile was enough to kill most grown men.
He held out his hand. “Wanna dance, beautiful?”
“I do,” she said, taking his hand and then yanking him toward the floor. The orchestra was just finishing up a romantic ballad. Edgar was thanking everyone, rattling off the Lodges’ reopening dates.
Scott inhaled the scent of lavender and rose that Isabelle wore, and rested his cheek against her soft one. She felt perfect in his arms. Tonight she looked like a goddess, silver and sparkling like a moonbeam off the lake.
“I have plans for us,” she whispered wistfully.
He opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. For months they’d been at odds. They’d had little that reminded them of why they were together at all. He knew she wanted to be with him tonight. Maybe share a brandy by the giant fire in the Lodges’ bar. Or her favorite, a moonlit walk in the snow by the lake. Half an hour ago, Scott would have given anything to do either of those things with Isabelle, but he’d committed to leaving with Trent. He needed this story.
“Ten!” Edgar shouted into the microphone.
“Isabelle, I can’t.”
She stared at him. “Can’t what?”
He could feel his insides ripping in half. He wanted to be with Isabelle, but a rare opportunity had presented itself. Scott was taking a chance on this assignment with Trent, but he knew if he didn’t try, he’d never know if he could live out his journalism dreams. He was hoping Isabelle would understand. He’d always supported her art; surely she’d return the kindness.
“Nine!” Edgar shouted. The crowd was now counting with him. Excitement sparked through the room.
“I have...another commitment.”
“Eight!”
“Tonight? Is it your mother?”
“Not my mom.”
“Seven!”
“Scott, it’s New Year’s Eve,” she replied, her eyes filling with confusion. Then, her eyes misted as if she was truly disappointed that he was leaving. With a shock, he thought: She loves me.
“Six!”
“I know. It can’t be helped.”
“Five!”
Isabelle stopped dancing. She dropped her arms. “What is it? Someone else?”
She loves me not.
“What?” he asked incredulously.
“Four!”
“There’s only one reason you would leave me here on New Year’s Eve in the middle of all of our friends...”
“Isabelle, there’s never been anyone but you. You know that! You have to know that,” he urged. She loves me.
“Three!”
He stared at her. She loves me not. “If there was someone else, would that even matter to you? You’ve never come close to committing to me.”
“Two!”
Isabelle’s eyes watered, but she didn’t answer him.
Scott took a step back from her. She backed up a step. Tiny movements, yet that distance between them felt as wide as the universe. This was Isabelle. His Isabelle. Or so he’d thought.
“One!”
“Happy New Year, Isabelle.”
Scott moved past her and stalked toward the door. Never had he thought his New Year’s Eve would turn out like this. As the clock struck midnight, Scott had turned onto a new path in his life. He was finished with being underappreciated and inconsequential. Isabelle only paid attention to him when it suited her and she didn’t have anything better to do. Of course she wouldn’t commit to him. He was nothing but detritus to her. No more. His anger toppled the pedestal he’d put her on.
He would regret not kissing Isabelle soundly that night, but the last chime of the New Year’s clock was Scott’s signal to make some big changes in his life.
And he was ready.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2)
SCOTT SAT IN his truck outside the two-story house, dictating notes into his iPhone. The front porch boards were rotted and looked as if they’d collapse with the weight from the next snowfall. One window had a black plastic garbage bag taped over the half-broken pane.
Trent and other cops in unmarked ILPD cars had surrounded the house and blocked off the street. There were no lights or sirens cutting through the night, though in the distance, Scott could still hear the fireworks explosions over Indian Lake.
“Probably at the Lodges,” he mumbled. Scott was glad he’d downloaded an app for shooting in very low light. He took another photo of Trent and the cops advancing on the house in a semicircle as two other cops raced around the back. They wore black parkas with ILPD emblazoned in bright yellow letters on the back.
Trent had his gun pulled and at the ready as he banged on the front door and announced, “Police!”
Scott zoomed in to record the scene. Of course there was no answer.
Trent tried the door, which was locked. He kicked the flimsy door down.
Scott heard a woman scream. He guessed it was the woman Ellis had duped into letting him stay with her. She screamed again.
Scott heard shouting from behind the house. He couldn’t take it. He got out of the truck and inched closer to the house, still recording. Two cops, one he recognized as Sal Paluzzi, were walking a scrawny man, handcuffed now, toward the front of the house.
The man was cursing and spitting at the cops, trying to wrench himself out their grasp. He kicked Sal, but Sal kept his cool. Scott kept recording.
Just then, Scott’s phone rang. The caller ID said it was Trent.
“What’s up?” Scott asked.
“It’s safe enough now. I think you should come inside.”
Scott sped toward the front door as Sal and the other cop put Ellis in a squad car. He heard Sal reading Ellis his Miranda rights.
Scott dodged the rotted steps and hopped up onto the porch, which wasn’t all that stable. He pulled back the screenless screen door and entered the dimly lit living room.
Sprawled on a dirty couch was a thin woman who looked to be about forty years old. Her light brown hair hung in clumps over her face. She wore a pair of men’s sweat pants and a sweatshirt with the lettering cracked and flaking off. Her head lolled on the arm of the couch.
“Who’s that?” Scott asked Trent.
“The landlady, apparently. And if we’re lucky, she’ll be our witness.”
Scott took another step closer, scrutinizing the woman. Her nails were cracked and stained yellow from nicotine, he guessed, glancing at the ashtray full of cigarette butts on the flowered metal TV tray at the head of the couch. The only other furniture in the room was a floor lamp in the far corner.
“Are you arresting her?” Scott asked Trent.
“Right now, we’re taking her in for questioning.”
“Questioning?” Scott frowned. The woman seemed oblivious to their presence. “Any idea what she’s on?”
“The guys found heroin and a syringe in the bathroom.”
Just then Bob Paxton, a member of Trent’s team who had also been a Green Beret like Trent, came in from the hallway. “Detective? I think you need to see this.”

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