Despite her indignation when she’d first seen Pete Forsythe’s column, Kathleen had clipped it from the paper. Maybe it would serve as a reminder that she was still capable of misreading people. She took it out of her desk drawer now and read it yet again, shaking her head anew at the idea that anyone might actually care what was going on in her love life.
For all of its juicy, speculative tone, the column had gotten one thing right. She had started out wanting to represent Ben’s art and now she simply wanted him. Fortunately, neither Pete Forsythe nor his inside source—Destiny, she imagined—had any idea just how badly she wanted Ben. No, she corrected, Destiny did know, which made what she’d done unforgivable.
The truth was that Kathleen craved Ben’s touch, yearned for the times when he studied her with his penetrating, artist’s eye as if he were imagining her naked, in his studio...in his bed.
Despite their superficial differences—his privileged background, her childhood struggles and disastrous marriage, his need for privacy, hers for a constant, if somewhat impersonal, social whirl—Kathleen had the feeling that at their core they were very much alike. They were both searching for something that had been missing from their lives. She recognized that about herself, recognized that she’d found it in Ben. He hadn’t yet had that epiphany. It was possible, she was forced to admit, that he never would.
She’d discovered in that one glorious night they’d shared that he was a generous, attentive lover, a kind and gentle man, but he withheld a part of himself. She knew why that was. It couldn’t be any more plain, in fact. The strong, self-assured man she knew was, at heart, a kid terrified of losing someone important again, a kid who’d grown into a man who’d lost the woman he loved, as well. Three devastating, impossible-to-forget losses. Add in Graciela’s betrayal and it is was plain why he found it easier to keep her at a distance than to risk being shattered if she left or tragedy struck.
To a degree he even kept the family he adored at arm’s length, always preparing himself to cope in case something terrible happened and they disappeared from his life.
Unfortunately, Kathleen had absolutely no idea how to prove that she was in his life to stay, that her initial desire to represent his art had evolved into a passion for him, a passion that wasn’t going to die. It would take time and persistence to make him believe that. She had persistence to spare, but time was the one thing he obviously didn’t intend to give her, to give them. And how much good would it really do, anyway? His family had had a lifetime to convince him and it hadn’t been enough. Not to heal the pain caused by those who had gone.
Fortunately, on this last shopping day before Christmas, there wasn’t a single moment to dwell on any of this. From the moment she opened the shop’s door, she was deluged with customers, many of them no doubt drawn in by curiosity because of that stupid gossip column. Still, she was grateful, because it kept her busy, kept her from having to think.
By midafternoon she’d written up dozens of very nice sales and cleaned out a wealth of inventory. She was about to eat the chicken salad sandwich she’d brought from home when a delivery truck pulled up in front of the gallery, double parking on the busy street.
“What on earth?” she murmured when she recognized the same driver who’d brought her the art supplies. Could this possibly be another gift from Ben? Maybe a peace offering? How typical that he was having someone else deliver it, someone else face her.
She opened the door as the driver loaded his cart with what looked to be packing crates, the kind used for paintings. As the stack grew, her heart began to pound with an unmistakable mix of anticipation and dread.
“Merry Christmas, ma’am,” the driver said cheerfully as he guided the precariously balanced stack into the gallery’s warmth. “It’s a cold one out there. I’m thinking we’ll have snow on the ground by morning.”
“Seems that way to me, too,” Kathleen said, eyeing the bounty warily. “Is this from Mr. Carlton?”
“Yes, ma’am. Picked it up from him first thing this morning. He was real anxious for you to get it, but traffic’s a bear out there, so it took me a while to get over here.” He eyed the stack with a frown. “You need me to help you open these?”
“No, thanks. I’m used to opening crates like this,” she said, offering him a large tip. “Merry Christmas.”
Once he had gone, she stood and stared at the overwhelming number of paintings Ben had sent. The temptation to rip into them and get her first glimpse of the art he’d been denying her was overwhelming, but she resisted.
So, she thought, running her fingers over one of the crates, this was it. He’d thrown down the gauntlet. She was filled with a sudden, gut-deep fear that this was either a test or, far worse, a farewell gift. Whichever he’d meant it to be, she knew she couldn’t accept. If she did, it would destroy all hope. It would be the end of the most important thing that had ever happened to her, perhaps to either of them.
She looked at her copy of the receipt the driver had given her and immediately called the delivery service. “Do you have the ability to get in touch with one of your drivers?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am, but most of them are coming in for the day. It’s Christmas Eve and they’re getting off early.”
She explained who she was. “Your driver just left here not five minutes ago. I need him to come back. I know it’s an inconvenience, but please tell him I’ll make
