“You’re here, aren’t you?” she said briskly. “And your car is still by the gallery. I can’t think of a single reason not to pick up where we left off, can you?”
There was no refuting her logic. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? What makes you think it won’t lead us right back here all over again?”
A slow grin spread across her face. “I could live with that outcome. How about you?”
“It is an intriguing prospect,” he agreed, enjoying the flash of confidence in her eyes. He’d given her that. “But a risky one. You said yourself that it’s a busy time of year. Do you want to lose business by sneaking off for some hanky-panky?”
“Oh, I think you could make it worthwhile.”
“I would do my best,” he agreed. “Okay then, you can show me the gallery before I head over to Destiny’s, but we really do need to make it quick or she’ll be joining us.”
“I’ll talk fast,” she promised. “Try to keep up.”
Ben laughed at her obvious desire to avoid an encounter with his aunt. To be truthful, he wasn’t much looking forward to it, either. Destiny was never at her most attractive when she was gloating.
* * *
An hour later Kathleen had shown Ben every nook and cranny of the gallery. He had to admit that what she’d accomplished in just a few years was quite impressive. The displays were carefully thought out, the lighting impeccable. Everything had been done with simplicity, style and elegance. The scrapbook she’d kept from past showings, the collection of glowing reviews proved that she had a discerning eye for talent.
“You’ve done an incredible job here,” he told her honestly. “You should be very proud.”
“I am,” she said, regarding him thoughtfully. “Is it impressive enough to convince you to let me show your work?”
He frowned at the question, even though he’d expected it. “It was never about your professional skill,” he reminded her. “It’s about me. I’m not interested in showing my paintings, much less selling them.”
“Ben, that doesn’t make any sense,” she said impatiently. “You have talent. Why not share it with the world? If you don’t want to sell it, fine, but at least give other people the joy of looking at it.”
He knew it didn’t make sense, not from her perspective anyway, but it did to him. His paintings were intensely personal and private, not in the subject matter, but in the way he poured his heart and soul into each and every one. He didn’t want anyone, let alone strangers, getting a glimpse of the world as he saw it. He feared it would tell them too much about him. It would take something that gave him joy and open it to criticism that might rob him of the serenity that painting gave him. The world was neat and orderly on the canvases he painted, and he desperately needed to keep it that way.
That was another reason why there were never people in his paintings. People were never neat and orderly. Emotions were never tidy and predictable. And he’d been shattered too many times by life’s unpredictability.
“Let me ask you something,” he began, hoping to make her see his point. “There was a time when you loved painting, right? When it brought something beautiful and joyful into your life?”
She nodded slowly, and he could see by the quick flash of understanding in her eyes that she already knew where he was going with this.
“And when Tim criticized, when he told you that you weren’t good enough, what happened?” Before she could answer, he told her, “All the joy went out of it, correct? He robbed you of something that really mattered to you.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t tell me it’s different, Kathleen, because it’s not. Art meant as much to you as it does to me. So you, of all people, should understand why I don’t want to risk losing that. I can’t do it, not even for you. If I cared about fame, if I needed the money, maybe I’d feel differently, but I don’t.”
“Oh, Ben,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “It wouldn’t be like that.”
“Why? Can you guarantee that some critic won’t rip my work to shreds? Why expose myself to that when I don’t need to?”
“Then this is just because you’re afraid of a little criticism?” she demanded incredulously. “That’s absurd. Why would you let the opinions of people who supposedly don’t even matter to you affect whether or not you continue to paint? They’re not important. Tim’s cruelty mattered because he mattered.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “The critics aren’t important. That doesn’t mean their words don’t have power. I don’t want to lose the joy I find right now when I sit in front of a blank canvas and envision a painting, beginning with that very first brush stroke, the first hint of a crystal-blue sky, the line of a tree. That feeling is something I can count on now. It’s the only thing I can count on.”
“You could count on me,” she said quietly.
A part of him desperately wanted to believe that, wanted to have faith that nothing would ever take her away, but experience had taught him otherwise. People he loved went away, no matter what promises they made.
He stroked a finger down her cheek, felt the dampness of tears. “I wish I could,” he said with real regret. “If ever I was going to count on another person, I’d want it to be you.”
“Then do it. Take a leap of faith. Forget about the paintings. I would love to show them, and I think the show would be wildly successful, but it doesn’t matter. Just believe in me. Believe in what we found last night. It was real, Ben. You can’t deny that.”
He smiled sadly, regretting that the subject had shifted so quickly from his
