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“ANNIE?”
She blinked slowly, caught between her memories and the present. The football slipped from her numb fingers and dropped to the floor.
“Dammit, Annie! Zelda has everyone scouring the farm for you. What the hell are you doing in here?”
Real time crashed into her. The spotlight of sunshine she’d been standing in had disappeared. In fact, the sun had settled low in the sky, casting shadows across the dusty floor. She turned slowly, her limbs seeming to belong to another person.
The owner of that rough voice stood in the open doorway, hands bracketed on his hips in a stance that left little doubt to his anger. “I’ve been shouting your name for the last twenty minutes,” Jake told her. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“No.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, shivering uncontrollably.
His jaw flexed. He strode towards her, undoing the buttons on the long-sleeved shirt he wore over a white tee shirt. Without a word, he pulled it off, draped it over her shoulders and tugged her arms through the sleeves. She stared up at him with a blank expression, still in a haze, as he buttoned up the shirt to her chin. He met her eyes, his own hard as stone. “Look at you,” he said scathingly. “Nothing but skin and bones. No wonder you’re shivering.”
She focused on his chin. “I’m sorry if I caused everyone to worry. I lost track of the time.”
“Have you forgotten about the wedding rehearsal?”
She gave a guilty start. It was all the answer he needed. He swung away from her as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her. And why should she take offense? The Annie of old wouldn’t have forgotten. She wouldn’t have been this foggy-minded and weak-kneed and so ridiculously helpless. Jake had never liked that kind of girl. He admired strength and determination and honesty. Over the past few years, she’d failed miserably in all of those categories. Although, in the last, he didn’t know just how much. Not yet, anyway.
“I haven’t been in here in ages.”
His startling words, spoken in an even tone, brought her head up. She watched him walk about the room. He paused now and then to kick at some loose planking or test a wire mesh window for stability. Then he gave her a penetrating look. “This was one of your favorite places to paint.”
She nodded slowly. “Because it was quiet, and there was plenty of light.” She pointed to the gaping hole in the roof. “Now there’s more,” she added needlessly.
“This place should be torn down,” he said curtly.
“No!” Her violent reaction startled even herself. She wrenched her eyes from his, looking at the floor, the rafters, anywhere but in his direction. “I mean, it’s still solid, isn’t it?”
It took him several moments to reply. She watched from the corner of her eye as he gave the structure a closer inspection. “The walls are fine,” he conceded. “But the roof obviously needs replacing. But, what for? Zelda stopped raising chickens more than thirty years ago.”
The words burst from her mouth before she could stop them. “It could be converted into an art studio.”
He made a low, scoffing sound. “For who?” he asked brittlely. “You? You don’t live here anymore, Annie. And I assume you and Maxwell will stay in New York after you marry.”
She should tell him the truth. Now. But what did it matter at this point? He’d told her he was done with her. He was practically engaged to that Darlene. No. It didn’t matter anymore. “Right,” she said, a snap in her voice. She flapped her hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’re right. Tear the place down.”
A hurt so deep it was almost a burning rage propelled her towards the door. But his next words, tautly spoken, brought her to a jarring halt.
“It’s the memories, isn’t it? That’s why you don’t want this old place torn down. We had some good times in here, didn’t we? Especially that last time.” As he spoke, he moved towards her until she felt him standing at her back. His body heat reached out to her. “Walking in here just now brought them flooding back,” he said in a low voice. “I can still see you, standing in front of your easel, your hair shining in a ray of sunlight, that lost expression you have on your face when you paint. I remember thinking to myself, will she ever look that way at me? Completely absorbed in me and oblivious to the rest of the world? I thought I had my answer that day.”
She was quivering like a captured bird. “Jake,” she whispered on a choked breath. But she couldn’t find the strength to turn around.
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken, his voice sounding strained. “I remember aching with the need to touch you in a way I never had before. And when I did, when I finally kissed you and held you, I thought I’d found the key to heaven.”
She twisted around, heart in her throat, wanting, yearning to see an expression on his face that matched the passion of his words. But his eyes were flat, revealing nothing. Their austerity, their stark, icy blue coldness bit into her heart.
Jake took an abrupt step away from her. “Funny, how memories leap out at you like that. I was pretty pathetic, wasn’t I.” His voice was now light and casual as if they were discussing the weather. “I haven’t thought about that in years.” He flicked a glance at his watch. “The rehearsal starts at six. We’ve got a half hour to get to the church.”
***
SOMEHOW, SHE SURVIVED the wedding rehearsal and the dinner that followed, never knowing from what remaining reservoir she summoned the strength to endure those hours in Jake’s company without shattering completely.
