Chapter 24 Hope
hope
I have to say, ever since I’d seen the photo of Joe, I’d been pretty sure how Gran’s saga would unfold.
I knew unwed motherhood was a shocking scandal back in the day, but Gran had always struck me as more progressive—progressive enough that I was surprised she felt it was such a dark source of shame.
All the same, this new piece of information went a long way toward explaining the differences between Uncle Eddie and my mother.
For one thing, there was their appearance; Mom had been fair-headed, while Uncle Eddie was dark-haired like my granddad.
And then there was their temperament. Mom had been almost frighteningly single-minded, no-nonsense, and in charge, where as Eddie .
. . well, Eddie was a caregiver, emotional and eager to please.
I patted Gran’s hand. “This is a surprise, Gran, but it’s totally understandable. I don’t think any less of you, and I don’t think Mom would have, either. And I’m sure Eddie will just feel bad for you, that you’ve felt so much shame about this all these years.”
“Oh, phooey. I’m not worried about Eddie knowing about this.”
“No?”
“No. Eddie’ll be just fine learning I’m no saint. But he’ll need your support for the rest of it.”
“There’s more?”
“Oh, child—this is just the background story.” She blew out a sigh, and her face crumpled. Her eyes radiated a depth of despair that scared me. “I was part of something awful, and I need your help to make it right.”
I tried to hide my alarm. “Gran, I’m sure there’s nothing . . .”
“You just wait, child. You just wait.” She rubbed her head.
“Are you in pain?”
“A little.” She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she frowned. “Can you get those fireflies out of here?”
“There aren’t any fireflies in here, Gran.”
“Are you sure?” She flicked a hand over her head, as if to bat them away.
“I don’t see anything, Gran.”
She flapped her hand again, then looked at me. My dismay must have shown on my face, because her brow softened. “You must think I’m losing it.”
“I think you had a hard blow to the head, and you’re tired. Let me help you to bed.”
“Everything I’ve told you, dear—I plan to tell Eddie myself. But this next part—well, he’ll be devastated about it. He needs to know the whole story, and I’m not sure what that is. I need your help to find out the truth.”
“I’ll help you in whatever way I can.”
She gave me a soft smile. “I know you will, dear. Mother said I could count on you.” Her hand dropped from her head. “The first thing I need help with is getting to bed.”
I helped her to her feet, wondering—no, hoping—that her misdeed was like the fireflies, alive only in her imagination.
· · ·
“Do you think she really has a horrible secret?” Kirsten sprinkled cocoa on top of my cappuccino the next afternoon and handed it to me across the counter.
I’d wandered down to the Daily Grind and found the place nearly empty, so I’d perched on a barstool at the counter.
Without revealing exactly what Gran had told me, I told Kirsten that my grandmother had been sharing some stories about her past and had hinted she was about to reveal an ominous skeleton in her closet.
“I don’t know. I believe what she’s told me so far.”
“Well, I don’t think you should worry.” Kirsten put the milk pitcher in the sink. “It’s probably something that was considered shocking back then that we don’t bat an eye at today.”
“That’s what I’d think, too, except she’s already told me a lot of shocking-back-then stuff.”
“Really?” Kirsten’s eyes twinkled. “Good for her!”
I laughed.
“Seriously, I can’t imagine that that sweet little old lady ever did anything all that wrong.” Kirsten rinsed the pitcher. “I mean, how bad can it be?”
“I don’t know.” I took another sip, thinking about the stricken look on Gran’s face. “Have you ever done anything you’d be afraid to die without confessing?”
Kirsten looked thoughtful for a moment, then gave a wry smile. “I’m not sure about confessing, but there are a few things I’ll probably take to the grave.”
I laughed. “Oh, yeah? Such as?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly say.” Grinning, she wiped down the cappuccino machine. “At least, not without a few mojitos in me.”
“You’re on.”
Kirsten laughed. “Okay, but I’ll only spill the juicy stuff if you talk, too. And one of the first things I want to know is, what’s going on with you and Matt?”
