One Man's Art

  When Diana’s smile faded, Gennie followed the direction of her gaze and saw Caine standing among the roses. The tension returned swiftly, but had nothing to do with her. “I need to get a new angle for my sketches,” she said easily.

  Caine waited until Gennie was some distance away before he went to his wife. “You were up early,” he said while his eyes roamed over her face. “You look tired, Diana.”

  “I’m fine,” she said too quickly. “Stop worrying about me,” she told him as she turned away.

  Frustrated, Caine grabbed her arm. “Damn it, you’re tying yourself in knots over that case, and—”

  “Will you drop that!” she shouted at him. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Maybe,” Caine said evenly, too evenly. “The point is, you’ve never taken on murder one before, and the prosecution has a textbook case built up.”

  “It’s a pity you don’t have any more confidence in my capabilities.”

  “It’s not that.” Furious, he grabbed her arms and shook. “You know it’s not. That’s not what this is all about.”

  His voice grew more frustrated than angry now, while his eyes searched her face for the secrets she was keeping from him. “I thought we’d come farther than this, but you’ve shut me out. I want to know what it’s all about, Diana. I want to know what the hell is wrong with you!”

  “I’m pregnant!” she shouted at him, then pressed her hand to her mouth.

  Stunned, he released her arms and stared at her. “Pregnant?” Over the wave of shock came a wave of pleasure, so steep, so dizzying, for a moment he couldn’t move. “Diana.” When he reached for her, she backed away so that pleasure was sliced away by pain. Very deliberately, he put his hands in his pockets. “How long have you known?” She swallowed and struggled to keep her voice from shaking. “Two weeks.”

  This time he turned away to stare at the wild roses without seeing them. “Two weeks,” he repeated. “You didn’t think it necessary to tell me?”

  “I didn’t know what to do!” The words came out in a rush of nerves and feelings. “We hadn’t planned—not yet—and I thought it must be a mistake, but …” She trailed off helplessly as he kept his back to her.

  “You’ve seen a doctor?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Of course,” he repeated on a humorless laugh. “How far along are you?”

  She moistened her lips. “Nearly two months.”

  Two months, Caine thought. Two months their child had been growing and he hadn’t known. “Have you made any plans?”

  Plans? she thought wildly. What plans could she make? “I don’t know!” She threw her hands up to her face. This wasn’t like her; where was her control, her logic? “What kind of a mother would I make?” she demanded as her thoughts poured out into words. “I don’t know anything about children, I hardly had a chance to be one.”

  The pain shimmered through him, very sharp, and very real. He made himself turn to face her. “Diana, are you telling me you don’t want the baby?”

  Not want? she thought frantically. What did he mean not want? It was already real—she could almost feel it in her arms. It scared her to death. “It’s part of us,” she said jerkily. “How could I not want part of us? It’s your baby. I’m carrying your baby and I love it so much already it terrifies me.”

  “Oh, Diana.” He touched her then, gently, his hands on her face. “You’ve let two weeks go by when we could have been terrified together.”

  She let out a shuddering sigh. Caine afraid? He was never afraid. “Are you?”

  “Yeah.” He kissed a teardrop from her cheek. “Yeah, I am. A couple months before Mac was born, Justin told Alan and me how he felt about becoming a father.” Smiling, he lifted both her hands and pressed his lips to the palms. “Now I know.”

  “I’ve felt so—tied up.” Her fingers tightened on his. “I wanted to tell you, but I wasn’t sure how you’d feel. It happened so fast—we haven’t even finished the house yet, and I thought … I just wasn’t sure how you’d feel.”

  With their hands still joined, he laid them on her stomach. “I love you,” he murmured, “both.”

  “Caine.” And his name was muffled against his mouth. “I have so much to learn in only seven months.”

  “We have a lot to learn in seven months,” he corrected. “Why don’t we go upstairs.” He buried his face in her hair and drew in the scent. “Expectant mothers should lie down”—he lifted his head to grin at her—“often.”

  “With expectant fathers,” Diana agreed, laughing when he swept her into his arms. It was going to be all right, she thought. Her family was going to be just perfect.

  Gennie watched them disappear into the house. Whatever was between them, she thought with a smile, was apparently resolved.

  “What a relief.”

  Surprised, Gennie turned to see Serena and Justin behind her. Serena carried the baby in a sling that strapped across her breasts. Intrigued by it, Gennie peeped down to see Mac cradled snugly against his mother, sleeping soundly.

  “Serena hasn’t been able to get close enough to Diana to pry out what was troubling her,” Justin put in.

  “I don’t pry,” Serena retorted, then grinned. “Very much. You’re sketching the house. May I see?”

  Obligingly, Gennie handed over the sketchbook. As Serena studied, Justin took Gennie’s hand. “How are you?”