The run-through at the church was a blur, a jumble of voices and gestures that prodded her in one direction and then another.
“Walk up the aisle slowly, Annie. Jake, meet her halfway, and take her arm. Okay, now go up the steps to the altar and walk to opposite sides. Are you listening, Jake? Jake? You can let go of Annie’s arm now. Good. Now, turn and watch me come up the aisle. Great. Let’s do it one more time.”
Annie repeated the words like a mantra in her head. Walk up the aisle. Meet Jake, but don’t look at Jake. Take his arm. Go up the steps. Release his arm. Turn towards the bride. Watch her float serenely towards the altar.
“That was fine, Annie,” Gracie said. “But can you try to smile just a teensy bit, please? This isn’t my funeral. Jake, why don’t you pinch her or something when you take her arm. You both look so wooden!”
And one more time. Up the aisle, up the steps, until Aunt Jean finally observed loudly that the rehearsal couldn’t be too perfect, otherwise something was bound to go wrong on Saturday.
Then there was the agony of sitting through the rehearsal dinner. A rather pointless tradition in this case—even Gracie admitted—since everybody knew each other. Tom Lancaster had made reservations at the Remington House, a popular western-style restaurant on the outskirts of town. The toasts and well-wishes were spoken vociferously amidst much laughter. Steak, chicken, beans, salad and garlic bread were consumed with gusto, and the strolling guitar player was commissioned to stay by their tables for several renditions of soppy country ballads that had Matt and Gracie kissing and cuddling all throughout dessert.
Annie didn’t recall eating, but her plate was nearly empty when it was removed from the table. She thought she might’ve spoken with Nate and Ethan—who’d sat on either side of her like two mighty bulwarks—but she couldn’t remember the particulars of their conversation. She vaguely recalled meeting Lindy’s husband, Devin, a pleasant, handsome man who was clearly smitten with his wife. When Zelda had yawned and said she was all done in, Annie had begged a ride home with her.
She didn’t look at Jake once the entire evening.
She slept in late on Friday morning, not venturing downstairs until almost noon. Her grandmother was in the kitchen, washing lettuce. She glanced up with a worried gaze as Annie wandered into the room. “There you are. I was just about to fetch you.”
Annie picked up the coffee carafe which was still half-full. She grabbed a mug from the cupboard, filled it with coffee and put it in the microwave to heat.
“I can make a fresh pot,” her grandmother offered.
“Please, don’t bother, Gram. I don’t want you fussing over me. And I just need a few sips.” She stared at the timer on the microwave, very aware of her grandmother’s watchful eyes. “Where is everyone? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Your mother and aunt went with Gracie to the Lancaster’s. They’re moving her things into the master bedroom. The guys are helping set up for the reception.”
Was Jake one of those guys? Annie wondered.
As if reading her mind, her grandmother said lightly, “Jake’s working at one of his construction sites today. I hope he gets a good night’s sleep tonight. But I heard a rumor the boys are taking Matt out tonight for a bachelor party. Don’t say anything to Matt or Gracie. It’s a surprise.”
“I won’t.” The coffee was done heating. Annie retrieved the mug from the microwave and plodded over to the table. She sat down with a little sigh.
“I’m going to cook up some eggs and toast for you,” her grandmother said.
“I’m not h—”
“I don’t care. You’ll eat it.”
Zelda dumped the washed lettuce into a wooden bowl and then proceeded to gather the ingredients for Annie’s breakfast. “Too much sleep isn’t good for you either,” she remarked. “It can be a sign of depression. Are you depressed?”
Forthright as always, Annie thought. She took her time searching for the right answer. “I don’t know. I might be. I feel more...disillusioned than anything.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have a simple answer.”
Her grandmother cracked a couple of eggs into a frying pan. “When is there ever a simple answer?” she remarked philosophically. Her warm brown eyes offered understanding and encouragement to her granddaughter. “It took all my willpower not to beg you to stay here for good when you came for Ethan’s wedding. You look more miserable now than you did then. Are you going to tell me why you’ve returned looking like a ghost? Why you wander around the farm like a lost kitten? What terrible thing has happened to my Annie?”
Jake. Jake’s happened, she wanted to say. Instead, she said, “It’s not all terrible, Grandma. I’ve left Maxwell. The engagement is off, and I quit working for him.”
A relieved smile spread across her grandmother’s face. “Good! At least one of my prayers has been answered then.” She dropped some bread into the toaster. “That means you’re staying here.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I can’t, Gram.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
“He’ll get over his anger. Give him time.”
