Chapter 7
Lark stepped back from the display window and studied the arrangement of ceramic birds she’d spent the better part of the morning positioning.
“Too many birds.” She moved two. “Still too many.” She moved one back, then tilted her head to study the display. Nodding, she muttered, “Perfect.”
She smiled. This was what she loved. No condescending voices telling her the display was too whimsical. No one asking why she couldn’t do something practical with her life. No one suggesting that art was a hobby rather than a career.
Just her. Her store. Her rules. The sign above the front door still read Coming Soon, but she was getting close. Very close.
She walked around the front half of the narrow storefront which would be the retail space, filled with paintings, pottery, jewelry, textiles, woodwork, sculpture, and every strange, wonderful creation local artists could dream up.
After passing through the door at the back of the retail area, she took a quick look into the first space.
The back half of the commercial property she had leased was even more important.
A cooperative workspace. Artists could rent tables and workstations without having to afford an entire studio of their own.
They could share tools, ideas, materials, and—perhaps most importantly—company.
Smiling, she pushed open the last door, traversed the steps to the second floor, and walked into her sanctuary.
Her own private studio. The wall of windows that overlooked the street drew her attention immediately.
It was the reason she had rented the building from the start.
Light spilled into the space, warming her from the inside out.
The room smelled faintly of metal, clay, wood, and sawdust. Half-finished sculptures occupied every available surface. Wire figures hung from the ceiling. A welded steel bird sat beside a clay torso. Pieces of salvaged glass waited in bins for inspiration to strike.
Situated next to the staircase she had just climbed was a small kitchen area. Just enough space for one person to cook and eat meals. Across from that space was a short hallway housing her bedroom and bathroom.
It wasn’t glamorous but it was hers. That distinction mattered.
Lark had spent most of her life being told what she should want. What she should study. How she should dress. How she should behave. Even who she should date.
There were certain criteria as to what kind of woman the Meadows family expected her to become. Her family had money. The kind of money that bought influence, opened doors, and made problems disappear.
Unfortunately, it couldn’t buy Lark happiness.
Her parents had never understood her. Her siblings had learned how to fit into the Meadows mold, but Lark never had.
She’d been the odd one. The creative one.
The difficult one. The daughter who would rather spend an afternoon covered in paint than attend a charity luncheon.
In short, she was the black sheep and the ugly duckling all rolled into one being.
Bell Creek had been different for her. While her brother and sister resented leaving their Georgetown mansion for the “back woods” of Bell Creek, Lark had thrived.
She’d spent every summer here growing up, staying with Aunt Marilyn.
Those summers had been the only times she remembered feeling normal.
Marilyn had accepted her for who she was, which made Lark feel incredibly free.
No one had cared whether there was paint on her jeans. No one had asked when she was going to give up her silly art hobby and do something more worthwhile with her life.
Marilyn had simply let her be Lark.
So when she’d finally decided she couldn’t breathe in her old life anymore, she’d come back to Bell Creek. She’d leased the storefront and started planning. And promised herself she’d never let anyone dictate her life again.
When her phone rang, she froze. The screen showed the name she’d been hoping not to see.
Mother. Not “mom” or “ma”. No, Hildi Meadows would never want to be known as something so plebeian.
Publicly calling her “mom” once had resulted in Lark being told to never again use such vulgarities in the future.
She stared at the ID name, letting it ring. It stopped. Three seconds later, it rang again. Lark closed her eyes. Her mother didn’t give up. Would never give up. What Hildi Meadows wanted Hildi Meadows got.
Lark had ignored her calls for three days. That was apparently long enough. Hildi wasn’t going to let herself be ignored any longer. She’d blow up Lark’s phone until she had no choice but to answer.
Reluctantly, Lark answered. “Hi, Mother.”
“Lark.” One word… full of disapproval already. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Apparently.”
There it was. The passive-aggressive tone. Lark turned away from the window. The room seemed less bright, as though just speaking with her mother on the phone sucked all the light out of the area.
“What do you need?”
“I need you to come home.”
“No.” It was understood that if Lark desired her freedom, her family would cease all financial assistance. Therefore, the place in Georgetown was no longer her home… not like it had ever felt like a home to her.
“You haven’t even heard why.”
“I don’t need to.”
