Chapter 22
Ivy hadn’t slept. Her eyes were almost swollen shut from the tears she’d wept.
Dax had ended things between them. It was over.
She wanted to hate him. Rail at him. Punch him. But none of those would change the fact that they were done.
All because of her art.
She paced around her studio, looking at the canvases as the manifestation of betrayal. It took all her willpower to sit on the lumpy couch and not claw at the paintings, tearing them to shreds. That would be foolish, though. Months of work would be down the drain. Besides, each painting was like a child to her. A piece of her. An investment of her time. Her soul placed upon a canvas. She couldn’t destroy them.
But she could certainly give Jameson Polk a piece of her mind.
Going into the miniscule bathroom, Ivy washed her face, holding a cold cloth to her eyes, hoping to reduce the swelling. She needed to confront the gallery director before he left Lost Creek for his flight in San Antonio. Knowing he and Paloma must be leaving soon, Ivy went downstairs to her car and drove to The Inn on Lost Creek, Jean Bradley’s charming BB. She pulled in, seeing the rental Paloma had been driving yesterday, and waited in her car.
Not ten minutes later, her friend appeared, carrying her weekender on her shoulder. Polk also came into view, wearing the same suit coat from yesterday. He’d changed his shirt and sported a different tie. Ivy climbed from her car, reaching Polk just as he placed a carry-on in the trunk of the car.
“Ivy!” Paloma exclaimed. “What a surprise. I didn’t think we’d see you this morning.”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Polk. “I need to speak to you. This has nothing to do with Paloma—and everything to do between you and me.”
He turned to Paloma. “Get in the car, dear. I’ll be with you shortly.”
Paloma looked confused. “What?—”
“In the car,” Polk said again, more firmly this time.
Paloma looked to Ivy, and she nodded. Thankfully, her friend climbed behind the wheel, but it was obvious she was concerned, still looking at them over her shoulder.
“Don’t take anything out on Paloma,” Ivy warned. “She has nothing to do with this. You are the one I have a problem with.”
Polk sniffed. “I see Mr. Tennyson spoke to you. Good for him. I wasn’t certain if he had it in him or not.”
Anger seared through her. “You had no right to discuss my personal business with Dax. And I’ll have you know that he is the best man I have ever known.”
“He seems lovely, Ivy. And if you believe I overstepped, then I apologize. I merely spoke with him about your vast potential and the prospects which lay in front of you, especially if you will stop being so pigheaded and commit fully to your art.”
Keeping her voice even, she said, “I have put both heart and soul into each painting I’ve completed since I’ve moved back to Lost Creek. It’s obvious if you look at my canvases. But I’m not a factory, Mr. Polk. I can’t produce, produce, produce. Art is woven into every fiber of my being, but I will never allow it—or anything else—to consume me. I enjoy my role as the Lost Creek Winery’s tasting manager. I have a wonderful time meeting new people and introducing them to the intricacies of wine. I’ve contributed numerous ideas to our current expansion, and I plan to be a part of my family’s winery for many years to come.”
She paused, collecting her thoughts. “I am a better painter because I do other things I enjoy. See people and share experiences outside of my art. Art can drain its creator. Deplete him or her. Use up an artist until nothing is left. I need balance in my life. And love.”
Apparently, her words had no effect on him. Ivy shook her head. “You’ve ruined the most important relationship in my life, Mr. Polk. I can never forgive you for that. I no longer wish for you to represent me. I am withdrawing from the planned exhibition next year.”
His eyes gleamed at her. “We had a binding, oral contract, Ivy. In Texas, a verbal contract is enforceable.”
She stared at him. “You forget whom you are talking with, Mr. Polk. I was involved in contracts with all the artists whose works my gallery in Houston displayed. The Texas Business and Commerce Code mandates that a contract must always be placed in writing if the sale of goods includes a price greater than five hundred dollars. Since my paintings would have gone for far more than that, you don’t have a legal leg to stand upon.”
“Touché, Ivy,” he said, inclining his head in respect. “I am disappointed that you no longer wish to work with me. Perhaps after you have calmed down, a cooler head will prevail.”
Knowing she would never agree to have her work represented by this man, she demanded, “Will you blackball me?”
