A Father For Zach (7 page)

There was a hint of defeat in his eyes as he gave a stiff nod. “Is it okay if I say goodbye to Zach?”

“Yes.”

He moved back into the hall and headed toward the living room. She trailed behind, maintaining a safe distance.

Safe from what, she wasn’t certain.

He paused on the threshold of the living room, which was still cluttered with boxes. Zach, wedged into an empty corner of the sofa, was absorbed in the drama unfolding on the screen.

“’Bye, champ.”

Her son flashed Nathan a grin. “’Bye, Nathan. I’ll help you paint next week, okay?”

“Whatever your mom says.” When he looked at her, Catherine tried not to let the hurt in his deep-brown eyes touch her soul. He was practically a stranger, after all. It was crazy to feel such angst over a man she hadn’t even known two weeks ago.

“You’ll be in touch?”

At his quiet question, she nodded. “Yes. By tomorrow.”

“Okay.” He opened the door and turned. “Goodbye, Catherine.”

He said it like he didn’t think he’d be coming back.

Pulling the door shut behind him, he secured it with a soft click.

For a full minute, Catherine stood unmoving in the hall, struggling with the irony of it all. Yesterday, she’d been afraid
he
might ditch the job for one with a boss who had fewer issues.

Now he seemed to be thinking she’d ditch him.

And maybe she would.

Because his presence day after day could play havoc with her once-a-bad-apple, always-a-bad-apple view of the man who’d killed her husband. A view that gave her an excuse to hold on to hate, discount the notion of forgiveness—and keep grief at arm’s length. A view that allowed her to survive.

Catherine saw no reason to disrupt her world again. She was doing okay the way she was. Getting through the days. Holding on. Not gracefully, perhaps, but at least she hadn’t plummeted into the black pit she’d been dangling over for the past two years.

If her grip slipped, though…if she started to fall…she was doomed. There was no one to catch her. To save her from the dark abyss.

And she didn’t think she could take that risk.

C
hecking the address on the slip of paper in his hand, Nathan turned onto India Street.

Home of the Blue Water Gallery.

As he juggled the two canvases in his arms, a barrage of serious second thoughts overwhelmed him, and his step faltered. This was crazy. He had no more business showing his work to a high-end gallery owner than he had hoping people could overlook his seedy past.

Tightening his jaw, he fought back a wave of despair. Okay, so things with Catherine hadn’t gone as he’d hoped this morning. But he still had a job. She hadn’t told him to get lost, had she?

Only because she was blindsided. She didn’t have time to think through everything you said
.
Once she does, you’re out of there
.

He tried to ignore the pessimistic voice in his head, but he had a feeling it spoke the truth. That before the weekend was over, she’d let him go.

With that disheartening probability weighing on his
mind, he’d decided to follow up on Kate MacDonald’s suggestion to visit the gallery owner who’d handled her husband’s work. Maybe the woman would offer him some encouragement that would brighten his dismal mood.

In truth, though, he doubted his odds on that score were any better than they were with Catherine.

As he approached the gallery, Nathan surveyed the clapboard structure. Painted Federal blue, with white trim around the windows, it looked as if it had once been a house. A discreet sign identifying it as the Blue Water Gallery hung from an iron rod on one side of the door.

For two full minutes, Nathan stood in front, trying to gather up his courage. But after a passing group of noisy tourists jostled him on the uneven brick sidewalk and he almost lost his grip on the paintings, he opened the door and crossed the threshold.

And felt as if he’d stepped into another world.

Here, quiet reigned. There were no crowds, no clutter. Just open space. The hardwood floor had been buffed to a satin finish, and the soft white walls offered a perfect backdrop for the artwork that had been framed and lit to display it to its best advantage.

Two rooms opened off the foyer, and the center of each held three-dimensional art—a bronze sculpture in one, a display of glass bowls in the other.

The place reeked of class. And talent. And money.

In other words, he was way out of his league.

Losing his nerve, Nathan headed for the door.

“May I help you?’

At the sound of a female voice, he stopped and closed his eyes. Too late to escape unnoticed. But he’d think of
some excuse to get out of here. Save himself the embarrassment of having the owner tell him his work stunk.

He turned. A woman, as tall as he was, wearing a black pants ensemble brightened at the neck with a colorful scarf, gave him a pleasant smile. Based on the touches of gray in her darkbrown hair, he guessed she was in her early to midfifties.

“I was just looking around.”

“I’m glad you stopped in.” She moved forward and extended her hand. “I’m the owner, Monica Stevens.”

He had to set the paintings down in order to return her greeting, and as she gave him a firm shake, her gaze flickered to them. “Those look like pieces of art.”

