Chapter One
Boston, MA, December 2
GWYNN SADLER sat at the wide checkout counter of Gilded Editions with the latest shipment of glossy photographs: America’s iconic movie stars from the ’50s through the ’80s. Holding up the print she’d just matted, she shook her head at Paul Newman wearing a cowboy hat.
“You look way too hot in that Stetson,” she admitted aloud in the empty art gallery.
Paul Newman could probably make a sweatsuit look dreamy, but Gwynn drew the line when it came to an American western hallmark like the cowboy hat. Except, this time, the way Newman’s pale blue eyes popped beneath the wide brim made the concept of that hat halfway … appealing.
A memory tickled at the fringes of her mind, but she squelched it before faces and tender feelings could manifest. She slid the matted print into a clear plastic sheath, folded over the opening, then taped it shut and put Newman face-down atop the growing pile of other prints slated for the sales floor.
“Is this another hint, Lord?” She glanced at her almost-but-not-quite finished canvas painting sitting on the easel nearby. It beckoned her with a mix of revulsion and infatuation. “First You inspire me to paint a western landscape, and now I’m intrigued by a Stetson. Well, whatever You’re trying to tell me, I’m not interested.”
As Dean Martin crooned the lyrics to “White Christmas” over the gallery’s speakers, Gwynn took the next print—a much safer one featuring Marilyn Monroe—and adhered it with mounting strips to a fresh mat board. She glanced at the oversize “Tree of Life” clock on the wall to her left, its branched hands showing two hours until closing. Could this day go any slower?
After slipping the Monroe print into a plastic sheath, Gwynn stacked it atop Newman, reached for another print … and peeked again at her canvas painting. Her fingers itched for her paintbrush as much as her heart loathed the setting she painted.
“Why now, God?” Gwynn asked, and then followed through with an eye roll. She really needed to stop talking out loud, even though her last customer had left Gilded Editions an hour ago. Currently, she worked alone, preparing prints for sale, dusting framed artwork, and trying to look professional and competent until her boss returned from an extended lunch break.
“You may take your break when I come back,” Irene Burns had said before the door chimed shut behind her.
Gwynn’s tummy had since growled itself to exhaustion. If necessary, the granola bar in her handbag from who-knew-how-long ago would ward off starvation.
The wind picked up outside, pelting the early December rain against the shop’s awnings above the windows. Boston locals and tourists hurried along the sidewalk, heads down, hands cinching their jackets closed at their necks. A few sipped hot drinks. Others wrestled with umbrellas. Still others spoke into their phones.
What a raw afternoon. Gwynn shivered in the spacious gallery as she matted another print. This historic brick building may be the envy of many entrepreneurs, but it bled heat like watercolor bled on paper. She’d rather be at home curled up on her sofa, snug in a wool sweater, homemade butterscotch candies on hand, the flames dancing in her fireplace as she watched cheesy Hallmark Christmas movies.
Okay, so “home” meant the apartment she shared with two suite mates, Mia Burke and Holly Monroe; their sofa listed to the right, Gwynn’s one wool sweater sported holes the size of quarters, she’d eaten her last candy three days earlier, and their fireplace? Electric. Yep, fake flames.
Gwynn hopped from her perch on the metal stool, gave a tug on the jacket of her navy blue pantsuit, and grabbed the protected prints she’d readied for sale. As she arranged them in a cloth bin near the front windows trimmed in pre-lit garland, she caught sight of her professional looking reflection and sighed.
“ You’re a fake,” she said, smoothing a wisp of bottle-blonde hair back into her French twist. “Fake prestige. Fake successes. Fake life. Your artistic talent might as well be fake too.”
Conviction nicked her heart, and she flinched. “Sorry, Lord. Thank you for the redo. I don’t mean to complain. I just thought …” She’d thought her life would look different by now.
Some would call her young at twenty-four, but the fact that she was single, had no children, and could focus solely on her career … well, didn’t that mean she should have already carved out a significant niche for herself among the other artists in the city? She had promised Uncle Russ—
“Ugh, snap out of it, Gwynn.” She whirled away from the windows and narrowly missed toppling into Irene’s three-foot Santa Claus positioned near the entrance. One hand was raised in greeting, and a wire-framed lighted reindeer stood at his side.
Gwynn scowled. Christmas, she loved. Santa, on the other hand, had fallen from her good graces years ago. The only reason he held a prominent spot in the gallery was because Irene, despite being a self-proclaimed Grinch, had learned customers relinquished their credit cards more readily this time of year if she catered to their holiday whimsies.
“Jolly fat man, my foot,” Gwynn grumbled, striding back to the checkout counter in her Jimmy Choo knockoffs. She yanked her pleather handbag from the shelf beneath, withdrew her phone, and tapped into her text thread with Holly.
Help! she typed. Pity is here to party and I didn’t give it permission!
A moment later, Holly replied, That’s twice in one week. Do we need to go shopping tomorrow to cheer you up?