He looked hurt. “I would never do such a thing. In fact, more than anything, I still wish to come to an agreement with you. I see how honorable you are. Very few people are so these days.”
She shook her head. “I can’t work with someone I don’t trust. If you would go behind my back on this issue, what else might you do?”
“I see,” he said brusquely, seeming to understand that she wished to sever all ties with him.
“Please, don’t take out your anger with me on Paloma.”
He frowned. “And lose the best employee I’ve ever hired? Have no fears on that front, Ivy. Paloma’s employment is not in danger.” He hesitated. “I do hope you will reconsider working with me. My door will always be open to you.”
She shook her head, angry that he still continued to push. “No. Once trust is broken, it can never be won again.”
Polk cleared his throat. “Would you be opposed to me passing along a couple of names to you? Dealers you might place more faith in than me?”
Ivy thought this was just a way to get around them working directly together. “Have Paloma text me their names and numbers. I can’t guarantee I will contact them,” she said coolly.
He smiled grimly. “I wish you the best of luck, Ivy. I hope one day to see your paintings being shown. In Dallas and beyond.”
Polk got into the car and signaled to Paloma to drive. Before the car passed Ivy, her cell chimed. She walked back to her car, checking the screen after she climbed behind the wheel. The text was from Paloma. She must have typed it while watching Ivy and Polk and hit send as her boss got into the vehicle.
What is going on??? I thought you were happy with your arrangement with Jameson. I know there’s a story here. I can’t talk around him. I’ll call you once I’m home.
Ivy sighed. She would happily give Paloma her side of the story, knowing Jameson Polk would most likely give her friend his own, heavily edited version.
In the meantime, Ivy had not only chosen to give up an opportunity most artists never received, she was also without the man she loved.
Could her relationship with Dax be repaired?
She still loved him. She believed he still loved her.
But would he accept that she had squandered the chance to be represented by one of the most revered names in the Dallas art world? Dax would feel guilty—even blame himself—for this wasted shot at getting her foot in the door, thinking she rejected it for him alone.
No, she had considered other things besides her relationship with him. Ivy just had to make Dax understand that.
Because she wasn’t certain she could ever pick up a brush again if she didn’t have Dax’s love and support.
Ivy didn’t want to go home and be like a dark rain cloud raining on Harper and Braden’s morning. She decided to stop at The Bake House and pick up something to eat before returning to her studio.
It was barely six-thirty by the time she arrived, but two people were already in line ahead of her. The bakery had a sweet scent hanging in the air, and she inhaled deeply.
Emerson finished with a customer and smiled at Ivy, but her smile faded quickly.
“What’s wrong? You’ve been crying,” her friend said, worry filling her face.
Nodding, she said, “I need a little pick-me-up. Lots of sugar and butter. What do you suggest?”
“A dirt bomb,” Emerson told her. “It’s like a cinnamon sugar donut and a muffin had a baby. Or maybe a chocolate cinnamon babkallah. I’ve been playing around both these recipes. This is first weekend Ethel has let me put them out for sale.”
“One of each,” Ivy said. “And a coffee, too.” She wanted something to drink and knew the bakery didn’t serve hot teas.
As Emerson placed the dirt bomb in a bakery box, she paused. “You aren’t going to Java Junction for that?”
“No.” Tears welled in her eyes.
Emerson set down the box and came from behind the counter. She wrapped her arms around Ivy.
“I’m sorry. I like Dax. I like the two of you together. We stayed open late last night because of Harmony Hues, and I propped open the door after closing as I cleaned up so I could hear the music.” Emerson paused, looking directly at Ivy. “I heard the song he sang for you. Ivy, that man loves you.”
She sniffed. “We’ve… hit an impasse.”
Another customer came in and went to the cooler, pulling out a carton of milk.
“I know you’ve been trying to let Harper enjoy being in her bubble of happiness. But you should talk to her. Or go to Finley. She’s at home now. She has a photo session at two and said she was staying home this morning to grade papers and do laundry. Go talk with her, Ivy.”
Emerson went behind the counter, smiling at the new customer who’d stepped up behind Ivy. “Be right with you.” She added another bomb and two of what she’d called the babkallahs to the box, closing it and handing it to Ivy before pouring her a tall coffee and slipping a lid onto it.
