Family Of His Own

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.”