  She knew his meaning. The last time she had seen him had been at Angela’s funeral. The visit had been brief, unintrusive, and very important to her. In the relatively short time they’d known each other, Justin had become a vital part of her family. “Better,” she told him. “Really. I had to get away from the family for a while—and their quiet, continuous concern. It’s helped.” She thought of Grant and smiled. “A lot of things have helped.”

  “You’re in love with him,” Justin stated.

  “Now who’s prying?” Serena demanded.

  “I was making an observation,” he countered. “That’s entirely different. Does he make you happy?” he asked, then tugged on his wife’s hair. “That was prying,” he pointed out.

  Gennie laughed and stuck her pencil behind her ear. “Yes, he makes me happy—and he makes me unhappy. That’s all part of it, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes.” Serena leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. She spotted Grant as he came out the front door. “Gennie,” she said, laying a hand on her arm. “If he’s too slow, as some men are,” she added with a meaningful glance at Justin, “I have a coin I’ll lend you.” At Gennie’s baffled look, she chuckled. “Ask me about it sometime.”

  She hooked her arm through Justin’s and wandered away, making the suggestion that they see if anyone was using the pool. Gennie heard him murmur something that had Serena giving a low, delicious laugh.

  Family, she thought. It was wonderful to have stumbled on family this way. Her family, and Grant’s. There was a bond here that might inch him closer to her. Happy, she ran across the grass to meet him.

  He caught her when she breathlessly launched herself into his arms. “What’s all this?”

  “I love you!” she said on a laugh. “Is there anything else?”

  His arms tightened around her. “No.”

  Chapter 11

  Gennie’s life had always been full of people, a variety of people from all walks of life. But she’d never met anyone quite like the Clan MacGregor. Before the end of the weekend drew near, she felt she’d known them forever. Daniel was loud and blustering and shrewd—and so soft when it came to his family that he threatened to melt. Quite clearly they adored him enough to let him think he tugged their strings.

  Anna was as warm and calm as a summer shower. And, Gennie knew intuitively, strong enough to hold her family together in any crisis. She, with the gentlest of touches, led her husband by the nose. And he, with all his shouts and wheezes, knew it. Of the second generation, she thought Caine and Serena the most alike. Volatile, outspoken, emotional; they had
their sire’s temperament. Yet when she speculated on Alan, she thought that the serious, calm exterior he’d inherited from Anna covered a tremendous power … and a temper that might be wicked when loosed. He’d found a good match in Shelby Campbell.

  The MacGregors had chosen contrasting partners—Justin with his gambler’s stillness and secrets, Diana, reserved and emotional, Shelby, freewheeling and clever; they made a fascinating group with interesting eddies and currents.

  It didn’t take much effort for Gennie to persuade them to sit for a family sketch.

  Though they agreed quickly and unanimously, it was another matter to settle them. Gennie wanted them in the throne room, some seated, some standing, and this entailed a great deal of discussion on who did what.

  “I’ll hold the baby,” Daniel announced, then narrowed his eyes in case anyone wanted to argue the point. “You can do another next year, lass,” he added to Gennie when there was no opposition, “and I’ll be holding two.” He beamed at Diana before he shifted his look to Shelby. “Or three.”

  “You should have Dad sitting in his throne—chair,” Alan amended quickly, giving Gennie one of his rare grins. “That’d make the clearest statement.”

  “Exactly.” Her eyes danced as she kept her features sober. “And Anna, you’ll sit beside him. Perhaps you’d hold your embroidery because it looks so natural.”

  “The wives should sit at their husbands’ feet,” Caine said smoothly. “That’s natural.”

  There was general agreement among the men and definite scorn among the women.

  “I think we’ll mix that up just a bit—for aesthetic purposes,” Gennie said dryly over the din that ensued. With the organization and brevity of a drill sergeant, she began arranging them to her liking.

  “Alan here….” She took him by the arm and stood him between his parents’ chairs. “And Shelby.” She nudged Shelby beside him. “Caine, you sit on the floor.” She tugged on his hand, until grinning, he obliged her. “And Diana—” Caine pulled his wife down on his lap before Gennie could finish. “Yes, that’ll do. Justin over here with Rena. And Grant—”

  “I’m not—” he began.

  “Do as you’re told, boy,” Daniel bellowed at him, then spoke directly to his grandson. “Leave it to a Campbell to make trouble.”

  Grumbling, Grant strolled over behind Daniel’s chair and scowled down at him. “A fine thing when a Campbell’s in a MacGregor family portrait.”

  “Two Campbells,” Shelby reminded her brother with alacrity. “And how is Gennie going to manage to sketch and sit at the same time?”

  Even as Gennie glanced at her in surprise, Daniel’s voice boomed out. “She’ll draw herself in. She’s a clever lass.”

