You have a knack for making it feel like I actually went back in time and am standing right there.”
Emma had been sketching, painting and sculpting her entire life. It was something she’d always done, because she couldn’t not do it. People often admired her work, but to most she was the school’s art teacher. Or Sam and Brian’s little sister, or Ellie’s youngest grandchild. It was one of the drawbacks of never having left home, she supposed. People saw her as the starry-eyed pixie she’d always been, not the capable woman she’d become.
She wasn’t one to cater to her ego, but Rick’s assessment of her talent made her stand up a little straighter, proud to share her work with him.
There were several large frames standing on edge against one wall, and he slowly flipped through them, asking questions about her inspiration for each. One in particular appeared to interest him, and he pulled it free to set it out on its own. To her utter astonishment, he looked over at her and asked, “Is this for sale?”
“For sale?” she squeaked, totally flabbergasted by the idea of it. “You mean, you want to buy it from me?”
“If you’re willing to part with it, then yes. My office at the bank is about the blandest place you’ve ever seen, and I’ve been hunting for artwork to bring in some color. This autumn forest scene would be perfect.”
“It would?” Realizing she sounded like a complete moron, Emma scraped up some dignity and tried to sound more professional. “I’m pleased that you like it so much.”
“How much is it?”
She’d never sold anything this large before. Mostly, the oversize canvases were gifts for family and friends. Or they wound up hanging on her own walls until she ran out of space and carefully wrapped them in brown paper before consigning them to the attic. Completely out of her depth, she fell back on a tactic that she’d learned from her late grandfather when he used to sell his handmade metal items at the area’s many summertime crafts shows. “That depends. How much do you think it’s worth?”
Rick tilted his head in a chiding gesture. “You’re not exactly a hardheaded businesswoman, are you?”
“Not many dreamers are,” she informed him, smarting a bit from the dig.
Judging by the sudden shift in his features, he’d picked up on her annoyance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. As far as I’m concerned, your approach is a refreshing change from the money-first people I deal with every day.”
“Oh. Well, then, apology accepted.”
When she named a price that seemed reasonable to her, he shook his head. “You’re selling yourself way too short. A one-of-a-kind piece this size, of this quality, is worth twice that much at any art gallery in New England.”
Emma’s jaw fell open in astonishment. “Seriously? I had no idea.”
“I can see that,” he commented, adding a smile that made her feel slightly less naive. Setting the frame carefully against the wall, he pulled out his wallet and fingered through the contents before handing her several bills. “Will this be enough to hold it until I can come back with the rest and pick it up?”
It was more money than she’d ever made in an afternoon, and she tried not to stammer. “Of course. Would you like to have it framed?”
“You do that, too?”
“Well, Sam makes them custom for me. He’s the carpenter in the family.”
“That’s right—I’ve seen his craftsmanship over at the forge. When I was admiring the repaired vintage woodwork he recently installed there, Brian told me that there’s nothing Sam can’t build or fix.”
Her oldest brother had been through a lot since leaving the army, and Rick’s admiration of his skills made her smile. “Very true. If you get in touch with him and tell him what style of frame you’d like, I’m sure he’d be happy to take care of it for you.”
“Sounds good.” Flashing her a quick smile, he said, “Girls, let’s help Miss Calhoun unload her car and then head home. We’ve still got things to get done today.”
In a matter of minutes, all of her crafts show supplies were stowed in the enclosed side porch she’d converted into her storage space, and she was waving goodbye to the Marshalls. When she was alone, she strolled into the living room and stared thoughtfully at the large painting she’d somehow managed to sell without even trying. A teacher’s salary didn’t go very far when you were maintaining your own house and still paying off a car and college loans, so the extra cash would be a welcome addition to her modest bank account.
This month it would be easier to pay her bills, and she might even be able to put a little bit away for a future rainy day. They always seemed to pop up at the worst times, like when the aging chimney had started leaking into the living room and needed repair in the middle of a frigid, snowy January.
Glancing up, she smiled. “I’m not sure why You did that, but thank You.”
* * *
Emma was late.
Rick checked his watch again, confirming that it was now ten after three and he was still waiting for her. When she’d expressed concern about interrupting his afternoon, he’d assumed that meant she valued his time. It had made it easier for him to be more generous than he might have been otherwise.
But now he was regretting the uncharacteristic lapse in his clockwork-style routine. Business school had taught him the importance of efficiently using every minute of the day to benefit whichever company he was working for. Having spent the past six years climbing the ladder through the banking industry, he knew that at least part of his success was due to his unyielding discipline.
But there was something about Emma Calhoun that made him want to step outside his regimen and be more spontaneous. That unnamed quality had nudged him to cast aside his family’s usual Saturday routine and follow her to the quirky home filled with a creative light that he still remembered vividly. While his daughters enjoyed their tumbling array of collectibles and stuffed animals, in his own room he preferred clean, simple lines and as little clutter as possible. He attributed the difference to their younger view of the world around them, but maybe there was more to it than that.
Quarter after, he noticed while he checked into his email to avoid feeling as if he was wasting his afternoon. It wasn’t like the lovely art teacher had asked him to bend the rules for her, he reminded himself wryly. He’d done it willingly, and all on his own. Lesson learned.
“Rick, I’m so sorry,” the lady in question apologized as she lunged through the door into his office, loaded down with an armful of manila folders. “There was an art emergency at school, and I totally forgot to call you to let you know I was running late.”
That was a new one, he thought as he shook off his irritation and stood to motion her to one of the client chairs opposite his desk. “What’s an art emergency?”
“One of my middle schoolers was making a model of Independence Hall and accidentally glued his fingers together. I know, I know,” she added, holding up one hand in a quieting gesture. “It’s crazy, and I didn’t believe him at first, either. But when I realized he was serious, I knew I couldn’t send him home like that. Once I stopped laughing, it took me a good ten minutes to get him unstuck and cleaned up.”
Her charming account chased away the last of his annoyance, and he chuckled. “Boys, huh?”
“And how. If you knew half the scrapes my brothers got into when we were growing up, you’d never believe they survived.”
“Meaning you were the perfect child?” The question sounded perilously close to teasing, which was completely inappropriate given the professional setting they were in, and he gave himself a mental shake. In his defense, it was hard to remain detached from someone as bubbly as Emma Calhoun.
“The most perfect one,” she informed him, mischief