Holiday by Design. Patricia Kay

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СКАЧАТЬ her feelings. I won’t cry, she told herself as the full weight of her crushed hopes and lost dreams bore down on her shoulders.

      “I might as well forget about this damn place,” she said aloud. “She isn’t going to tell the owner about me.” For one second, she almost pitched the album containing the photos into the trash container standing on the curb.

      But something stopped her.

      Maybe the portfolio was worthless. Maybe no one else would ever look at her designs again. Maybe things looked dark right now, but tomorrow was another day.

      And she was not a quitter.

      Besides, these photos were too beautiful and had cost too much to end up in a public trash receptacle.

      * * *

      Cornelia Fairchild Hunt had just finished arranging a large bouquet of fresh-cut flowers in the morning room when Martha, her longtime housekeeper who had come along with her when she’d moved into her new husband’s mansion in the spring, walked into the room.

      “Mrs. Hunt, Georgie’s on the phone.”

      “Thank you, Martha.” Cornelia smiled, always delighted to hear from her oldest daughter. Now that Georgie had married such a wonderful man, and was stepmother to three equally wonderful children, she always had interesting news and funny stories to recount. And soon, to Cornelia’s delight, Georgie would be adding another baby to Cornelia’s growing list of grandchildren. Life was good.

      Cornelia lifted the phone. “Hello, Georgie.”

      “Hi, Mom. What’re you up to today?”

      “Oh, nothing much. Just doing some flower arranging. Thinking about having a toes-up later.”

      They chatted for a while, and then Georgie said, “Mom, I wanted to bounce something off you.”

      “What, dear?” Cornelia listened thoughtfully as Georgie explained about her best friend Joanna Spinelli’s dilemma, finishing up with “I just wish I knew the owner of that gallery so I could put in a good word for Joanna. Unfortunately, he’s older than me, and I don’t believe I’ve ever met him. Do you by any chance know him?”

      “Well, first of all, what’s his name?”

      “Oh, sorry. Marcus Barlow. You might have read about him. He’s the head of Barlow International, that import/export company that’s doing so much business in Asia. Seattle Today did a big feature article on him back in May. I also read somewhere that he was going to appear on 60 Minutes.”

      “Actually, Georgie, I’ve met Mr. Barlow. He was seated next to me at the heart association fund-raiser last month. He’s a really charming young man.”

      For a moment, there was silence. Then Georgie exclaimed, “Mom! That’s wonderful. I can’t believe you know him.”

      “Well, I don’t know him well, of course, but we did have the loveliest conversation that evening. And, in fact, on the drive home, I mentioned to Harry that we ought to invite Mr. Barlow to one of our dinner parties.” She remembered how, even though Marcus Barlow was an attractive, influential, wealthy man, and women had fawned over him all evening, he hadn’t paid them much attention. He’d seemed happier talking to Cornelia, even though she was old enough to be his mother. There was something about him that had really touched her that evening. Afterward, she’d thought perhaps she’d sensed a quality of loneliness in him and she’d responded to it.

      “Do you think you could—”

      Georgie didn’t have to finish her question. Cornelia knew what her daughter wanted from her. “I wouldn’t mind calling him and mentioning Joanna, if that’s what you’re suggesting. As I said, I wanted to invite him to dinner anyway.”

      “Oh, gosh, that would be wonderful. But you could never let Joanna know you’d done so.”

      “Why? Do you think she’d be upset?”

      “Oh, you know how she is.”

      “Well, darling, if what you’ve told me is accurate, if anyone needs a fairy godmother, it’s Joanna.”

      Even though thousands of miles separated them, Cornelia knew Georgie was smiling. “And there’s no one better to fulfill that role than you, mother of mine.”

      After they’d hung up, Cornelia decided she liked the idea of being Joanna’s fairy godmother. For years Cornelia had had all she could handle just keeping body and soul together and making sure her four daughters didn’t suffer from the sins of their father. She hadn’t the wherewithal to play Lady Bountiful. But now—especially since Harry had, over her objections, settled some sixty million dollars on her the week after their wedding—she had the means to do whatever she wanted to do.

      Now, just where had she put that business card of Marcus Barlow’s?

      * * *

      Marcus had to pass right by the gallery on his way back to his office, and he couldn’t resist stopping in. Up and Coming was an indulgence, and he knew it—it barely paid for itself—but he didn’t care. He’d had to give up his dream of becoming a working artist when his father’s death had redirected his life. Up and Coming was his way of staying a part of the art community.

      Granted, owning a gallery was a far cry from living his art, but at least now he felt he was contributing something important. From the day he’d opened its doors, Up and Coming had featured the work of new and struggling artists. Because of the boost he’d given them, Marcus could count half a dozen in the past few years who had gone on to make a success of their chosen careers.

      Smiling, thinking how much he enjoyed his role with Up and Coming, he felt all his worries and responsibilities fade away as he entered the gallery.

      Brenda, as always, seemed glad to see him. When the gallery had first opened, Marcus had been concerned about stopping by as often as he wanted to. He hadn’t wanted Brenda to think he questioned her abilities as his manager or that he was checking up on her. He needn’t have worried. Those thoughts never seemed to enter her mind.

      In fact, sometimes she seemed too glad to see him. As a result, he was careful to maintain a strictly professional relationship. During the few times she had attempted to discuss his or her personal life, he had always steered her back to business.

      Today was no exception. “You look tired,” she said.

      He shrugged. “I wondered if you’d had a chance to contact Jamison Wells.”

      “We talked right after lunch.”

      “And?”

      “He’s thrilled, of course.”

      “Is November a good month for him?”

      “He says yes. He guaranteed us forty paintings.”

      “Great. When can we see them?”

      “I told him you’d call to fix a time.”

      After Brenda brought him up-to-date about two more new artists they were considering for future shows, she excused herself and headed toward the restroom. СКАЧАТЬ