The Art of Romance (29 page)

“Eight years. But yes, that guy.”

“I told him when he was here for the Christmas dinner that he looked like this guy.” Flannery exchanged the books and phone for the tall cloud of white frosting atop her cupcake.

Caylor’s stomach dropped to her knees. “You did
what
? When were you talking to him about these books? You didn’t tell him I wrote them, did you?”

“He pulled one off the shelf in the office. We were talking about book cover design, and he said he had some experience. I looked at the book—um…I think it was
Knight Fall
—and remarked on the resemblance between him and the cover model. Except the cover model is bulkier and the nose is different.” Flannery wiped the frosting from her lips with a napkin. “Wait, you don’t think that Dylan Bradley was the model for these, do you?”

Caylor rubbed her forehead then removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Not only do I think he’s the model, but I’m pretty sure he’s the artist. Which means he’s read all of these books. Which means that if he ever learns I wrote them, he’ll probably figure out that I was picturing the cover model—him—when I was writing them, especially the scenes that get pretty steamy, because I tend to have the heroine noticing little details of his appearance—details I got from the sketches and sample covers Patrick Callaghan did.”

She curled up in the corner of the sofa again and flung her forearm across her forehead. “Y’all…I feel horrible about it. When I wrote those books, those scenes especially, I could so clearly picture that guy in my head.”

“You never went over the edge with what you wrote though. “Zarah stacked the books in two piles of three, perfectly square and aligned.

“Not with what I wrote, no. But I shouldn’t have been writing stuff like that or allowing myself to imagine it, especially once I became fixated on him. On Dylan.”

“So what if it is him? I think it’s highly unlikely.” Flannery licked the last bit of frosting off the white cupcake. “But if it is, you two have something in common.”

Caylor sat up a little straighter and dropped her arm to her lap. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“You wrote steamy novels.…He not only drew the clench covers for steamy novels; he put himself
on
the covers of steamy novels. I know you regret having written the books—even though, in the grand scheme of where the general-market romance novel has gone in the past ten years, yours are positively tame—and so maybe he regrets having created the covers. These books came out between five and eight years ago. If Dylan is as young as I think he is, he was probably in college when he started doing these, assuming they are indeed his.”

Caylor slapped her hands over her ears. “La-la-la-la-la. I can’t hear that. I can’t think like that. I can’t think that I might have been fantasizing about someone that much younger than me.”

“He’s got to be in his late twenties—he said he was a full-time professor for more than four years—so he can’t be that much younger than you. Maybe seven or eight years.”

“That’s quite a bit.”

“He’d have been twenty or twenty-one when the first book came out. That’s not too young.” Flannery set the half-eaten cake back onto the plate and on the table. “I think there’s another component to this you aren’t admitting, even to yourself.”

Caylor reached over and swiped a glob of frosting from her mostly uneaten cupcake and stuck her finger in her mouth, enjoying the richness of the cream cheese frosting. “What’s that?”

“I think you like Dylan Bradley. I think you’re falling for him, and you’re coming up with excuses why you shouldn’t—like he’s too young, or you’re too embarrassed over the whole book thing. You’ve managed to scuttle every chance you’ve had at a relationship in the past five years, since you moved in with your grandmother. I’m not going to let you do it again.”

Caylor stared at the woman she’d known since before she could remember. She liked Dylan? Oh no. She
liked
Dylan. No. That was wrong. She couldn’t like Dylan. “He’s too young. Besides, he just came out of a bad relationship. The last thing he needs to be thinking about is getting involved with someone else.”

Zarah reached over and laid her hand lightly on Caylor’s knee. “What were you thinking about when we were looking at the wedding book?”

Caylor pressed her lips closed. No way was she admitting to it.

Flannery released a dramatic sigh. “Look, the only way you’re ever going to find out the truth is if you tell him the truth. Tell him you wrote those books. Tell him you think he looks like the guy on the cover. Ask him if it’s him—ask him if he painted them. Otherwise, you’re just going to keep torturing yourself, and us, about this until you’ve run him off. And Caylor, sweetie, I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re now officially closer to forty than you are to thirty. So, tick-tock, honey.”

Except for maybe Sassy, there wasn’t another person in the world who would get away with saying something like that to Caylor. “But I like him, even if he is quite a bit younger than me. I’m starting to get comfortable with him. I like spending time with him. What if telling him the truth ruins everything? What if he’s so embarrassed or offended that he no longer wants to have anything to do with me?”

Zarah gave her knee a slight squeeze. “You’ll never know until you ask. And if you can’t tell him the truth about yourself—the whole truth—there’s not really a lot of hope for much of a future between you anyway.”

Confront Dylan about the covers—tell him she was Melanie Mason?

She’d never been good at direct confrontations, not when she was coming from a position of weakness or vulnerability. Usually she chose to approach it in writing.

That’s what she could do. She’d send him an e-mail. Then she wouldn’t have to see his face turn from delight to dismay to disgust when she told him everything.

A
fter an impromptu lesson on Renaissance-era art and architecture that drew the attention and participation of everyone in the workshop in Rutherford Hall, Dylan picked up a brush and started painting—at the direction of the graduate student whose master’s degree depended on the outcome of all of the set and scenery pieces for this production.

At first, when he’d learned that JRU scheduled all their classes Monday through Thursday, Dylan wasn’t certain he’d like it—after all, teaching a fifty-minute class three times a week required quite different preparation than teaching an hour-and-twenty-minute class twice a week. But after three weeks, he’d decided he liked the four-day class schedule. It allowed all of the meetings that typically happened either at the crack of dawn or late in the evening to happen at a more reasonable hour on Friday, and it gave art students an extra full day to work on projects uninterrupted by classes.

