Waterfront Weddings (52 page)

“Only way to eat it.” Man, he loved the banter. But he hated how it reinforced the silence that waited at his cabin. Most days it didn’t bother him, but now that Alanna had returned, the echoes seemed highlighted.

Easy conversation filled the spaces, but Jonathan could sense Alanna’s hesitation. He glanced at her, and her eyes held a slightly panicked edge as she met his gaze. He nudged her under the table, and she took a deep breath.

“Mom, I need to ask you something.”

Rachelle looked at her. “Of course.”

Stillness cloaked the room until Alanna shifted on her chair.

Rachelle placed her napkin on the table and put her hand on Alanna’s. “What’s going on, honey? You’ve always been able to talk to me. Is this about you and Jonathan?”

Alanna’s eyes widened. “I wish it were that easy.”

Jonathan sat back and crossed his arms. “Hey.”

“You know what I mean.” Alanna frowned at him and then turned to her mom. “I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning is usually the best place. As long as you aren’t pregnant, this should be simple.”

P
regnant?” Heat flashed up Alanna’s cheeks as she buried her face in her hands. Leave it to her mother to go to such a ridiculous place. “Mother!”

Jonathan snickered and coughed across the table. She glared at him, longing for nothing more than an opportunity to smack him upside the head. . .after she shook her mother. He cleared his throat and pressed his napkin against his face. “Sorry.”

“Sure you are.” She turned back to her mom. “Seriously? Pregnant?”

“Well, you are almost thirty. You wouldn’t be the first woman to give up on finding the right man. Just tell me it wasn’t that last boyfriend of yours. What was his name? Scott?”

“Spencer, Mom.” Alanna rolled her eyes. All of a sudden, bringing up the forgeries didn’t seem quite so daunting. “This isn’t about me. And I’m not pregnant.”

“Then what’s it about? Good gravy, you acted like it had something to do with a death.”

She sucked in a breath and squared her shoulders. Now or never. “Mom, those paintings you brought to the studio today. Did you paint them?”

Her mom’s gaze darted from Alanna to Jonathan and back again. “What?”

Jonathan leaned forward, but Alanna stopped him with a stare. “Don’t even. . .”

He smirked but put his hands up. “This is all you, Alanna. In fact, I’ll leave if you like.”

“No you don’t.” She pinned his foot under the table and turned back to Mom. “We have to talk about the studio.”

“So talk.” Confusion flashed across Mom’s face and colored her violet eyes. “But why would you question who painted them?”

“Because the paintings aren’t right.” Alanna’s tongue refused to cooperate further.

“I didn’t notice anything today. In fact, I like how you pulled out some of the unframed pieces. Setting them at lower price points was a good idea. Makes them more accessible.”

“The problem is”—Jonathan interrupted, and Alanna didn’t know whether to hug or slug him—“we’re not sure who painted some of them.” As her mother began to sputter, he held up his hand. “That’s a problem, because I’m sending potential clients your way, but they want to buy one of your paintings. Not one with your signature.”

As Jonathan explained, Alanna couldn’t help wondering if he’d figured it out, how many others had. The damagecontrol potential numbed her.

Mom looked between the two of them then laughed, a high, shrill noise. “You can’t be serious.” She paused then frowned. “You are. I can’t believe my own daughter and a man who’s practically a son would insinuate such things.”

“Then tell me they’re yours. That you painted each stroke and didn’t add your name at the end.” Alanna refused to back down even as a bright red flushed her mother’s face. “Tell me the canvasses you brought today weren’t painted by Trevor.”

“Of course I did.” Mom tipped her nose in the air as she studied them. “What else would I do?”

Alanna swallowed her disappointment. Her mother had just lied. Without blinking. “Then why did Trevor e-mail asking if I was ready for more of his paintings?”

“We…your father and I…have discussed for years adding some of his paintings. Maybe Trevor thought he could push you into doing it.” Mom rolled her shoulders. “I’m sure that’s all. Why would I stop painting? I’ve always loved it.”

“I don’t know. Maybe arthritis has made it difficult. Patience mentioned it’s flared up. Jonathan, too. And he has clients who want to commission one of your pieces. Trevor’s good, but he’s not you. Anyone who knows your work can tell. Jonathan figured it out. There could be others.”

Her mother turned to Jonathan, ice in her eyes. “Explain what you mean when you say the paintings aren’t mine.”

“They don’t have your passion, your vibrant use of color. The emotion is missing from them.”

“Pshaw. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“But it does when your signature element is missing.” He leaned closer to Mom. “Rachelle, Trevor doesn’t place the warbler in each painting. I had to look a long time before I identified that. Yours always have the warbler tucked in a tree near the front.”

Alanna stared at him, amused he’d found a marker she hadn’t. “They also don’t have your usual nod to the Grand Hotel.”

“My what?”

“The red geraniums.” Alanna shrugged. “And I’ve never seen a winter scene. You love color too much.”

“Maybe I decided to try something new.”

Jonathan shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Alanna watched the exchange, noting the softness in Jonathan’s expression as he engaged Mom.

“Well, it’s too bad I can’t catch the last ferry. You’ve made me feel quite unwelcome in my own home.” Rachelle pushed to her feet. “I’ll leave the cleanup for you.”

Alanna watched her mother stalk down the hallway. She groaned and covered her face with her hands.

“I’d say that went well.”

“What?” Alanna parted her fingers and stared at him as if he’d gone crazy. “That went well? My mother is furious and ready to leave. That’s a rousing success?”

“You don’t need to yell.”

“Oh, I feel like it.” She looked at the ceiling. “That’s not how it’s supposed to go, God.”

Jonathan looked around, a worried crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

“What?”

“Praying I don’t get caught in the fire when lightning flashes.”

