Take Me Home (31 page)

W
HEN HER CELL
phone’s alarm went off, Claire bolted upright. Realizing it was morning and there had been no nocturnal visitations from Frank, she flopped back down with a sigh of relief.

“Ow!” she muttered as her weight flattened the flimsy mattress of Holly’s sofa bed over the metal frame.

Last night, they had all been worried about Frank’s reaction to his public humiliation, but evidently, he had gotten the message that Holly wasn’t going to let him push her around anymore. Of course, having a police car parked outside the house all night didn’t hurt. That was the only reason Tim had been persuaded to go home to his own bed.

“Hey, sleepyhead!” Holly walked into the living room sporting a denim skirt and a blouse touched with lace at the collar. Her hair was styled in soft waves, and she wore a splash of rose lipstick.

“Holly?” Claire sat up again. “You blow-dried your hair!”

“I know,” her sister said, giving her head a flirtatious little shake. “I woke up this morning and felt like making myself look nice.”

“It didn’t exhaust you?” Claire swung her bare feet to the floor. “You should take it easy. You don’t want to use up all your strength first thing.”

“Well, I might have overdone it a bit.” Holly sank into an upholstered chair. “But I feel so much better.” She leaned forward. “I think Frank was keeping me from getting better. I mean, being scared of him and constantly worrying about doing something that would make him blow up. The worst part was I couldn’t predict what would set him off, so I couldn’t avoid it.”

“It must have been awful,” Claire said, perching on the chair arm. “Well, you’ve got guts, sis.”

“I meant what I said. If you hadn’t been there last night, if you hadn’t gotten the children away from Frank’s ugliness”—Holly’s eyes brimmed with tears—“I couldn’t have done it.”

“Hey, you’re the one who stood up to him where everyone could see and hear.”

“Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but I couldn’t hide anymore.”

“Not smart? You have the whole town protecting you and the girls now.” She sighed. “I wish I’d had the courage to confront Milo like that.”

“He didn’t hit you, did he?” Holly looked stricken.

“No, no, nothing like that. He just undermined me at every opportunity. He’d do it at parties, at work, in front of our friends. And I would pretend to laugh it off.”

“He was jealous of you.”

“Jealous? Why would he be jealous of me?”

“Because you knew so much more about art than he did.”

“Are you kidding? Milo was much more knowledgeable than I was.”

“Maybe book knowledgeable, but you could pick out what was good, even when no one else knew it. I don’t think he could.”

Claire moved over to the chair facing her sister. “Why do you say that?”

“Remember when you came to visit that weekend?”

“Oh God, yes. Milo was horrible. I was so embarrassed.”

“We went to the Gallery at Sanctuary before dinner. You wanted to see if there were any artists you could show in New York.”

“And Milo said it would be a waste of time.”

“But when we got there, he followed you around and waited to see what you said about each picture. He never gave his opinion first.”

“But that was because he didn’t want to impose his views on me. He wanted to give me the chance to develop my taste independently of his.” That’s what he’d always told her.

“No, sis. I watched him. He would wait until you said whether the picture was good or bad, and then he’d put on the right expression to go with your opinion. When you asked him what he thought, he’d sort of jumble your words around to make it sound like he knew that all along.”

“Really? But he hated the Castillos, and I thought they were great.” Claire was trying to readjust all her ideas about Milo.

“Did he turn down the Castillos first?”

“No, he wasn’t in the gallery when they came in. I bought them on the spot because I didn’t want them to go to another dealer.”

Holly sat back with a triumphant look. “That’s it. You made a decision about art without him. He couldn’t have that.”

“But all the profit he lost when he made me get rid of them!”

“Doesn’t matter. His ego was more important than money.”

Claire shook her head. She couldn’t quite wrap her mind around this new perspective. She was too used to thinking of herself as Milo’s protégée, the unworthy student sitting at the master’s feet. She scanned back through her memories of the decisions she and Milo had made at his gallery. She had always assumed he was being the generous teacher when he insisted she state her opinion first. When he endorsed it, she would glow with pleasure.

“Now that I think about it, he only turned down one artist who I liked,” Claire said. “Other than Julia Castillo, of course. I always thought he was just being nice and indulging me.”

Holly snorted. “He was taking advantage of a talent he knew he didn’t have.”

Claire’s view of herself splintered and rearranged itself in a new pattern inside her head. She was examining it from different angles when Brianna appeared in the doorway, hugging her favorite stuffed pink unicorn.

“Mama? Aunt Claire? Isn’t it time to get up?”

Claire glanced at the mantel clock and scrambled off the chair arm. “Oh goodness, yes! I’ll get breakfast going.”

“I’ll do the girls’ hair.”

“Are you sure?” Claire hesitated at the kitchen door. Untangling and braiding the children’s long hair was time-consuming.

Brianna’s face lit up as her mother smoothed her hand over the little girl’s messy bedhead before she dropped a kiss there. “I’m sure.”