  “All right,” she agreed, pleased with the challenge and her inclusion into the family scene. “Now, relax, it won’t take terribly long—and it’s not like a photo where you have to sit perfectly still.” She perched herself on the end of the sofa and began, using the small, portable easel she’d brought with her. “Quite a colorful group,” she decided as she chose a pastel charcoal from her box. “We’ll have to do this in oils sometime.”

  “Aye, we’ll want one for the gallery, won’t we, Anna? A big one.” Daniel grinned at the thought, then settled back with the baby in the crook of his arm. “Then Alan’ll need his portrait done once he’s settled in the White House,” he added complacently.

  As Gennie sketched, Alan sent his father a mild glance. “It’s a little premature to commission that just yet.” His arm went around Shelby, and stayed there.

  “Hah!” Daniel tickled his grandson’s chin.

  “Did you always want to paint, Gennie?” Anna asked while she absently pushed the needle through her embroidery.

  “Yes, I suppose I did. At least, I can never remember wanting to do anything else.”

  “Caine wanted to be a doctor,” Serena recalled with an innocent smile. “At least, that’s what he told all the little girls.”

  “It was a natural aspiration,” Caine defended himself, lifting his hand to his mother’s knee while his arm held Diana firmly against him.

  “Grant used a different approach,” Shelby recalled. “I think he was fourteen when he talked Dee-Dee O’Brian into modeling for him—in the nude.”

  “That was strictly for the purpose of art,” he countered when Gennie lifted a brow at him. “And I was fifteen.”

  “Life studies are an essential part of any art course,” Gennie said as she started to draw again. “I remember one male model in particular—” She broke off as Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, that scowl’s very natural, Grant, try not to lose it.”

  “So you draw, do you, boy?” Daniel sent him a speculative look. It interested him particularly because he had yet to wheedle out of either Grant or Shelby how Grant made his living.

  “I’ve been known to.”

  “An artist, eh?”

  “I don’t—paint,” Grant said as he leaned against Daniel’s chair.

  “It’s a fine thing for a man and a woman to have a common interest,” Daniel began in a pontificating voice. “Makes a strong marriage.”

  “I can’t tell you how many times Daniel’s assisted me in surgery,” Anna put in mildly.

  He huffed. “I’ve washed a few bloody knees in my time with these three.”

  “And there was the time Rena broke Alan’s nose,” Caine put in.

  “It was supposed to be yours,” his sister reminded him.

  “That didn’t make it hurt any less.” Alan shifted his eyes to his sister while his wife snorted unsympathetically.

  “Why did Rena break Alan’s nose instead of yours?” Diana wanted to know.

  “I ducked,” Caine told her.

  Gennie let them talk around her while she sketched them. Quite a group, she thought again as they argued—and drew almost imperceptibly closer together. Grant said something to Shelby that had her fuming, then laughing. He evaded another probe of Daniel’s with a non-answer, then made a particularly apt comment on the press secretary that had Alan roaring with laughter.

  All in all, Gennie thought as she chose yet another pastel, he fit in with them as though he’d sprung from the same carton. Witty, social, amenable—yet she could still see him alone on his cliff, snarling at anyone who happened to make a wrong turn. He’d changed to suit the situation, but he hadn’t lost any of himself in the process. He was amenable because he chose to be, and that was that.

  With a last glance at what she had done, she looped her signature into the corner. “Done,” she stated, and turned her work to face the group. “The MacGregors—and Company.”

  They surrounded her, laughing, each having a definite opinion on the others’ likenesses. Gennie felt a hand on her shoulder and knew without looking that it was Grant’s. “It’s beautiful,” he murmured, studying the way she had drawn herself at his side. He bent over and kissed her ear. “So are you.”

  Gennie laughed, and the precious feeling of belonging stayed with her for days.

  * * *

  September hung poised in Indian summer—a glorious, golden time, when wildflowers still bloomed and the blueberry bushes flamed red. Gennie painted hour after hour, discovering all the nooks and crannies of Windy Point. Grant’s routine had altered so subtly he never noticed. He worked shorter hours, but more intensely. For the first time in years he was greedy for company. Gennie’s company.

  She painted, he drew. And then they would come together. Some nights they spent in the big feather bed in her cottage, sunk together in the center. Other mornings they would wake in his lighthouse to the call of gulls and the crash of waves. Occasionally he would surprise her by popping up unexpectedly where she was working, sometimes with a bottle of wine—sometimes with a bag of potato chips.

  Once he’d brought her a handful of wildflowers. She’d been so touched, she’d wept on them until in frustration he had pulled her into the cottage and made love to her.

  It was a peaceful time for both
of them. Warm days, cool nights, cloudless skies added to the sense of serenity—or perhaps of waiting.