“No, he won’t. I hurt him too deeply. I promised I’d come back to him, but I didn’t. I stopped listening to his advice, and I listened to Maxwell instead.”
Her grandmother had the same questions that Gracie, Lindy and Jessica had asked the day before. Gradually, as she ate her breakfast, Annie shared some of the details without going too deep.
“And Jake doesn’t know this?” her grandmother asked when Annie was through.
“No. Actually, I wasn’t going to tell any of you until after the wedding. Gracie pried it out of me.”
“But you will tell him.”
“He’s past the point of listening.” She reached across the table and took her grandmother’s hand. “Please don’t say anything to him, Grandma.”
Zelda gave her a formidable look. “You’re not leaving this farm until you talk with him. He deserves to know what happened, and I think he blames himself for what’s happened to you.”
Annie stared. “Why? He shouldn’t. I’m the one who made the wrong choices. I’m the one who pushed him away.”
“He blames himself for taking it for granted that the two of you would get married someday. He blames himself for not trying hard enough to bring you back here after he visited you that last time and met Maxwell.”
“He told you this?”
“No. He didn’t have to. I’ve known him all of his life. Just as I’ve known you.” Zelda shook her head. “Two more headstrong, stubborn people I’ve never met. But the love between you has always been deep and strong.” Her gaze looked to a faraway place. “I can still see the two of you when you were children, running through the orchards. You were like two peas in a pod. I always knew that where the one of you was, the other wasn’t too far behind.”
Annie felt her eyes watering. “It’s too late, Grandma. He’s made that clear more than once since I came back.”
Zelda sighed her frustration. “Like I said. Stubborn.” She stood up from the table. “We’ll talk about this more after the wedding. And you’re welcome to stay here until you decide what you want to do. But the bed and breakfast reopens on Tuesday, so we’ll have to figure out where to put you. No, don’t give me that look. You’ll stay.”
Annie wanted to say something about stubbornness being hereditary, but she wisely decided it wasn’t the right time. She helped her grandmother wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. Then she was ordered to go outside and sit in the sun.
A crew from a local party-rental company had arrived to set up canopy tents, tables and chairs for the wedding reception that would be held in the same pasture as Ethan and Jessica’s reception had been. Ethan and Nate had finished the final touches on the dance floor that had been erected in the center of the field. Now they were stringing white lights along the fence line and in the lower tree branches. Mimi was helping them.
Annie watched them from her perch in the open door of the barn’s hayloft. She’d asked her brothers if she could help, but they’d shooed her away with strict orders to rest up for the next day. She’d almost laughed. These two grown men whom she’d bossed around when they were children were now telling her what to do. But she’d read the concern in their eyes. She knew she looked bad. But having them treat her as if she were made of fragile bone china really made that fact hit home. She hated how weak she felt. And Grandma’s words were replaying inside her mind. Was she depressed? Maybe so. Her thoughts turned to everything that had happened to her in the last five years to bring her to this low point.
She’d set out to conquer New York, to seize it by its coattails and spin it around. Instead, that city had conquered her. It swallowed her whole, eating away her confidence, her pride and ambition until all that remained was this bony shell of her former self.
Oh, at first, she loved it, just as she’d insisted that she would. Her roommate, Stacey, was a photographer’s assistant in the fast-paced modeling industry. The other two girls who shared the small apartment in Greenwich Village were drama students. Stacey took Annie to an endless stream of parties in a wide array of venues from dance clubs to posh hotels. She introduced Annie to a circle of young, bright, interesting people, all of whom had interesting, fascinating jobs in art, music or the theater world.
Annie’s days were spent at the academy which was just a short subway ride from the apartment. Most evenings were spent with her new friends, exploring the countless facets of the city that never slept.
She emailed and telephoned her family faithfully. She emailed or texted Jake every day, and, on the weekend, they spent hours talking on the phone. She kept none of her activities a secret from him. Everything she did was made more exciting and fun when she thought of how she would describe them to him. She wanted to paint a mental picture for him that would convey all the sights and sounds she experienced, wanting him to experience them vicariously through her. She scolded herself for worrying that her love for him would interfere with her studies. Instead, it made her work harder and strengthened her resolve to prove to her family that she’d been right about her ambitions all along.
When Jake came to visit her that first Christmas, she took him to most of the places she’d described to him. They did the typical, touristy things, visiting the top of the Empire State Building, ferrying to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, ice skating at Rockefeller Center. But the best times were when they simply sat together, holding hands and talking about the future. He’d earned another raise at his job, and he was closer to his goal of starting his own construction business. He was going to be very successful, he told her. She’d never need to worry about money. He’d take care of her. After she flicked him on the forehead, he modified his words to state that when she became a successful artist, she’d take care of him too.