Just the mention of his name made my heart rate kick up. “Nothing.” I looked down at my drink. “I’ve been working on the mural early in the evening with the girls. When he comes home, I duck out as soon as possible.”
“Why?”
Because I had no intention of going through another emotional wringer just as I was beginning to get over my ex.
I was only in Wedding Tree for another six weeks or so, so there was no point in getting anything started.
Besides, there were the girls to consider.
I’d grown close to them as I painted their room—I gave them little tasks to do, and they loved helping—and it was obvious how much they yearned for a mother.
Zoey harbored the hope that Jillian and Matt would marry, but Sophie had begun lobbying for me.
Instead of explaining all that to Kirsten, though, I just lifted my shoulders. “I don’t want to be in the way.”
“That man needs someone in his way.” The bell over the door jangled. “And speak of the devil . . .”
I turned around to see Matt striding through the coffee shop door. My heart jumped like a jackrabbit. It was the first time I’d seen him since that kiss without Sophie, Zoey, or Jillian present.
Seen him in person, that is. I’d seen him plenty in my imagination. I’d played and replayed the moment, expanding and embellishing it in my mind until it felt as though we’d done a lot more than lock lips. My face felt hot.
“Hey, Matt,” Kirsten said. “Want your usual?”
Matt nodded and greeted us both.
Kirsten bent and pulled a pitcher of iced coffee out of the under-counter refrigerator. “How are the girls?”
“Great. They’re loving the way their room is coming along.” He turned his eyes on me in a way that made the heat spread down my chest. “Hope is doing a terrific job on the mural.”
“I’ve been trying to talk her into doing one here,” Kirsten said.
“Well, it’s amazing how fast she works.”
I know he meant it as a compliment, but Kurt’s sarcastic comments over the years still made the words sting. I forced a smile. “That’s because I’ve got two helpers.”
“That kind of help can only slow you down. But I appreciate the way you’re including the girls in the project. They’re loving it.”
I felt tongue-tied and awkward. “Well, I’m enjoying them. They’re adorable.” I lifted my cup in a small salute to Kirsten. “See you later. I’d better get back to Gran.”
“Hold on a moment, and I’ll give you a lift,” Matt said.
I had no choice unless I wanted to be rude. Ignoring Kirsten’s knowing smirk, I stared at the wall as he paid for his drink, then walked beside him out of the shop.
The afternoon sun was nearly blinding. “How’s the case going?” I asked.
“Slowly, but it’s moving in our favor.”
“That’s good news.”
“Yeah.” He gestured to a blue Camry at the curb. “Here’s my car.”
He opened the passenger door, and I climbed in. The leather seat heated my thighs below my shorts. I busied myself with the seat belt as he climbed in and closed the door. He started the engine, then looked at me. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I don’t know how you can say that, when I’m at your house every evening.”
“You scamper out like a scared squirrel the moment I come in.” He put the car into gear, then pulled out of the parking spot. “Is it because of that kiss?”
My face probably looked like I had a third-degree burn. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He cast me a sidelong glance. “Care to explain?”
“Not really.”
He grinned. “Explain anyway.”
I contemplated just opening the door and jumping out, but since the girls’ room was only half painted, that wouldn’t serve as a long-term solution. “I guess I’m not sure where we are after that.”
He drove two more blocks, then turned into his driveway, braked, and killed the engine. “I’ll tell you where I am.”
My mouth went dry. The air in the car suddenly seemed too thick to breathe.
“I’d like to kiss you again.”
I took a nervous sip of my cappuccino, trying to form a thought, much less a response.
“You’ve got some foam on your lip.”
I ran my tongue around my mouth. His eyes followed.
“You need some help.” He leaned over and softly kissed the top of my lip—a gentle, slightly parted-lip kiss that left me weak and hot and flustered. “Got it.” His voice was a husky rumble.