Tomorrow’s Sunday. You know I don’t shop on Sundays.
Next Saturday, then. *I* could use the pick-me-up.
Gwynn shook her head. I can’t. The art show’s next weekend and Irene needs my help.
Oh, right. The prison warden has you chained all day.
Her thumbs flew over the keypad. Irene’s not THAT bad. And I enjoy selling art.
You like CREATING art.
“Hard to create when one is blocked,” Gwynn murmured as she typed the words.
Then pick a day for shopping so we can unblock you! Holly shot back.
The front door chimed as a broad-shouldered man sporting a well-trimmed white beard, red plaid jacket, and thick black boots entered. He shook out his umbrella, water droplets flying in all directions.
“Anywhere but on Irene’s murals,” Gwynn whispered, as if speaking the words could redirect the raindrops.
Gotta go , she texted. Customer.
Said customer chuckled at Irene’s Santa Claus, his own stocky frame dwarfing the three-foot mannequin. “It never gets old,” he muttered, giving one last shake of his umbrella before folding it up.
Gwynn slipped her phone into her bag and smiled at the elderly gentleman. “Hello. Welcome to Gilded Editions.”
The man nodded, gesturing with his umbrella toward the windows. “A drizzly day we’re having, nicht wahr ?” His deep voice had a Sean Connery flair (Mama Edith loved those James Bond movies), but Gwynn blinked at the foreign words.
“Neesht what-now?”
Smiling, the man waved aside her question and turned in a circle. He looked from the sizable glass-framed pictures hanging on the walls to their smaller, less expensive unframed duplicates grouped in bins around the showroom. He grunted then frowned.
Gwynn linked her hands in front of her and took a few measured steps toward him. He seemed familiar in a distant-relative kind of way. “Are you looking for anything in particular? I might be able to steer you in the right direction. Do you like landscapes or cityscapes? Classic or modern? Retro? Vintage? Animal? Mineral? Vegetable?” Gwynn cringed. Lord, make me stop.
With a throaty chuckle, the old man peered at her. “Are you the artist?”
“Of these paintings? No, sir.” Not yet. Someday. Someday this shop—and similar galleries nationwide—would sell her works.
Provided she could revive her withering creative juices.
“I thought not.” The man clasped the umbrella behind his back. “No soul in these.”
“Excuse me? Gilded Editions represents over a dozen artists in and around the Boston area. Why, my boss—”
“I’m sure they’ll make fine eyesores—excuse me, art —in someone else’s stuffy foyer. But what I need is—” His gaze shifted over her shoulder and his eyes twinkled. Yes, twinkled . She threw the Santa mannequin a suspicious glance as the man brushed past her to stand in front of her canvas painting. “This. I need this.”
Her eyebrows hiked. “But it’s not finished.”
“Isn’t it?”
The painting depicted mountains and rangeland in the background with a lone ranch house and weathered wooden fencing in the foreground. But the colors in the sky looked wrong, and she hadn’t adequately captured the house’s aura.
“No, it isn’t,” Gwynn said.
“But this has soul,” the man argued. “Character. A hint of pain. Maybe longing.”
Gwynn swallowed. Who was this guy?
He turned to her. “You may not have created those … um … pieces”—he indicated Irene’s artwork hanging on the walls—“but you are an artist, yes?”
“On my good days.”
“Then you know the emotion that goes into paintings such as this one.” He cocked his head at the canvas again. “What do you think, did the artist create this from his or her imagination, or from an actual place?” He stroked his beard. “Or a combination? Reminiscent of the Rocky Mountains, I think.”
“How do you figure that?”
“The aspen trees. The mountains’ jagged slopes. A wooden fence instead of a stone wall.” He winked. “How am I doing so far?”
Gwynn schooled her features into nonchalance. “I wouldn’t know. I see nothing but a forsaken house and rotting wood.”
The man tsked. “And you call yourself an artist.”
“I said on the good days.”
“Every day you draw breath is a good day.”
Her cheeks heated. “Yes, sir.”
The man wagged the umbrella at her painting. “You know what this is missing?”
Gwynn shook her head.
“People. Not a crowd, mind you. Just a few amiable folk. A couple embracing. Or a family on a picnic. Cowboys on horses?” The man gave a merry chuckle that sounded oddly like a ho ho ho . “That would go with the American West vibe I’m picking up. People make the world go ’round, don’t you think?”
“Sorry, but I’m not good at painting people,” Gwynn mumbled and stepped away.
“So you did paint this . I suspected.” His smile broadened. “Oh, now I must purchase it.”
“Please, sir, there’s no obligation—”
“No, no. It’s my pleasure.”
“But I told you, it’s not perfect—I mean, finished.”
“Is it dry to the touch?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then I’ll take it.” He stuck his umbrella under his arm and picked up the canvas. “I shall hang it …” He pursed his lips then shrugged. “My granddaughters-in-law will find a spot, I’m sure. My workshop’s big enough.” He handed her the canvas. “Wrap this up for me, will you, please?”