Raphaela's Gift (34 page)

The air eased from her lungs. "I was working in Kentucky for a while."

"In Kentucky? Painting?"

"No," Faith answered, sketching the outline of a face. "I don't paint anymore."

"Oh. That's disappointing. I wanted to feature you in a show at the gallery."

Faith shook her head and dropped the pen. Feature her? Had she heard correctly? Her mother owned the most prestigious gallery in Cincinnati. Never had she mentioned putting Faith's paintings in her gallery--not even in the back room, where the local artists, lesser-knowns, were displayed. It had to be a dream.

"Faith?"

"I'm here."

"So, I guess that mean's no then?" her mother asked. "Should I find someone else?"

Was this a cruel joke? Could she trust this woman after everything she'd done? Did she want to miss this opportunity just because of distrust? "No!" Faith's heart leapt. "I mean yes, I'll do it. When?" She hoped it wouldn't be within the next few weeks. She needed time to get her paintings out of storage, maybe even do a few new ones…could she paint again?

"I have an opening for the last two weeks in March."

Faith glanced at the calendar in Garret's leather-bound planner, leafing through the pages until she reached March. "That only gives me six weeks!"

"If you need a studio, I sublease a nice loft apartment down the street from the gallery. You could use that."

"You mean move?" Faith's eyes traveled around Garret's office. Move. Now?

"It would only be for a month and a half, and it's only if you need to. I'm trying to accommodate you. I do the same for all the artists I promote."

Faith didn't believe this. Couldn't believe it. "Promote? Why now, Mom? After all these years?"

"I've always loved your work."

Faith couldn't find an answer to that statement. Loved her work? Then why had she been so critical? It had gone way beyond the normal I'm-trying-to-help-you-by-telling-you-this criticism.

After a moment of silence, her mother added, "If you can't, I understand--"

"No. I'll do it!" Faith swallowed. She'd talk to her mother about what happened years ago when she was face-to-face.

"Good. I'll see you in a few days, then? We'll get you comfortable in the loft. You'll have six weeks to prepare for the show. We'll have a nice opening gala. I've never had the chance to do that for you. After all these years, you deserve it. Goodbye, dear. I'll be seeing you soon."

The buzz of the dial tone wakened Faith, and she stood, walked to the living room and huddled in Garret's waiting arms.

He cleared his throat, the sound low in her ear as she pressed it against his chest. "How did it go?"

"I'm not sure I believe what happened. She tipped her head to look at his face. "Did you do something?"

Scowling, he said, "Do what? I have never met your mother, let alone talked to her."

"I know. You're right. It's just so impossible to believe--"

"What happened?" He eased her from him, holding her at arm's length, and looked into her eyes.

"She wants to have an opening. A show. Featuring me at her gallery. I can't believe it. She was always so critical. I never expected this."

He gathered her close again. "That's wonderful news!"

"There is one problem," she whispered as she snuggled closer.

"What's that?"

"I'll have to take some time off."

He feigned an angry grimace, making her chuckle. "Already? You just started three months ago, and you're taking a vacation already?" Then, he grinned. "Of course you can have some time off. What kind of guy would I be if I said no?"

"Thank you!"

He bent down and kissed her forehead, then each eye before finding her mouth. His kiss was gentle and patient yet held the hint of the passion he controlled.

When it was over, she felt as dizzy and giddy as a child did after a ride on a merry-go-round. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Now," he said, taking a step back and rubbing his hands together. "Let's talk studios and supplies. You can't work in that tiny room at your grandfather's house. I think you need to forget about the excuses and move in here. You can set up a great studio in the apartment. It's big, gets plenty of natural light--"

"I'm going to Cincinnati--"

"Sure, but you need a place to work until the show, right?"

"My mother has offered me a loft for the next few weeks, and it makes sense for me to work there, help her set up the show, go through the paintings."

Garret nodded, the spark fading from his eyes. "Okay. Yes. I guess it does."

She clutched his hands in hers. "I'm sorry. It's so sudden, and I know I made a promise to you and Ella. It's only for a few weeks--"

"No." He gave her hands a squeeze. "You have to go."

Faith felt herself backpedaling, letting fear and guilt dictate her actions. "Ella's been doing so great. I don't want to hamper her progress."

"I'll hire a temp. It's only a few weeks," he said, a forced smile spreading over his mouth.

A thought struck, and Faith considered it before speaking. "I think I have a solution. What do you think about Frankie coming up here? I think we could steal her away from Mountain Rise. But it would have to be a permanent arrangement."

"But then you'd be out a job." He took her shoulders, and his steady gaze searched her face. "Is this what you really want?"

"I have to try. I have to see the truth--whether my work is good enough. If I come back to Kent with my tail between my legs, and a trail of rotten reviews behind me, I'll find another job. If I don't go, I'll always wonder. I don't know why my mother's had such a turn-around, and I'm going to find that out too. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He leaned forward and kissed her nose. "I agree. You need to do this. It's long overdue." With gentle pressure on her shoulders, he turned her toward the door. "Why don't you give Frankie a call now?"

"Thanks for being so understanding." She smiled over her shoulder, and caught the troubled, distant look his face. Turning, she stopped at the doorway and faced him. "I'll be back in eight weeks."

"Yes. Just eight weeks." He walked toward her and rested his hands on her shoulders again. His eyes met hers. "Unless you launch a new career. Then you'll stay there, won't you?"

She felt like she'd stepped into someone else's life. Confused. Scared. Before this, she'd been so certain she knew what she wanted: to stay in Kent and work with Garret and Raphaela, pursue her relationship with Garret, hopefully marry him some day. But now, all her visions were hazy, blurred by the fog of uncertainty. "Stay in Cincinnati? I don't know. I can't even comprehend the show yet, let alone think about anything that unlikely."