Her mother’s sigh carried across the phone. “You’ve always been difficult.”
Lark’s jaw tightened. “That has been made abundantly clear,” she replied, unable to keep the snark out of her tone.
“Stop making this more difficult than it needs to be. I just need one thing from you.”
Knowing it was a losing battle, Lark expelled a breath in a weary sigh. If she wanted this conversation to end, she’d have to hear her mother out. “What is it?”
“The Whitmore Foundation gala.”
Lark went still. “No.”
“You’ll attend.”
“I’m not going anywhere near any Whitmores.”
“You don’t have to speak to him.” By “him” she means Bradley Whitmore, her ex-fiancé. The heir to the powerful Whitmore political dynasty, a family steeped in influence and old money.
“Then why would I go?”
“Because your sister needs you.”
Lark laughed bitterly. “Wren doesn’t need me.”
“She needs her family.” Her mother paused. “She’s being attacked.”
Lark’s stomach tightened. Even though she had complicated emotions regarding her family members, those internal feelings did not diminish her desire to shield her baby sister from any potential hurt or distress.
Wren had once looked up to Lark. They’d been close despite the thirteen-year age difference.
But once Wren entered school and started to learn the right and wrong people to associate with, their relationship had been strained.
“What do you mean?”
“People online are calling her a homewrecker.” Lark closed her eyes. Of course, the internet had discovered the relationship. Or someone had decided to make sure it did. “They are also saying she has a sugar daddy and Bradley is robbing the cradle.”
“Wren is only eighteen,” Lark pointed out.
“She’s an adult.”
“Bradley is thirty-eight.”
“Age is irrelevant.”
Lark rolled her eyes having heard that since Wren had started dating Bradley after she’d broken up with him. “Twenty years isn’t irrelevant.”
“Lark.” Her mother’s voice hardened. “You will not embarrass this family.”
Lark stared at the sculpture sitting on her worktable.
A woman made of twisted copper wire. She’d left Bradley after two years together because she couldn’t accept the life her parents had planned for her.
Truthfully, she had never been happy when he was near.
Their dates had turned into business duties after only a few weeks together.
No intimacy. No fun. Just obligations and photo ops.
She’d been a tool, a pawn, for both families.
So she’d left. The relationship. The family. The playing board. To save face, they’d simply moved the pieces around. Her younger sister had become the replacement pawn.
“Why does Wren need me at the gala?”
“Because everyone knows you were engaged to Bradley.”
Lark swallowed. “We weren’t officially engaged.”
“You were expected to marry him.”
“By you and Father. I never had a choice.”
“Because it was a good match.”
“For the family.”
“For everyone.”
“No. Not everyone. It was good for the Whitmore Foundation. It was good for Father’s business interests. It was good for your political friends. It had nothing to do with what was good for me.”
Her mother’s voice sharpened. “You were given an opportunity most women would have killed for.”
“And I didn’t want it.”
“You were selfish.” Lark swallowed. She’d heard that word so many times it barely registered anymore. “Now, we need people to see that you support Wren.”
Lark laughed without humor. “You want me to attend a gala so Washington society can watch me smile beside the man you tried to force me to marry and my eighteen-year-old sister who is now with him.”
“You make everything sound so ugly.”
“Because it is.”
“You turned tail and ran, Lark.” The words landed like a slap. “You refused to do your duty.”
“My duty?”
“You knew what was expected of you.”
“I knew what you expected.”
“And because you couldn’t put your selfishness aside, Wren had to step in.”
Lark’s hand tightened around the phone. “So you forced my little sister into the relationship.”
“We didn’t force anyone.”
“Mother.”
“We encouraged her, and she agreed… enthusiastically.”
“She’s only eighteen.”
“She loves him.”
“How can she possibly know what love is? She’s eighteen.”
“Stop repeating that.”
“What? You don’t want to hear the truth?”
Her mother’s voice became cold. “You will attend the gala.”
“No.”
“You will smile.”
“No.”
“You will congratulate Wren and Bradley.”
“No.”
“You will make it clear there are no hard feelings.”
Lark stared around her little studio. Her sanctuary. The place she’d built because she couldn’t spend another day living according to someone else’s rules. “No.”
Her mother’s silence was worse than yelling. Then another voice came through the phone. “Lark?”