Family Of His Own

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 (#uc49a32f3-c9e6-55e4-9433-52e6c86a7ed2)

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.