“Uh, thanks,” I mumbled like a moron. It was as if he’d sucked the brains out of my head as well as the cappuccino foam off my mouth. That simple little kiss had turned me to mush.
“Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.”
I sat there, zombified, unable to form a thought, much less a word.
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I started to nod, then I saw a curtain move in his bedroom. I looked up to see Jillian standing in the window, watching.
“No,” I said. “It—it’s a bad idea.”
“Why?”
“It just is.” I scampered out of the car and fled to the safety of my grandmother’s house before he could kiss me again.
· · ·
Later that afternoon, my phone rang as I was sorting through the dishes in Gran’s dining room buffet. I fished it out of the pocket of my jeans and answered it.
“How’s it going down in Dixie?”
It was my friend Kaitlin from New York. She and I had both been art majors in college, and I’d been a bridesmaid in her wedding.
We’d somewhat drifted apart after she married, moved to New York, and had a child—we mainly stayed in touch through social media—but she knew about my jobless dilemma, and she’d promised to keep her ear to the ground.
She had a part-time job with a prestigious art foundation and was well connected in the art world.
I briefly filled her in on what was happening with Gran—and with Matt.
“Well, girlfriend, you need to speed up the housecleaning and forget the hunky neighbor, because I’m calling with great news,” Kaitlin said. “Art Consulting Inc. is looking for a new associate, and they want to talk to you.”
“What? Where did you hear this?” Art Consulting Inc.
was a major player in the exclusive world of art advisors who helped large corporations, wealthy clients, and museums acquire investment art.
Associates dealt with extremely wealthy, well-connected clients—the kind of clients my ex-husband had tried—unsuccessfully—to pander to.
“From the director of the Chicago office. She called me to get your number.”
“How on earth did she get my name?”
“From Mrs. Harris Van Dever. Apparently you made a wonderful impression on her when she visited your and Kurt’s gallery.”
Technically, it had been “our” gallery, but since Kurt had disdained my input, I never felt any real ownership.
“By advising her not to buy the Rantlon piece?” I asked.
“Exactly.”
That move had driven Kurt insane. One of the doyennes of Chicago society and a major benefactor to several museums, Mrs. Van Dever had come to an opening at our gallery.
She’d been debating between purchasing a piece by another up-and-coming artist at another gallery and the Rantlon at ours.
When she’d specifically asked me which piece I thought would appreciate the most, I’d given her my honest opinion.
Kurt had been so angry I’d feared he’d become physically violent.
“AC’s director is Ms. McAbbee, and she’ll be calling you soon,” Kaitlin said. “Hope, this is a dream job. Great salary, benefits, bonuses, travel—everything anyone would want. And you know how rare that is in the art world.”
I did. It was like finding a Van Gogh at a garage sale.
“I immediately called my contacts,” Kaitlin continued, “and they specifically want you, because Mrs. Van Dever is such a huge client.”
I found it hard to wrap my mind around the concept. “Any idea when this job would start?”
“I think that’ll be negotiable, but, girl—you’d be crazy not to hop on this as fast as you can. I can think of a hundred people who would sell their mothers for this opportunity. It’s amaze-balls.”
“If it’s true.”
“Oh, it’s true, all right. Call me back after you hear from them.”
I hung up and stared at the wall.
It was next to impossible to find a job in the art world—especially a high-salaried job, a job with benefits and travel and security. By all rights, I should be thrilled.
So why didn’t my heart dance and sing? This was what I’d been looking for ever since my divorce—better than anything I could reasonably expect to find.
It was good to be wanted. But was I wanted by someone I wanted to be wanted by?
For reasons that made no sense, Matt’s face floated in my mind’s eye.
Whoa, I told myself. That’s a whole other kind of wanting.
My cell phone rang. It was a Chicago area code.
This was it. I stood up and smiled at the wall—I’d been told by a college job placement counselor that if you stand up to take a call, your voice will have more energy, and if you smile, the pleasantness of your expression will shine through—and answered my future.