“I’ll text Finley and let her know you’re on your way,” Emerson said, not giving Ivy an out, for which she was grateful.
When she tried to pay for the bakery items, her friend shook her head. “Go. We can talk later.”
Ivy left the bakery and drove home, parking in the driveway. As she got out of the car, she saw Harper and Braden halfway down the block, dressed in running clothes, turning the corner. She decided to shower first and texted Finley that she’d be over in about twenty minutes.
The shower revived her, and her eyes no longer looked so puffy. She pulled the shower cap from her head and shook out her hair, dressing quickly and running a brush through her hair before brushing her teeth. By the time she retrieved the coffee and bakery box, Harper and Braden still weren’t home, for which she was grateful.
She walked the few houses down to Finley and Emerson’s rental. Finley sat in the porch swing, pushing off with her toe. She held a red pen in her hand.
“Grading spelling tests,” she said, looking at Ivy carefully. “Want to come inside? It’s about time for me to move my sheets from the washer to the dryer.”
“Sure.”
Ivy followed Finley inside, heading to the kitchen and placing the bakery box on the café table. She got out plates and set the pastries on them, putting her coffee beside her plate and taking a seat.
Finley appeared, the pen and papers gone. She poured herself a tall glass of milk and joined Ivy at the table.
“How bad is it?” she asked. “I see Emerson prescribed a double dose of medicine.” Finley bit into the bomb.
Ivy did the same, savoring the cinnamon and sugar rush. She chewed for a moment, wondering how to explain everything.
“It has to be something with Dax,” Finley ventured. “Tell me what you can.”
Ivy explained how Paloma had brought her boss from Dallas to view Ivy’s work and how Polk had praised it to the rafters.
“He made me feel like the next It Girl in art.”
“He’s not off the mark, Ivy,” Finley said. “I’ve seen your stuff. You’re really, really good. And that’s coming from one artist to another. I wouldn’t dare put myself in your class, but as a photographer, I’ve got a good eye. I know good art—and that’s what you produce. It’s powerful. Evocative. I was raised in Lost Creek, so I have a tremendous fondness for the landscape of the Hill Country, but I believe anyone would be moved by your paintings, no matter where they call home. If this guy was so keen on you, where’s the breakdown? I can’t see Dax being jealous of you getting that kind of attention. He’s always appeared supportive to me.”
“Too supportive,” she replied, not bothering to hide her bitterness. “Polk suggested I quit the tasting room and move to Dallas. Paint full-time.”
Finley frowned. “No, he’s wrong about that. You’re too loyal to your family to do so. Besides, you’ve invested a lot of yourself in this expansion. You’ll have the best and largest tasting room for miles, plus you’ve had great ideas for the gift shop. You’re meant to run both places. And I know how your art is better because you’ve got balance in your life.”
“Exactly,” she said, nodding her head. “You get it.”
“What side did Dax come down on? Polk’s, I’m assuming.”
“Polk pretty much said Dax and everything in Lost Creek was holding me back. Keeping me from being the artist I could be. Preventing me from dedicating myself entirely to my painting. Dax bought his pitch—hook, line, and sinker.” Tears sprang to her eyes again.
Finley took her hand, squeezing it. “And he was being noble and stepping aside, so you can go be this famous, wealthy artist.”
She nodded, taking the napkin Finley handed her and pressing it against her eyes.
“Dax is wrong. Polk, too. I need balance. If I don’t have it, the art will devour me. Deplete me. And then it will suffer.”
“Did you explain that to Dax?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I was too angry by that point. I felt Dax was throwing away what we have together. Sacrificing our relationship so he wouldn’t hold me back. I was so angry, I just left.”
Finley’s gaze met hers. “Then you’re going to have to make him understand, Ivy. He’s hurting as much as you are. And he loves you. I’m sure of that. You need to really talk to him. Don’t let him shut you down or push you away. You need to fight for the two of you—and your art. I know your heart won’t be in it without Dax.”
She blew her nose with the napkin. “Thanks for getting it, Finley. Thanks for listening.”
Her friend grinned. “Thanks for bringing the pastries.” She rose and went to the pantry, returning with a large bag of potato chips. “Let’s balance the sweet with the salty.”
Ivy laughed—and for the first time since she’d walked out Dax’s door, she felt hope shining within her.