  “This is perfect!” Gennie shouted over the motor as Grant’s boat cut through the sea. “It feels like we could go all the way to Europe.”

  He laughed and ruffled her wind-tossed hair. “If you’d mentioned it before, I’d have put in a full tank of gas.”

  “Oh, don’t be practical—imagine it,” she insisted. “We could be at sea for days and days.”

  “And nights.” He bent over to catch the lobe of her ear between his teeth. “Full-mooned, shark-infested nights.”

  She gave a low laugh and slid her hands up his chest. “Who’ll protect whom?”

  “We Scots are too tough. Sharks probably prefer more tender”—his tongue dipped into her ear—“French delicacies.”

  With a shiver of pleasure she rested against him and watched the boat plow through the waves.

  The sun was sinking low; the wind whipped by, full of salt and sea. But the warmth remained. They skirted around one of the rocky, deserted little islands and watched the gulls flow into the sky. In the distance Gennie could see some of the lobster boats chug their way back to the harbor at Windy Point. The bell buoys clanged with sturdy precision.

  Perhaps summer would never really end, she thought, though the days were getting shorter and that morning there’d been a hint of frost. Perhaps they could ride forever, without any responsibilities calling them back, with no vocation nagging. She thought of the showing she’d committed herself to in November. New York was too far away, the gray skies and naked trees of November too distant. For some reason Gennie felt it was of vital importance to think of now, that moment. So much could happen in two months. Hadn’t she fallen in love in a fraction of that time?

  She’d planned to be back in New Orleans by now. It would be hot and humid there. The streets would be crowded, the traffic thick. The sun would stream through the lacework of her balcony and shoot patterns onto the ground. There was a pang of homesickness. She loved the city—its rich smells, its old-world charm and new-world bustle. Yet she loved it here as well—the stark spaciousness, the jagged cliffs and endless sea.

  Grant was here, and that made all the difference. She could give up New Orleans for him, if that was what he wanted. A life here, with him, would be so easy to build. And children …

  She thought of the old farmhouse, empty yet waiting within sight of the lighthouse. There would be room for children in the big, airy rooms. She could have a studio on the top floor, and Grant would have his lighthouse when he needed his solitude. When it was time to give a showing, she’d have his hand to hold and maybe those nerves would finally ease. She’d plant flowers—high, bushy geraniums, soft-petaled pansies, and daffodils that would come back and multiply every spring. At night she could listen to the sea and Grant’s steady breathing beside her.

  “What’re you doing, falling asleep?” He bent to kiss the top of her head.

  “Just dreaming,” she murmured. They were still just dreams. “I don’t want the summer to end.”

  He felt a chill and drew her closer. “It has to sometime. I like the sea in winter.”

  Would she still be here with him then? he wondered. He wanted her, and yet—he didn’t feel he could hold her. He didn’t feel he could go with her. His life was so bound up in his need for solitude, he knew he’d lose part of himself if he opened too far. She lived her life in the spotlight. How much would she lose if he asked her to shut it off? How could he ask? And yet the thought of living without her was impossible to contemplate.

  Grant told himself he should never have let it come so far. He told himself he wouldn’t give back a minute of the time he’d had with her. The tug-of-war went on within him. He’d let her go, he’d lock her in. He’d settle back into his own life. He’d beg her to stay.

  As he turned the boat back toward shore, he saw the sun spear into the water. No, summer should never end. But it would.

  “You’re quiet,” Gennie murmured as he cut the engine and let the boat drift against the dock.

  “I was thinking.” He jumped out to secure the line, then reached for her. “That I can’t imagine this place without you.”

  Gennie started, nearly losing her balance as she stepped onto the pier. “It’s—it’s nearly become home to me.”

  He looked down at the hand he held—that beautiful, capable artist’s hand. “Tell me about your place in New Orleans,” he asked abruptly as they began walking over the shaky wooden boards.

  “It’s in the French Quarter. I can see Jackson Square from the balcony with the artists’ stalls all around and the tourists and students roaming. It’s loud.” She laughed, remembering. “I’ve had my studio soundproofed, but sometimes I’ll go downstairs so I can just listen to all the people and the music.”

  They climbed up the rough rocks, and there was no sound but the sea and the gulls. “Sometimes at night, I like to go out and walk, just listen to the music coming out of the doorways.” She took a deep breath of the tangy, salty air. “It smells of whiskey and the Mississippi and spice.”

  “You miss it,” he murmured.

  “I’ve been away a long time.” They walked toward the lighthouse together. “I went away—maybe ran away—nearly seven months ago. There was too much of Angela there, and I couldn’t face it. Strange, I’d gotten through a year, though I’d made certain I was swamped with work. Then I woke up one morning and couldn’t bear being there knowing she wasn’t—would never be.” She sighed. Perhaps it had