“That term might be a little too generous.” He rubbed his palms on his jeans, knowing he was stuck. “I’m Nathan Clay. I understand you represented the work of Kate MacDonald’s husband. She saw one of my paintings and thought you might be interested in it. I believe she was going to call you.”

The woman’s smile broadened. “Yes, she did. I’ve been hoping you’d stop by. She spoke very highly of the piece she saw, and I’m always looking for new talent.”

He picked up the paintings again. “I don’t know about the talent part. I haven’t had any training, and I’m new to painting. Mostly I’ve done sketches.”

“Did you bring some of those, too?”

“Yes.” At the last minute, he’d tucked one of his notebooks from prison in between the two paintings. “But they’re rough. Not saleable material. I just thought they might help you evaluate my abilities.”

“Let’s take a look.”

She led the way toward the back of the building, to a
small room containing various pieces of art not yet on display. Adjusting the lighting, she gestured toward a workbench in the middle of the room. “You can set them there.”

Nathan had put only a single layer of brown paper around the canvases, but his hands fumbled as he removed it. When at last they were free, he arranged them on the workbench, set his notebook beside them and stepped back.

Slipping on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, Monica studied first one painting, then the other, as they lay flat on the bench. She didn’t rush. She didn’t speak. She just looked.

Nathan felt a bead of sweat form between his shoulder blades. Slowly it trickled down his back under his cotton shirt.

Finally she reached for the painting of the little boy on the beach. The one Edith and Kate had admired. Angling it this way and that, she inspected it in different lights.

When she finished with that one, she picked up his second effort. It was another beach scene, and again it featured a little boy. But this child was dark-haired and much farther in the distance. Ominous clouds were gathering on the horizon behind him. He was alone on the vast stretch of shoreline, and seemed oblivious to the approaching storm as he carried a bucket of water from the ocean toward a hole he’d dug in the sand.

“Two very different moods.” Monica’s murmured comment didn’t seem to require a response, and Nathan remained silent.

At last she turned, the second painting still in her hands as she scrutinized him. “These pieces represent an interesting dichotomy. Anyone would find that one appealing.” She gestured toward the happy child whose face was lifted toward the heavens. “But it will take a customer with a discerning eye to appreciate the depth of this one. And the layers.”

Once more she examined the painting in her hands. Then she set it aside and opened his notebook.

Nathan had no idea how long he stood in silence as she perused his drawings. But it felt like an hour. She took her time with every one, asking no questions, making no comments.

He had no idea what she thought.

Reaching the end of the notebook, she closed it, turned to him and removed her glasses.

“You have an amazing talent. The compassion and depth of feeling in your work is remarkable.”

The stiffness went out of his legs, and he grasped the edge of the workbench to steady himself. “Thank you.”

“I’d like to represent these paintings if you’re interested in selling them.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She liked his work. Enough to display it in this high-class gallery.

It was mind blowing.

“I charge a forty percent commission on the sale price for all of the artists I represent. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll mail you some paperwork to sign, but in the meantime I’d like to go ahead and frame these for display. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes.” He knew he was beginning to sound like a parrot, but he couldn’t manage to formulate more than a word or two at once.

“As for pricing…” She pursed her lips and studied the paintings again. “I think I can get more for that one, with the right buyer.” She gestured to the one with dark clouds, then named two dollar amounts. “How does that sound?”

Nathan hoped his eyes weren’t bugging out of his head.
He’d expected her to price them at a fraction of what she’d quoted—if she took them at all.

She smiled. “You seem surprised.”

“I am.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s hard to believe anyone would part with that much money for a piece by an unknown artist.”

“My clientele is always hoping to discover the next star. Art is an investment for them. Sometimes their investments pay off, sometimes they don’t.” She surveyed Nathan’s work again. “I have a strong feeling this one will. I sense tremendous potential here, and my instincts rarely fail me.” She held out her hand again. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes.” He took it and gave a firm shake.

Five minutes later, as he headed back down India Street toward Lighthouse Lane, his heart felt lighter—and more hopeful.

If Monica Stevens could see the potential—and compassion—in his art, maybe, just maybe, Catherine would see the potential and compassion in his
heart.

“How come we don’t go to church anymore?” Zach stood beside Catherine as she flipped pancakes on Sunday morning, staying closer than usual—as he’d been doing since Friday’s spaghetti sauce incident. Except when he’d watched the movie Nathan brought yesterday, he’d barely let her out of his sight.

“We just moved here and we’ve been busy. Then I broke my toes, so I’m not going anywhere right now.” It was a poor excuse, and she knew it.

So did Zach. “I thought you said you were going to the grocery store tomorrow?”

