Chapter 3
Three
By the time we all take our drinks and file into the seldom-used dining room, I’ve mostly recovered my equilibrium. Toby Wheaton may have struck my heart with an unexpected arrow of intrigue, but he’s just a man. A man with a girlfriend. And I promised Pete that I’d charm Ivy into board duty, or at least try.
But somehow I end up seated next to him, with Van on my left, and Ivy across the table in front of Van, with Pete on the end between them. Beck’s in front of me, and Jack’s across from Toby. Beck immediately serves the risotto and baked fish he pulled crispy hot out of the oven, while Jack passes a basket with crusty sourdough he picked up from Stacy Robinson, a local baker. A delicate baby greens salad completes the meal.
“This is lovely,” Toby says. He’s got an accent, too, familiar to me from my trips to the London Book Fair over the years. “Who made all of these wonderful things?”
“I made everything but the bread,” Beck says proudly. “That’s Stacy’s. She has a booth at the farmer’s market if you want to check it out.”
“I want to make a toast,” Pete says, the nerves he showed earlier seemingly gone. “To spring, which after a long winter has finally come to Rosedale. And to new friends,” he says, tipping his glass first to Ivy, then Toby.
“Hear, hear,” I add, as we clink glasses around the table. I tap mine against Toby’s last, and our eyes meet again. Again, I have the urge to look away immediately. But why? I’m no retiring wallflower. Still, there’s something about him that makes me feel too conspicuous to be my usual flamboyant self.
I’m so unsettled, I’ve apparently lost my appetite, too. I pick at my meal and try to follow the threads of conversation.
“I heard you’re working on a new commission,” Jack says, and at first, I think he’s talking to me, but his eyes are on Toby.
“Finishing one up, actually,” Toby answers. “Ivy had to pry me out of my studio today. I haven’t been anywhere in a week.”
“I’d apologize, except I know how important it is to get out of the creativity cave once in a while,” Jack says. “Can you tell us about the painting?”
“It’s of the Greystone Inn. They commissioned it for their hundred-year anniversary. I think they want to hang it in the lobby.” He doesn’t sound as if he’s bragging, more like he’s surprised at the prominent placement of his work.
“You accept commissions?” I ask. I wonder what his painting style is like.
“I do,” he confirms, a little shyly. “If it’s a good fit. But I actually like painting for hire. Things like the Greystone Inn are a nice palate cleanser from my usual stuff, and they keep me in oils and brushes.”
“What’s your usual stuff?” I don’t know all that much about art, but I like to support local artists the way I like to support anything local. I have several pieces I bought on whims to decorate my apartment and my cottage, but I haven’t collected with intent.
“I do oils,” he says. “I cut my teeth on landscapes, but I love doing architectural painting. It’s always a fun challenge to see if I can capture the spirit of a place and make it recognizable to those who know it best.” He bites his pink bottom lip. “It’s not that interesting to hear about, I’m afraid.”
“To the contrary. I’m a words person, not a visual arts person,” I say, forgetting to be tongue-tied by his beauty as I respond, “and I think it would be incredible to be able to capture something real in a painting.”
“You’re a writer?” Toby says, leaning back in his chair. His shirt tightens across his chest, and I can see the outline of his nipples through the thin fabric.
I swallow against a dry tongue. “Hardly. I leave the writing to the professionals.” I point at Jack, who smiles. “No, my job is to badger the publishers to pay my writers what they deserve, then badger the writers to turn in their work. Come to think of it, I do a lot of badgering.”
“And you’re the best badgerer there is,” Jack says. He looks at Toby. “Pete and I would be renting a third-floor walk-up in the city if not for Kingston here.”
Toby looks around the nicely appointed room in their lovely Cape-style house and raises his eyebrows at me. “You must be a very good badgerer, indeed.”
“Now what you need is a badgerer of your own,” Jack says. “Have you talked to Pete about meeting with his art agent?”
Toby shakes his head briskly. “No, I wouldn’t want to bother him about that.”
“Dude, he wouldn’t mind at all making an introduction,” Jack says decisively. “And Fernanda is really terrific. A killer, but terrific.”
“Fernanda Ruiz? She’s Pete’s art agent?” Toby says, as if the name means something to him.
I’ve met the woman once or twice at events, and she is formidable. You have to have a thick skin and sharp instincts to make it in the art world, from what I understand—it may be even worse than publishing.
“You know her?” Jack asks.
“Of her. She’s kind of a legend. And I’m not ready?—”
“I’ve seen your stuff,” Jack interrupts. “It’s astonishing.”
Jack’s vehemence surprises me. He’s gotten more interested in art, I noticed, since his and Pete’s honeymoon in which they hit up every museum in western Europe and a fair number in eastern Europe as well. I know Pete’s always going to be his favorite artist, but Toby must have some talent for Jack to be in his corner.
“Thanks,” Toby says quietly. He looks at his plate. “Ivy and I came here to work, and we’ve been working. I’ve never been so productive, in fact. But I didn’t expect to get my bluff called this soon.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Every art school kid has ambitions for gallery shows and big-name buyers, fame and fortune. It’s what we’re supposed to want. I’m at the stage where I either have to shit or get off the pot, to borrow a phrase, and I thought it would be easier to… well, shit.”
Hearing the crass expression come from his handsome face and in his London accent makes me laugh. “You are something, Toby,” I say. “But I know a bit about artists with unrealized ambitions. You don’t want to have any regrets.”