Claire unlocked the gallery’s front door, dropped her handbag on the desk chair, and walked straight to the storeroom. Pulling out one of Kay Fogler’s paintings, she set it on the nearby easel and stepped back to examine it.

“The colors are clear, no muddiness. Confident brushstrokes,” she murmured to herself, “but the composition has weaknesses.”

She leaned it against the wall and put another painting in its place on the easel. Two more paintings followed in rapid succession.

“Hmm, promising, but not quite there yet,” she declared to the empty room. She slotted the paintings back into the storage rack and left the room with a confident stride.

Picking up the gallery’s phone, she dialed her boss. “Davis, about those Fogler paintings, I took another look at them, and I don’t think she’s ready for a show yet. She’s got promise, but it’s premature to put that group out in the market. It won’t be good for her reputation or ours.”

“What made you change your mind?” Davis asked.

“I didn’t change my mind. I just trusted it.”

“All righty,” Davis said, “we’ll tell Kay maybe next time.”

“Suggest that she concentrate on strengthening her composition.”

Claire hung up the phone and did a fist pump. She had known all along that Kay Fogler’s work wasn’t ready for exhibition, but she kept hearing Milo’s voice in her head, telling her she’d pick a Bob Ross over a Picasso if it weren’t signed.

“Shut up, Milo.” Her voice sounded loud in the quiet space.

It wasn’t quite up to Holly’s public performance, but it felt good.

She looked over at the best of the current Len Boggs paintings displayed in the gallery. “What the hell!” Rooting through her purse, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed her boss-to-be.

“Claire!” Henry’s deep Brooklyn-accented voice transported her back to New York and the big white-walled rooms of the Thalman Art Gallery. “Are you ready to come to work?”

Damn
. She should have known that’s what he would think, but she’d been on a different mission, so she hadn’t considered it. “Well, my sister had a breakthrough yesterday, but it’s going to be a while longer.”

“Priscilla has found a couple of possible locations she wants you to look at. Could you get away for a day? The plane flight is on the gallery, of course.”

It was the least she could do. “How about next week? I’ll coordinate it with Priscilla.”

“So if that’s not why you called, what is it?”

“There’s an artist from this area I think we should represent. His name’s Len Boggs, and he does impressionist landscapes. He’s brilliant and sells extremely well both locally and to out-of-towners.”

“Sign him up.”

“You don’t want to see any of his work first?”

“You say he’s good, and that’s all I need to know.”

Claire felt the blossom of tears in her eyes. “If you were here right now, I’d hug you.”

His big laugh boomed through the phone. “Give me a rain check for next week.”

Ending the call, she sank down on the desk chair. Suddenly, she was sobbing in great gulps as the dark, ugly doubts Milo had hammered into her melted away in the warmth of her two bosses’ trust.

The sobs subsided, and as she mopped her face with a Kleenex, she understood exactly why Holly had dressed up and styled her hair this morning. Energy surged through her, and Claire wanted to drag people in off the street so she could sell them the perfect artwork for their tastes.

She drummed her fingers on the desktop for a few minutes, then dialed Tim’s number. “Want to meet me at Healings Springs Stables for lunch? I thought we could take Willow out with us in the pasture and have a picnic.”

“How about we take Willow out to the pasture and have a picnic in her empty stall?”

The seduction in his voice made her breasts tingle and her insides turn liquid with heat. “I think we could relocate the picnic.”

“I’ll be there at twelve thirty. What do you want me to bring?”

“How about dessert?”

“I’ll bring some for you, but I already know what I’m having for dessert.”

The heat began to pool, and she crossed her legs. “I hope like hell Estelle Wilson can’t hear you.”

“Only three kittens and a parrot are within earshot.”

“Does the parrot know how to talk?”

He laughed and hung up.

Claire led Willow out of her stall, smiling at the new spring in the mare’s step. “Look at how much more energy she has now! Her coat has such a nice sheen to it.”

“You want me to give her a quick checkup?” Tim asked as Claire paraded her whisper horse in front of him.

She nodded, stroking the arch of Willow’s neck as Tim ran his hands over the horse’s frame, probing for any tenderness or swelling. She knew what those big, capable hands felt like on her own skin, and a delicious anticipation shivered through her. Willow’s eyes were heavy lidded too, and Claire leaned in to whisper in the mare’s ear. “He’s got a good touch, doesn’t he, girl?”

The horse grunted.

“Does it hurt there, Willow?” Tim asked, dancing his fingers carefully back across the same spot.

When the horse didn’t react again, Claire giggled. “I think she was agreeing with something I said to her.”

Tim bent to slide his hands down the mare’s hind leg, turning his head to look up at her. “Anything I want to know about?”

“She just had the same look on her face I’m pretty sure I get when you run your hands over me.”

He straightened abruptly. “Willow’s doing fine, and I’m feeling right hungry. Why don’t you take her out to the pasture while I grab the picnic supplies?”