The first year whistled by. It was during her second year at the academy when she began to sense that something was wrong. Although most of her instructors were encouraging in their comments about her work, none of them raved about it like her teachers in high school and junior college had done. A couple of her classmates already had work showing at galleries, and they’d sold some of their pieces.
Annie approached several gallery owners with her portfolio, but not one had expressed interest. “Charming,” one told her snidely. “But too rustic for our clients’ tastes, darling. Do you have anything more modern?”
Then there was her abstract-art professor. He was catty and rude with all of the students, but he seemed to take particular delight in goading Annie. He was abrasive and critical, harping on every perceived flaw in her work.
“I thought this was abstract art,” she retorted one day. “How do you know if this is a flaw or what I intended?”
“Your interpretation is totally wrong,” he snapped. “I want polarity. Friction. Not this montage of monotony.”
At first, she shared all of her worries and doubts with Jake. But, as the criticisms continued, and her feelings of disillusionment grew, Jake’s words of encouragement began to sound hollow to her cynical ears. He wasn’t an artist, so he could never really understand what she was feeling. Maybe he thought her art was beautiful and unique, but the opinion of a friend couldn’t match up to the opinions of those who actually knew what good art was and what it wasn’t.
A two-week visit to the farm the summer between her second and third year cheered her up a little. She spent hours with her grandfather, telling him the good things about her life in New York thus far, not the bad. He looked through her portfolio, not giving much time to the modern or abstract pieces, instead praising her various images of scenes in and around King’s Valley. She didn’t tell him that she’d stopped working on those kinds of paintings. She didn’t tell him that none of the gallery owners had liked them.
But both his encouragement and Jake’s instilled a renewed confidence in her. That confidence, however, was dashed to the ground towards the middle of her third and final year at the academy, the day her academic advisor kindly suggested that Annie sign up for some computer graphics courses. That’s where the money was these days. It might take years and years before her artwork provided her with a decent income. It would be prudent for her to pursue a career she could fall back on in case the fame and fortune she hoped for didn’t materialize.
Had she been kidding herself all these years? Had her instincts been pulling her in the wrong direction? No, that wasn’t possible. She loved to study a blank, white canvas and imagine filling it with color. Sometimes, she felt as though the canvas spoke to her, telling her which paints to choose and in which direction to glide her brush. This was her life, the essence of her being, her very existence. Wasn’t it?
All of the promises she’d made to herself and to her family and friends and, most importantly, to her grandfather and to Jake, seemed to taunt her. She had vowed that she’d be a success, that she’d return to King’s Valley a true artist. What a fool she’d been to share her ambitious dreams with everyone. If she failed, they’d all know it.
Her fear of failing transferred to a loss of confidence in a future with Jake. She found herself nitpicking her relationship with him, focusing on all the negatives: she and Jake were too much alike, they were both equally stubborn. The happy times they’d shared had sometimes been disrupted by foolish arguments that had usually dragged out for days because they were each too proud to compromise. What had made her think that they could stay happy together in a permanent relationship?
What plagued her the most was the faith Jake placed in her. He understood her desire to achieve the things her grandfather hadn’t been able to, but he advised her many times to never forget she was doing this for herself too. She must never lose sight of that. He’d made her believe in herself. She didn’t want to disappoint him. And the more she felt like she was disappointing him—even though she knew it was all in her head—the less she wanted to be with him.
As her final semester at the academy drew to a close, she grew more despondent. What would she do after graduation? She’d held a variety of part-time jobs from waiting tables to assisting Stacey on photo shoots, but none of them were jobs she wanted to pursue full-time while waiting for her art career to take off.
She continued to pound the pavement, trekking from one obscure gallery to another, too intimidated now to risk scorn from the more upscale dealers. Her portfolio was bursting at the seams. Wasn’t there anything in its contents to please these people?
She was not going back home until she had at least one successful showing of her work. It was less of an achievement than what she’d originally hoped for, but at least it might be enough to propel her career somewhere other than New York.
