Chapter 10

Summer

"I emailed you the seating arrangements." Eric Holcomb's deep, penetrating voice boomed over the phone.

I leaned back in the computer chair upstairs in my studio-slash-office, pulling up the attachment. Eric was the director at Charlotte's downtown art museum and we were going over the last of the preliminaries for my benefit. This was my fifth year working with him. Eric was a handsome man in his early forties and as hospitable as he was gay. His life mate, Edward, was an accountant at the same firm as my friend Rick.

"I got it." I skimmed the attachment. "Looks good, except you seated the mayor next to the school board director. I'd rather not have any arrests at the event."

He laughed. "I'll fix that." I listened as he shuffled papers. "The caterer wants to know if you want the same options as last year."

I mulled that over. "No. The beef wellington wasn't too popular. The chicken kiev with asparagus spears and roasted potatoes are fine, as we discussed, but add a fish option and email me for approval. Maybe salmon. Dessert? What's she got planned?"

"Tiramisu and raspberry sorbet torte."

"Tell her to add another option. Something with chocolate."

"Okey dokey. Moving on, how much wall space do you need? I reserved the vault to take down the paintings in the west entry hall."

"That worked well last year. It was nice to have that divider between the dinner and the art auction. People can walk through and bid before being seated."

Eric cleared his throat. "Now, missy, I need the last of your pieces if you want them matted and ready to go."

The Charlotte Art Museum ate the cost of framing my paintings, the donated paintings by local artists, and my students' pictures, as my auction was good PR for them. Each dinner ticket paid for the caterer, and anything over that amount the museum kept. We had set the difference for each plate at twenty a head over this year, and with one-hundred and fifty in attendance, the museum would be left with a nice chunk of change for their trouble. All proceeds from the auction went to me for my programs and the pediatric cancer research network. There were also a lot of donations mailed in through the press kits we send out.

"I have two more of my paintings for you." I mentally went through what I had available. "I'll drop them off tomorrow. I'm hoping to have the last three in two weeks."

He uttered an unbelieving, "Uh huh."

"I promise, oh Great Lord Eric," I teased. "How many donations from local artists are there?"

"Twelve."

"That's it?" Leaning forward, I started to panic. That wasn't anywhere near the thirty we had last year.

"Don't worry your perfect, caramel latte-colored head over it. The Observer isn't doing the article until Sunday. You'll get more donations and drop-offs then."

"All right. Okay. I hope I don't have to make up the difference. That's not a lot of time to get decent work done." Scrolling through the rest of his attachment, I leaned back in my chair. "That seems to be it for now. Anything else?"

"Yes. What are you going to wear?"

My laugh came easily at his dry tone. "Eric, Dee dresses me. That's what she's good at. We're going shopping in Myrtle while we're down there."

A dramatic sigh. "Thank God. And your hair?"

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"How can someone be so intelligent and beautiful and clueless?"

That sounded an awful lot like an insult wrapped in a compliment.

Another sigh. "Tell me you have someone professionally styling your hair. You're not coming to the event in that horrid ponytail you seem so fond of."

My hand went to my head, lacing my fingers through my ponytail with a pout.

"Never mind. I'm sending you to Miranda again."

"Okay." One less thing I needed to worry about. Dee had been putting my hair up in one of those fancy twist things until last year when Eric and Edward had sent me to Miranda. Admittedly, it had looked wonderful. Not growing up with a mother around, I just wasn't schooled in all things girly. It didn't help that my two best friends had been boys.

"Now we're done," he said. "Call me when you get back from vacation and we can set up a walk through."

I hung up and turned to the painting I'd just finished before Eric called. It was kinda crazy how fast it had come along. After I had gotten back from dinner with Ian last night, it had commanded all my attention. I should've been working on a piece for the show but, ever since the idea sprung, I couldn't put it out of my head. So goes my muse. Couldn't shut her up some days.

In the painting, Ian was leaning against the window seat in my bedroom, wearing his infamous faded jeans and nothing else. In one hand was a long neck bottle of beer, a hammer in the other. Behind him, out the window, instead of the two acres between our homes, I painted the beach at Seasmoke. The day was just breaking and, in the far distance, I was sitting on the beach, looking up at the window instead of the sunrise.

I grinned in satisfaction. It looked just like him when he was creating a furniture piece in his head, oblivious to the world around him. Not unlike me, I suppose, with my art.

Before this piece, I hadn't completed a painting in two months. The canvases ready for the auction were older pieces. I had a series of half-started works and little to show for it. I paced the room. Too easily, I had given up on my recent painting, a scene of my river birches at night with the fireflies glowing. Even the painting of Main Street in Wylie stood unfinished. Normally, painting helped to sooth and lull my mind out of the darkness, kept me from slipping back into the void. But even that hadn't worked lately. I felt restless, like at any moment I'd be right back to the empty shell who didn't give a damn about anything.

God. I couldn't do that to Ian again, to any of my friends. Or the kids.

The benefit was coming up soon. I needed more material. There were some amateur artists who donated pieces. My students had their work in the bidding, too. But my paintings always sold out, were the first to go. For the most amount of money, too. That's what it was all about. Money for the kids.

Sitting down at my computer, I logged on again. I pulled up the two social media sites I had accounts for and answered my messages and posts. Not one to use the sites often, there were a lot. I had created them because Dee thought it would be a great idea to boost donations for my benefit and show off my paintings. In honesty, I seemed to get more date requests than anything else. Checking the account and website for the auction, I responded to those emails.

The caterer had emailed already. Approving the grilled salmon, almond green beans, and wild rice, I emailed back with the dessert request I'd discussed earlier with Eric.

Now what? It was too late to call Dee. Attempting to sleep would be futile. I'd just lie awake and stare at the walls. Especially when I was this wound up.

I looked out the window. Ian's light was still on next door. Perfect. Lifting the new painting of him, mindful not to touch the still wet edges, I stared at my best friend's image.

Peter at the hobby store had claimed Ian was in love with me. I let the notion swirl around in my mind for just a moment. Which was stupid and dangerous. If I allowed myself to ride that thought train too long, I might grow to like the idea. He was the opposite of what I needed, and I was the opposite of what he wanted.

Besides, the idea was ridiculous. Why was I even letting Peter's comment get to me?