Family Of His Own

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

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

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

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.