The Keeper of Happy Endings(8)

“Why didn’t I know anything about this?”

She shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s just a hobby.”

He’d pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You, Rory Grant, are full of surprises.” They’d begun to walk again, her hand tucked into his jacket pocket. “So why haven’t I ever seen any of your work? I don’t recall seeing anything like what you just described hanging in your apartment.”

“There’s one in the spare room. And a few more in the closet.”

“The spare room you won’t let me go into?”

“Because it’s a mess. I used to use it as a studio when I was selling them.”

He stopped walking and turned to face her. “I thought you said it was just a hobby.”

She shrugged. “It is—or was. Like I said, no time. But a friend took some pictures once and showed them to an interior designer she knows. He took seven pieces on consignment and sold them in two weeks.”

“Aha! Another piece of the story emerges. So when do I get a look? Or don’t I rate?”

His enthusiasm sent little whorls of pleasure dancing in Rory’s chest. She was usually squeamish about mentioning her art, but it felt good to have someone take her seriously. “If you’re really interested I can arrange a private showing—unless you’re in a hurry to get home.”

“What? Now?”

She reached for his hand. “Come with me.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing in front of Finn’s, one of Boston’s most exclusive seafood restaurants, gazing at a beautifully lit seascape in the front window.

She stood quietly, trying to see the piece as Hux would—for the first time. A torturous sea and rock-strewn shore, a low, leaden sky. She had chosen the fabrics with painstaking care. Watered silk and bits of crushed taffeta, denim and twill and crepe de chine, tulle and foamy bits of lace, carefully layered to create a sense of movement and depth.

It had taken nearly six months to finish and had fetched a whopping $700. Not that she cared about the money. Unlike most artists, she had that luxury. For her, what mattered was that it was hanging in the window of a prominent restaurant, her initials in the lower right-hand corner, for all of Boston to see.

“You really did this?” he asked, his eyes still riveted to the window. “It’s incredible. It feels like I could walk right into those waves. And the sky . . .” His face was half in shadow when he finally turned to look at her, but the half she could see was smiling. “Rory, this is more than just a hobby. It’s a gift. Were they all like this one?”

“Similar, but this is my favorite. It’s called North of November.”

“I still can’t believe it. You should have pieces in galleries all over town.”

She laughed. “If only.”

“What?”

“You don’t just put your work in a gallery, Hux. Especially if you’re a nobody. A new artist has a better chance of winning the lottery than getting into a decent show. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only reason this one ended up here is because my last name is Grant. The owner thought it would ingratiate him with my mother. He certainly read that one wrong.”

“Your mother isn’t supportive of your art?”

“That’s the problem. She doesn’t see it as art. At least not proper art.”

“What is proper art?”

“The masters. Rembrandt. Raphael. Caravaggio.”

“They’ve all been dead for hundreds of years.”

“Exactly.”

He frowned, shaking his head. “So you have to be dead for your work to be worthy? That hardly seems fair.”

“It’s not. But there we are. Unless you’ve sold well at auction, no one wants to take a chance on your work. If I had my way, I’d see to it that there were galleries dedicated entirely to artists no one’s ever heard of.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

“Then open one. Right here in Boston.”

She stared at him as the idea began to take shape. A showcase for artists no one had ever heard of. She had no idea how to go about it, and her mother would absolutely hate the idea. Still, it was hard to ignore the sudden flutter of excitement she felt at the thought.

“Do you really think I could?”

“Why not? You have the resources, the connections, the dream.”

“What if that’s all it is? A dream?”

He’d wound an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close enough to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Dreams are like waves, babe. You have to wait for the right one to come along, the one that has your name on it. And then when it does, you have to get up and ride it. This dream has your name all over it.”

She’d believed it then. But did she still?

Her dream of being a textile artist had actually begun as a fetish for vintage clothing. Not because she loved clothes. She’d never cared about fashion. It was fabric that captivated her, the way it moved and felt and behaved. Watered silks and pebbly knits, crisp organdy, diaphanous lace, nubby tweeds and lamb-soft worsteds, each with a texture and personality all its own.

Her first attempt had been crude and unsophisticated, but a passion for creation had already found its way into her blood, driving her to perfect her craft with practice and new techniques. What had started as a fetish had become a quiet obsession, resulting in a series of pieces dubbed the Storm Watch Collection.