“Har, har.” Alanna tried to keep her voice strict but failed miserably. “What will I do?”

“Pray, and knowing you like I do, come up with a brilliant plan to fix everything.”

Alanna shook her head. “I don’t think enough time’s passed. Besides, people made up their minds about us a long time ago.”

“No.” Jonathan took her hand, and shivers slipped up her arm. “You gave up on them. There’s a difference.”

Alanna lurched to her feet and pulled her hand free. “That’s your theory.”

“It’s a good one. You’d admit it if you weren’t so close to everything.”

She grabbed dishes and carried them to the sink where she turned on the water and plugged the drain. She ran her fingers through the spray, testing the temperature before she added soap. If only she could dunk this situation in warm, soapy water and fix it. Too bad life didn’t work that way.

She brushed hair out of her face then dropped the plates in the water. It sloshed onto her blouse, but she didn’t care. She ran a dishrag over a plate, rinsed it, and placed it in the drain. The silence pressed against her. Wouldn’t he say something? Or had his impression of her plummeted with the confirmation her mom and brother defrauded art collectors?

Jonathan was right. This problem could be solved. If a client came to her with a tangle like this, she’d work through it with them and reach some kind of resolution. When it involved her family, she quit? That didn’t seem right. . .at all.

She spun on her heel, flinging suds around her. One landed on Jonathan’s cheek, and he didn’t crack a smile or make a joke out of it.

“You’re right.”

“Me?” He placed a hand on his chest. “You’re admitting I’m right?”

“Don’t get all carried away. . .but we’ll fix this.”

“All right.”

“You’re going to plan an amazing event where we will unveil my brother as an artist. It’ll be a big homecoming. By the time it’s over, everyone will want one of his paintings and consider it an honor to have one of those with Mom’s John Hancock.”

“Now wait a minute. I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Sure you can.” She grinned at him. “It’s the least you can do.”

“Fine. What’s your role?”

“I’ll clear his name.”

Jonathan left shortly after her bold statement, and the next morning Alanna woke up to the sound of the door slamming. She groaned and rolled over. Her mother had stayed locked in her room the rest of the night, and Alanna didn’t have the energy to smooth things over. Mom would find her when she was ready.

At the sound of something scraping through the gravel, Alanna threw back the covers and hurried to her window. The sight startled her.

Her mother yanked her suitcase through the gravel, making tracks down the path to the road. A taxi waited at the edge to collect her. Maybe she would have to track Mom down to make things right. Especially if the woman abandoned the island before seven o’clock.

Alanna pulled on the sweatshirt she’d tossed across the chair. She slid down the hallway and hurried down the stairs. Yanking open the front door, she stopped as the cold air slapped her in the face. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and shivered. “Mom?”

Her mother’s back stiffened even more.

Fine. She’d follow the stubborn woman to the cab. The gravel poked through her socks, making her dance on tiptoes down the space between them. “Come on, Mom.”

“I have to go.” Her jaw was squared in the hard line it took when anger flooded her.

“Don’t leave like this.”

Mom huffed then turned on her heel, thrusting the suitcase between them. “Alanna, you’re doing a nice job with the studio. But do not pretend you have any idea what we’ve experienced the last few years as we kept everything going.”

“Then tell me those paintings are yours.” Alanna thrust her hands on her hips.

“I don’t need to justify anything to you.”

“If they’re yours, say so. If not, we have a problem. That’s fraud, Mom.”

“In whose opinion? Yours? You lost the right to say anything when you left and never came back.” Mom’s words rose from her whisper before she dragged the volume down.

The words punched through Alanna, stealing her breath. She tried to gather her thoughts, but they fled with the animosity flashing in her mother’s eyes.

Mom snorted. “That’s what I thought. You left and got your fancy degree that makes you think you know better than the rest of us. Well, wake up. You can think whatever you like. I’ve done nothing you can censor.” She thrust back her shoulders and flipped around. She pasted a smile on her face as she handed her suitcase to the driver. “Thank you, George.”

The cab pulled away and was soon nothing more than the steady clop of the horses’ hooves. Alanna watched until the wagon disappeared from view over a hill. She rubbed her hands over her arms, trying to dissolve the chill that settled over her with her mother’s words.

Was she wrong? Did it really matter that her brother painted the artwork rather than her mother? The angry words cycled around her mind, counter to the soft smell of lilacs carried on the breeze. She stood there, paralyzed until the soft crunch of shoes on gravel interrupted the song of the morning birds.

The musky scent alerted her to Jonathan’s presence. “Good morning.”

She nodded, unsure she could force any words past the rock sitting in her throat.

“So, Rachelle left.”

“Yep.”

“Guess she didn’t like our questions.”

Alanna chuckled. It was that or cry. “That’s Mom for you. Passive-aggressive is alive and well.”

“Don’t see anything passive about walking out like that.” Jonathan slid around until he stepped closer and their shoulders nearly touched. “I’m sorry.”

At his simple words, the lump in her throat locked into place. How long had it been since someone said such simple and direct words to her? Her emotions collided in a pool of conflict. Part of her wanted to collapse into the strength he offered. Another part resisted the thought of allowing her weakness to show.

W
hile their shoulders might barely touch, Jonathan felt the moment Alanna distanced herself from him. One moment she leaned into the comfort he offered. The next he might as well move to Antarctica for the lack of openness on her face. He sighed and stepped away.

“If you need anything, you know how to find me.” He waited a minute, giving her a chance to call him back. In the face of her continued silence, he started back to his cabin but paused to look at her again.

“Thanks.” The whispered word reached him as Alanna stared at the trees gathered across the road. Her jaw clenched a moment then released.

Jonathan ran his hands over his head as he hurried home. Alanna didn’t make anything easy. He’d volunteered to help, so rather than moon over her, he should start fleshing out the event she wanted.