"Kent's a good town, but it isn't the hub of culture. Maybe you'll even move out east--New York."

Anxious to feel his arms around her again, especially knowing she wouldn't see him for several weeks, she leaned into him. "I don't know if I want a new career in art. New York, endless art shows…I've been happy here, working with Ella."

"Maybe after the show you'll know what to do next."

She nodded. "It's terrifying, you know. The critics. Everyone staring at the work, staring at me. Waiting for my next masterpiece."

He kissed the top of her head then eased her chin up with his hand. "You remember that day when that kid was hurt on the raft? You remember what you said to me? 'I ran. You stayed.' Well, now it's your turn to face those fears. I'll be there for you every step of the way, just like you were for me."

"That means so much to me. More than anything. Thank you." Tears burned her eyes. Tears of fear, of happiness, of confusion. What had she done to deserve this man? This amazing, wonderful, kind, generous man. And was she doing the right thing by leaving him? Again?

"You're welcome. Now," he said, spinning her around and gently nudging her. "Go call Frankie and offer her a job."

* * *

Faith surveyed her temporary home, an urban loft condo, as her mother opened the blinds to the brilliant morning sun.

"You can see it gets plenty of natural light. Perfect for working." Her mother stopped and tipped her head, her sleek bob following her motion. "What is it? You don't like it?"

"No, Mom. It's fine. I'm just tired, that's all," Faith said, staring out the windows. Stretched out below was the Ohio River, which wound in lazy curves through downtown Cincinnati, and beyond that, the hills of Kentucky.

The middle-aged woman hurried to the kitchen area in the loft's center, her shoes shuffling on the pine floor, and reached for the refrigerator. "I think there is some mineral water in here. Would you like a bottle? I imagine you're exhausted after your trip."

Faith followed her, watching the woman who was a mere stranger to her, with so many years between them. "No. Thanks anyway."

Her mother reached for a mineral water and opened the bottle, poured some in a glass and took a dainty sip before setting the glass on the granite countertop. Her clothes fit her trim figure as though they'd been made just for her, her makeup was perfect. Patricia LeFeuvre was the picture of elegance, of success.

"It's been a long time," Patricia said, walking toward Faith and taking her hand before leading her to the coffee colored couch sitting on skinny steel legs that looked too weak to support its weight. She sat and patted the seat, waiting for Faith to comply before speaking again. "This isn't the kind of reaction I'd expected from you. What is it? Is there something wrong? Years ago, you used to go on and on about having a show in the gallery."

"I did. For some reason though, reality isn't the same thing as fantasy." Faith dug her heels into the soft rug, an area rug with a big geometric pattern. The masculine colors--brown, fawn, and slate--set off the furnishings and finishes in the rest of the apartment perfectly. The place made her feel cold, lonely.

"In what way? It's going to be an enormous success."

"I don't know." Faith stood, walked to the kitchen, fingering each slick surface she passed, cold granite, polished pine cabinets, steel refrigerator, then poured some mineral water into a glass. She ran her fingertip along the rim. "It's still strange. All those years. You never called, never wrote. Even on Christmas and birthdays. And when I was younger, you were so critical. So incredibly cruel. I can't forget it. Those words."

"Oh, God. I didn't mean…" Patricia followed Faith into the kitchen. "I didn't mean to discourage you. I was trying, the only way I knew how, to make you better." Her words echoed hollow in the cavernous room.

"You didn't. You hurt me. What kind of mother does that to her own daughter?" Her heart racing, years of anger welled to the surface. "I couldn't paint--haven't painted--in years. I gave up, and maybe I shouldn't have let you do that to me, but I did."

Her mother looked at her, sorrow hanging heavy in her eyes. Her hands lifted to her mouth, she said, "I'm so sorry. I don't know why I did that." A blade of white from the skylight highlighted her as she stood, making her look like an actress on stage, and Faith wondered if that was what this was--just an act.

"You're sorry? That's all you can say! How about telling me why, Mom? Why did you do that to me?"

"I don't know." Patricia's hands dropped from her face, and she held them in front of her, palms raised. Her rings, emeralds and diamonds, flashed as she moved. "Maybe it was because you were my daughter… and maybe I felt like you had to be phenomenal…"

"Yeah. But why? Why take all the joy from art? Why make it into something so serious, so painful?" she challenged, refusing to back down. This woman had put her through hell for years, and she couldn't let her get away with it, no matter how remorseful she looked now. She needed to know if her mother was truly sorry, and she needed to know why she'd done it.

"Maybe I was afraid…" Her mother dropped her head. "…I would look like a fake. Oh, Faith, I'm such an idiot. I still look like a fake. I get up every morning, put on my face and designer clothes, and play 'successful artist and international celebrity'. For years, I've feared they'd figure it out--figure me out. And I dragged you into my nightmare." As she lifted her head to meet Faith's gaze, a tear slid down her cheek, leaving a wake of black eyeliner.

For the first time in her life, Faith saw her mother for what she was: a woman struggling to make everyone around her believe she was someone she knew she wasn't. "Mom. They do believe you. And I do too. But if it's not you…" She swept her arms around like a game show hostess "…if this isn't you, why pretend?"

"Because it's all I know. Pathetic, aren't I?"

"No." Faith reached for the trembling woman and clung to her, tears that had been damned up for years flowing down her face. She swiped at them and stepped back, laughing self-consciously as she wiped her drippy nose on her sleeve.

Her mother laughed. "Aren't we a sight?" she ran her thumbs under her eyes. "I'd better get back to the gallery, fix my makeup and face my public."

"Okay." Faith followed her to the exit, and when Patricia hesitated before leaving, Faith reached for her again and gave her another hug. "It's okay, Mom. Really."