“That’s tomorrow, not today.” She began sliding the
spatula under the pancakes and piling them onto two plates. “Can you get the butter out for me?”

He ambled toward the fridge. “I miss Sunday school.”

“I know, honey. We’ll go back to church again soon.”

Even though her heart hadn’t been in it, she’d continued to take Zach to services in Atlanta after David died. As a minister’s kid, she had the Sunday ritual embedded in her DNA. Besides, she knew David would have wanted her to raise Zach with a solid grounding in faith. She’d get around to finding a church here…one of these days. For Zach’s sake.

But the more pressing problem was figuring out how to break the news to him that she was going to let Nathan go.

It hadn’t been an easy decision. She’d spent a sleepless night wrestling with it. But in the end, she’d come to the conclusion that to preserve her peace of mind, it was her only option. Having Nathan around disturbed her—and rocked her world—on way too many levels.

She’d come up with a different explanation for Zach, however. One she hoped he’d accept.

“Can I stay here with Nathan tomorrow when you go to the grocery store?”

He’d given her the perfect opening for the discussion they needed to have. Ready or not.

Not
being the operative word.

Catherine set their plates on the table, tried to psych herself up for the coming exchange and motioned Zach into his chair. “I want to talk to you about Nathan.”

Some of the color left her son’s face. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Yes, honey, he’s fine.” She reached over and laid her hand on top of his for a moment, then buttered his pancakes as she continued. “You saw him yesterday, remember?”

“Yeah.” He ran his finger through a stream of melting butter and licked it. “So why do you want to talk about him?”

“Well, there are a lot of other people who need help with their house projects, like we did.” She began cutting up his pancakes. “And Nathan’s a good worker, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Zach speared a bite and stuck it in his mouth.

“So he’s going to be helping some of those other people from now on.”

Zach stopped chewing. “You mean, he’s not coming back?”

“No, honey.”

“But he isn’t finished. Who’s gonna do the rest of the work?”

“I’m going to do some. And I’ll get someone else to help a little for another week or two.”

“Why can’t those other people wait until Nathan is done here?”

Catherine pushed her cooling pancakes around on her plate. She should have known Zach wouldn’t accept her flawed explanation. Her son had inherited David’s keen sense of logic.

Since she had nothing better to offer, she resorted to the old it’s-this-way-because-I-say-so response. “That’s just how it is, Zach. Eat your pancakes before they get cold.”

He jabbed one with his fork, his expression forlorn. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

Neither was she.

A full minute passed while they both pushed the food around their plates.

“Doesn’t he like us anymore, Mom?”

Zach’s small, uncertain voice tore at her heart, and she folded his hand in hers. “He likes us a lot, honey. He es
pecially liked how much you helped him. But he wasn’t going to stay forever anyway, you know. As soon as he finished our work, he would have gone on to another job.”

“Does that mean we won’t ever see him again? Like we never saw Daddy again?”

Catherine’s stomach twisted into a knot. “Daddy went to heaven, Zach. Nathan is still here. We might see him again.”

He chased a slippery square of butter around his plate with his fork. “I hope so. He’s really nice, Mom. It was happier when he was here.”

She couldn’t dispute that.

“But we have each other.” She summoned up a smile. “So we’ll be fine. Right?”

He didn’t answer. And she didn’t push.

Because she had a feeling his response would mirror the doubt in her own heart.

The quiet buzz in his pocket threw Nathan for a moment—until he remembered he’d put his phone on vibrate during the Sunday service and had forgotten to reset it to audible.

Pulling it out, he had to search for the talk button on the bare-bones, pay-by-the-minute throwaway that was sufficient for his limited needs. In general, Marci and J.C. were the only people who called him, and since J.C. lived next door, he was more likely to stop by than use the phone, anyway. Nathan had loaded it with sixty minutes of air time, and he doubted he’d used more than ten of them in the three weeks he’d been on the island.

As he put the phone to his ear, his pulse kicked up a notch. He’d seen J.C. and Marci at church less than an hour ago, meaning there was little chance either of them would be calling him.

It must be Catherine.

His assumption was verified as she greeted him, the slight southern accent in her contralto voice instantly recognizable. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed listening to it. But today she sounded nervous.

Not a good sign.

“Do you have a minute to talk?”

Sitting in one of the chairs at the small café table in the tiny kitchenette of Edith’s rental cottage, he braced himself. “Yes.”

“I promised I’d get back to you about the project. You’ve done a great job, Nathan, so this has nothing to do with your work. But I have a lot of baggage, as you discovered Friday. And the thing is, your background is so similar to…well, I don’t think I can get past it. It might be better if I find someone else to finish the job.”