“Hey, Dylan. I didn’t realize you were coming in today.” Bridget Wetzler skirted around a large set piece to get to where he knelt over the top part of the canvas, working on the sky of the outdoor backdrop.

“I saw a couple of your students at the art majors meeting this morning—I guess some of the set design majors are also considered art majors—and they asked if I’d come talk about translating the style of the era to what they’re doing. I figured as long as I’m here, I’d lend a hand where needed.” He stippled a bit more blue in the quadrant he’d been working on then rocked back on his heels and pushed up to his feet.

“It’s all looking pretty good for only being three weeks out.” The drama professor made a slow turn, looking around the busy workshop. She stopped when she faced Dylan again. “You don’t sew, too, do you? The soft props and costumes group needs a lot of help on this production.”

“No…you’re talking to the person who’ll wear his shirt unbuttoned rather than pick up a needle and thread to sew on a missing button.” He pointed to the gap in the buttons on the flannel shirt he wore over his black T-shirt.

“Well, I had to ask, right?” She tucked a strand of fire-engine red hair behind her ear and started strolling between the long rows of workbenches looking at props and set pieces. “I couldn’t get to you before you disappeared, but I saw you at my church last Sunday. I didn’t know you were going there.”

Following her, Dylan almost shuddered at the memory of the enormous church. “Two Rivers? It was the first time I’d been there.”

“What did you think?” She looked over her shoulder at him.

He clasped his hands behind his back and took a moment to compose his thoughts.

Bridget laughed. “Yeah, it’s not for everyone. We do have a great singles group.”

After his experience with the age-divided singles at Acklen Ave., he again had to suppress a shudder. “I think I need something smaller.”

“You should try Providence Chapel.” Bridget stopped to answer a student’s question before continuing on down the row.

“Where’s Providence Chapel?”

“It’s that old stone-looking building just north of campus—the one with the trees lining the driveway.”

“That’s a church?” He’d seen it every day he’d been to campus, driving past it coming and going. He imagined painting it in the spring when all the trees around it were in bloom.

“Yep. Several of the faculty attend there. It’s small, only a couple hundred people. But if the big churches aren’t doing it for you, that might be an option. I’ve heard they have a fantastic music program.”

He liked music. Actually, he’d always enjoyed music more than talking at church. There was something about those old hymns sung to the accompaniment of an organ, and maybe a piano, that made him feel like God was near, like God would actually listen to someone like him.

Bridget’s cell phone rang. “Oh, this is a call I’ve been waiting for from another program that has costumes we might be able to use. It was good to see you, Dylan.”

He checked his watch. Oops, he’d better get out of here. After answering a few more questions about a building in the background on one of the pieces, Dylan left the workshop.

Just north of campus, he pulled into the driveway of Providence Chapel—how had he never noticed the low, stone sign at the road?—and stopped just in front where he could read the notice board beside the front door. Sunday school at 9:15, service at 10:30. Good. That meant he would get out in time to still be able to meet Perty and Gramps and Pax—and Mother and Dad—for lunch afterward.

Even though Perty and Gramps never asked, Dylan always made a point of telling them all about the church he’d visited each week. He’d resented the implication—his perception of the implication—when they’d first gone over the rental agreement and told him he would have to attend church every week. Now, however, six weeks later, he not only appreciated the nudge, but a desire grew in him to find a church where he fit in, where he could once again start learning how to make pursuing God a regular part of his life.

He’d tried out the big churches since he’d been in town: Acklen Ave., Belmont, West End United Methodist, Christ Church Cathedral, First Baptist, and Two Rivers. But aside from his feeling like part of a cattle herd in a stockyard, he thought they’d all been either too casual and contemporary or too formal and traditional. He needed something in between, and he needed a place where he didn’t just meld into the background.

After snapping a couple of pictures of the building with his phone, he headed toward Trevecca. The modern-Gothic style of the church would look great in the background of the new historic piece he’d started.

He was able to find a parking space pretty close to the building when he arrived at the smaller university and took the stairs two at a time to get up to the second-floor therapy department. Someone came out of the room where he and Ken usually met, gave Dylan a tight smile, and hurried away down the hall.

The door opened again, and Ken stepped out into the hall. “Go on in and have a seat. I’m going to grab a bottle of water. Want one?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.” Dylan pulled the strap of his messenger-style bag over his head and set it down beside the low-backed armchair he always sat in.

Ken was back within seconds. “Thanks for waiting. My last session was being recorded for review by my faculty mentor, and we had technical issues with the video camera, so that’s why we ran a few minutes over.” He took a swig of water, screwed the lid on, and set the bottle on the floor beside the chair.

“No problem.” Dylan wiped his hands down his thighs. No matter that he’d done this before; it still wracked his nerves—and his sessions weren’t even being recorded.

Ken pulled a folder out of the expanding file beside him on the floor, set the folder on his lap, then picked up his legal pad from the low table between them. “Ready to get started?”

Dylan nodded. “Sure.”

Ken opened the folder and looked at a page fastened to the left side of the folder with a two-prong metal fastener. “Last time we discussed your grandparents. We talked about how you tend to react defensively to things they say to you. Did you do your assignment?”

“Write down all the times I automatically assumed that what they were saying to me was negative or belittling?” Dylan nodded. “I did. After a few days, I was able to recognize it and stop it before it could start. I realized I’d already begun to stop myself from doing that—but only after the full-blown reaction. Now it’s getting easier to stop it before I roll over into the defensive reaction.”