about time, Ashley.” He was at work, but he didn’t seem rushed.
“Meaning what?” She sat back in her chair, dazed by the number of calls she’d made that week.
“You’re a brilliant artist.” He hesitated. “I told Erin months ago you were crazy to keep those paintings in your living room when they’d make such a hit out in the world. I’d love to build you a Web site.”
“You would? You did…you told Erin that?” She ran her fingers through her short hair. Why hadn’t he ever told her? “You really think that?”
“The whole family thinks that.” He chuckled. “But no one wanted to tell you.”
Ashley’s mouth dropped open. “The whole family?”
“Sure.” Sam gave a loud exhale. “We’ve talked about it a lot, whenever you’re not around.”
“How come no one ever told me?”
Sam paused. “Want the truth?”
“Definitely.” Ashley felt the color drain from her face. Her family had believed in her all along, but none of them had ever said a word.
“Because, Ashley, whatever happened to you in Paris must have been terrible. You came back a different person.” The sincerity ringing in his voice made her grip the phone tighter. “If painting did that to you once, it could do it again. I guess none of us wanted to see that happen.”
They finished the phone call, and Ashley stood and stared out the window at Cole. Painting hadn’t made her unhappy in Paris. Her bad choices had. And now…now it was almost more than she could imagine. Her family liked her artwork, even thought it belonged in a gallery or a museum. But they’d never said anything for fear of harming her.
Ashley wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. How much sooner might she have chased this dream if she’d thought they were even a little interested? Ryan liked her work, and Landon, of course. But it was easy to believe they were just trying to be nice. Her parents—those were her critics. And if they’d ever told her, even once, that she was good enough to make it, maybe she wouldn’t have gone to Paris in the first place. Maybe she would’ve known she didn’t need a year abroad, what with some of the finest galleries in the world right here in the United States.
She was still thinking about the craziness of it all that evening as she waited for Erin and Sam to arrive. They were five minutes late when the phone rang.
“Hello?” She cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder and leaned over to light a candle at the center of her dining-room table. Cole was playing with a Lego set a few feet away, and she gestured for him to pick it up and take it to his room.
“Ms. Baxter?” The voice had a New York accent. “I believe we spoke earlier today.”
Ashley had spoken to more than fifty people that morning. She swallowed hard and carried the phone into the kitchen. “Yes…how can I help you?”
“You sent me an E-mail. I’m Ms. Wellington.” She paused. “I must say, we were very impressed with the pictures of your artwork.”
Ashley groped around for a barstool and somehow managed to sit down without passing out. The woman had said she wouldn’t call for a few weeks. “Thank you, Ms. Wellington.”
“My husband and I own a gallery here in Manhattan. He wanted me to ask you a question.”
“Anything.” Ashley’s answer was quick. Too quick. She sent a slow breath through her clenched teeth. Come on, Ashley, get a grip.
“We are a serious gallery, Ms. Baxter. Our clients have no room for fraudulent work.”
“I’m sure.” Ashley pinched her temples between her thumb and forefinger. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“To be blunt, we need to know that the work in your pictures is original art. That you didn’t copy them somehow or computer-enhance them.”
Ashley started to laugh, but her hand flew to her mouth and she caught herself. “You want to know if my work’s original?”
“My husband and I both want to know.” From the tone in the woman’s voice, Ashley
“Meaning what?” She sat back in her chair, dazed by the number of calls she’d made that week.
“You’re a brilliant artist.” He hesitated. “I told Erin months ago you were crazy to keep those paintings in your living room when they’d make such a hit out in the world. I’d love to build you a Web site.”
“You would? You did…you told Erin that?” She ran her fingers through her short hair. Why hadn’t he ever told her? “You really think that?”
“The whole family thinks that.” He chuckled. “But no one wanted to tell you.”
Ashley’s mouth dropped open. “The whole family?”
“Sure.” Sam gave a loud exhale. “We’ve talked about it a lot, whenever you’re not around.”
“How come no one ever told me?”
Sam paused. “Want the truth?”
“Definitely.” Ashley felt the color drain from her face. Her family had believed in her all along, but none of them had ever said a word.
“Because, Ashley, whatever happened to you in Paris must have been terrible. You came back a different person.” The sincerity ringing in his voice made her grip the phone tighter. “If painting did that to you once, it could do it again. I guess none of us wanted to see that happen.”
They finished the phone call, and Ashley stood and stared out the window at Cole. Painting hadn’t made her unhappy in Paris. Her bad choices had. And now…now it was almost more than she could imagine. Her family liked her artwork, even thought it belonged in a gallery or a museum. But they’d never said anything for fear of harming her.
Ashley wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. How much sooner might she have chased this dream if she’d thought they were even a little interested? Ryan liked her work, and Landon, of course. But it was easy to believe they were just trying to be nice. Her parents—those were her critics. And if they’d ever told her, even once, that she was good enough to make it, maybe she wouldn’t have gone to Paris in the first place. Maybe she would’ve known she didn’t need a year abroad, what with some of the finest galleries in the world right here in the United States.
She was still thinking about the craziness of it all that evening as she waited for Erin and Sam to arrive. They were five minutes late when the phone rang.
“Hello?” She cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder and leaned over to light a candle at the center of her dining-room table. Cole was playing with a Lego set a few feet away, and she gestured for him to pick it up and take it to his room.
“Ms. Baxter?” The voice had a New York accent. “I believe we spoke earlier today.”
Ashley had spoken to more than fifty people that morning. She swallowed hard and carried the phone into the kitchen. “Yes…how can I help you?”
“You sent me an E-mail. I’m Ms. Wellington.” She paused. “I must say, we were very impressed with the pictures of your artwork.”
Ashley groped around for a barstool and somehow managed to sit down without passing out. The woman had said she wouldn’t call for a few weeks. “Thank you, Ms. Wellington.”
“My husband and I own a gallery here in Manhattan. He wanted me to ask you a question.”
“Anything.” Ashley’s answer was quick. Too quick. She sent a slow breath through her clenched teeth. Come on, Ashley, get a grip.
“We are a serious gallery, Ms. Baxter. Our clients have no room for fraudulent work.”
“I’m sure.” Ashley pinched her temples between her thumb and forefinger. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“To be blunt, we need to know that the work in your pictures is original art. That you didn’t copy them somehow or computer-enhance them.”
Ashley started to laugh, but her hand flew to her mouth and she caught herself. “You want to know if my work’s original?”
“My husband and I both want to know.” From the tone in the woman’s voice, Ashley
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