Our gazes lock again, and this time I don’t look away.
“I try not to,” he murmurs, and I can’t stop my gaze from dropping to his mouth for a split second before returning to his amber eyes.
“It’s a personal policy of mine as well,” I say, forcing myself to act the part of… myself. Myself when I’m not mesmerized by a British painter with a face I know is going to appear in my dreams tonight. “No regrets.”
“To no regrets,” Jack says, lifting his glass in a second toast for our end of the table.
“No regrets,” Toby repeats, clinking our glasses together again.
I drain my wine in a long gulp. It’s easy enough to say and quite another thing to actually do.
After dinner, we move back to the kitchen, where Beck slices a raspberry tart. We switch to herbal tea and the mood shifts as Pete brings Ivy to sit on the blue leather barstool next to me. He gives me a significant look and pointedly wanders away.
“I’m sorry we haven’t gotten a chance to chat more,” she says. “Pete says your people are Jamaican?”
“Grandparents on both sides,” I confirm. “I give you one guess as to where they hailed from.”
She smiles. “My mother’s family is from Boscobel. Dad was a Londoner. I grew up between Queens and the West End. Like Toby. We’re hybrids.”
“London’s one of my favorite cities,” I say. “I’d love to spend more time there.”
“It’s incredible, but overwhelming sometimes,” she says.
“Sounds familiar,” I say lightly. “I’m in Manhattan most of the week and here on the weekends.”
“I wondered why we hadn’t run into each other before now. I would have remembered meeting you,” she says. “But then, Toby and I have been hunkered down all winter working.”
“Pete says you’re a sculptor.”
She nods. “I do bronze casting, mostly. Small pieces. It’s a hobby, really. Not like Toby. He’s been making a living at it for a while—a modest living, but still. Sky’s the limit for that one, if he could get out of his own way.”
“I’d like to see your stuff,” I say, not taking her obvious cue to move off the topic of her work.
“You’re sweet. Everyone here is sweet,” she says, looking around at the rest of the men in the room. “And handsome, and clearly besotted with their partners.” She sighs, and I wonder if I detect a bit of wistfulness in it. She glances across the kitchen to where Toby’s smiling at something Van’s telling him—the tines of his dessert fork pressed against his bottom lip as he listens.
“How long have you been together?” I ask, wincing internally the second the question comes out of my mouth. Why should I care?
“Forever,” she says, a lopsided grin on her mouth as she returns her attention to me. “Since art school,” she adds, getting more specific. “So… about a decade? Yeah, I’ll be thirty-two—yikes—this year, so ten years. I did undergrad in the States, then got into the RCA.”
“RCA?”
“Royal College of Art,” she explains. “We met the first day, but it took ages of me dropping hints before he finally asked me out. After that… it was easy.” She looks at Toby again, with a strange expression on her face. “Anyway,” she turns back to me, her voice brisk, “Toby’s dad is an artist, too—Nathan Wheaton.” She says the name like it’s supposed to mean something to me. “Toby almost didn’t go to the RCA because he thought they only let him in because of his dad, but he’s actually got that one-in-a-million spark. Anyone who sees his work can tell right away. He’s the only one who doesn’t seem to believe it.”
I’m intensely curious to see if I can see this spark in Toby’s work. My reaction to the man would seem to indicate his art would hit me the same way. I shiver and focus on his girlfriend. “Why Rosedale, after London? Or were you just looking for its opposite?”
“Probably for similar reasons why you split your time between here and Manhattan. Cities are exciting, but exhausting. We wanted a break from city life, but I thought Toby should stay near an art hub, too. Not that I can get him to meet with anybody about representing him. But I know Pete has connections, so when he invited us tonight, I made Toby come, too.”
“You know Pete wants you for the Art Center board, right?”
“Yes. I’m thinking about it.” She turns her chunky amethyst bracelet around her delicate wrist. She clearly has independent means if she can wear gems like that and do sculpture as a hobby. “Pete seems like a good person.”
“I don’t know anyone better,” I say gravely.
“I should probably do it,” she says. “Though I abhor volunteering.”
“There are perks,” I say. “You get to attend all the board meetings and fundraisers and judge the summer student art show.” Ivy’s not stupid; she knows what she’d be getting herself into.
“Goody,” she says flatly, then narrows her eyes at me. “How did you end up in Rosedale?”
“A happy accident. Took a drive, passed through town, and fell in love at first sight.”
She holds my gaze steadily. “You fall in love at first sight often?”
It takes effort not to look away. Not to look at Toby. At her boyfriend. “Once in a while,” I say mildly. “Rosedale turned out to be the happiest of accidents. It used to be my escape from the city, still is, but after Pete and Jack moved here, it became a real community. And if you let them bring you into it, you won’t regret it.”
She hums noncommittally. “You should come by our place tomorrow. I’ll show you my bronzes and you can see Toby’s work, too, if he’ll let us into the studio. Bring Pete.”
I can see the angles she’s working. She’ll entertain the board position if Pete considers using his connections for Toby. I play the buffer and everyone ends up happy. My skin itches at the idea of spending more time with this beautiful pair of artists, but I can’t refuse—I’d be a terrible friend to Pete if I did. And maybe with exposure, my oddly intense reaction to Toby Wheaton will fade away.
“I’d be delighted.”