At the end of each year, the academy held a fundraising art show which featured the work of the graduating students. The instructor from each class selected what he or she deemed to be the best piece from each student, and then, together, all of the instructors chose two works per student for the overall show. Much to Annie’s consternation, two of her abstract pieces were chosen. One was a textile collage she’d done her second year. The other was an oil on canvas that the instructor had strongly criticized when Annie had first shown it to him. Appropriately entitled Blue, it was a swirling collision of every shade of blue she could imagine and create. She thought it an angry painting at the time she’d done it, because she’d been trying to blot out that particular instructor’s ranting visage with every vicious stroke of her brush. But, looking at it with a fresh perspective, she saw the sadness and confusion lying within the swirls. One particular shade of blue that stood out the most happened to be the exact color of Jake’s eyes as she’d last seen them.
The show was held on a warm night in early May. Annie invited Stacey and a few other friends from their circle to accompany her. She had no expectations that either of her pieces would sell. There were works from other students that were much better, in her opinion. Besides, even if they did sell, the portion of money given to her would be minimal. Young, unexposed artists couldn’t demand more than a pittance for their work. The prices were inflated merely to raise money for the academy, which was the primary focus of the evening.
She’d been at the show for more than an hour, observing her classmates’ work selling left and right, before she braved a path over to the corner where her pieces were on display. It required the fortification of two glasses of champagne to get her that far. Her work, she immediately noticed, hadn’t sold. Two matronly, society types stood in front of them, eyeing the pieces with something like disdain.
“I don’t know, Mavis,” one woman said in a richly modulated voice. “The collage seems almost juvenile.”
“You could put it in Sarah’s room,” her companion suggested. “Your daughter likes that sort of thing.”
Annie took another swallow of champagne before strolling closer. She made a show of inspecting the collage from every angle in the same way some gallery owners had done with items in her portfolio. When she was certain she’d drawn the attention of the two older women, she clasped her hands behind her back and nodded sagely. “Now here’s an artist who’ll go far,” she said brightly.
“Oh, do you think so?” Mavis asked. “See, I told you, Estelle.”
Estelle wasn’t so easily swayed. She gave Annie a critical look. “And who are you to make such a pronouncement?”
Annie smiled. “I’ve been involved in the art world for a long time. I’ve been to every gallery in this city. I know talent when I see it.”
Well, none of that was a lie exactly. But what had come over her? It must be the champagne. She doubted if she would ever have approached these women otherwise. Seeing the other students’ pieces sell so quickly had made her desperate. She vowed to herself that she’d leave tonight with her pride intact.
Estelle was still hesitant. “It’s so different from anything my husband and I have purchased before.”
Annie nodded sagely. “I can understand how that might dissuade you. The best approach, I feel, is to study a work of art for a while. See if it speaks to you in some way. If it does, and you like what you’re hearing, buy it.” She edged away. “I’m sure you have a true eye for good art. You’ll make the right decision.”
Her pulse was racing as she meandered away from them, making a point to pause now and then to blindly study other pieces on display. When she judged it safe, she peeked around a pillar to spy on the two women. Sure enough, they were gazing silently at her collage, their lips pursed and foreheads wrinkled with intense concentration. At last, Estelle nodded her head, smiled, and waved over one of the volunteer attendants. “I’ll take this one,” she crowed, pointing at the collage.
Annie leaned against the pillar and closed her eyes. At last. Something she had created had sold. Even if it’d required coercion, it still felt satisfying.
“Congratulations,” a smooth, masculine voice said softly, close to her ear.
Her eyes flew open. “Excuse me?”
The man who’d addressed her pointed his champagne flute towards Estelle and Mavis. “I couldn’t help but overhear your brilliant sales pitch. Which gallery are you with?”
Her face went pink. “Uh, none at the moment.” She stood up straight, feeling embarrassed and a little awkward as she studied the man standing before her. He appeared to be in his forties. He was tall and well-built with dark hair and perceptive gray eyes that observed her with an almost piercing intensity.
His grin widened as he noted her discomfiture. “Ah, I get it. You’re the talent behind that unique collage. Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” He held out his hand. “Maxwell Fischer.”
She took his hand. “Annie McAllister.”
His grip was firm. He continued to hold her hand as he said, “Annie. I like that name. It suits you.”
Her face grew even redder. The touch of his hand was doing strange things to her insides. He exuded a strong masculinity that made her feel very feminine and a little helpless. Oddly, she didn’t mind feeling that way. He was a handsome man, by far the most attractive in the room. And he had a presence about him that spoke of wealth and influence. She felt as if everyone in the room was looking at him, but his attention was solely focused on her.
When he suddenly released her hand, she stuttered, “Are you with a particular gallery?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t heard of me? I have a gallery in midtown.” He retrieved a business card from a silver case and handed it to her.
“Maxwell Fischer,” she read aloud. “Is that the name of your gallery too?”
He laughed. “I find it delightful and refreshing that you don’t know who I am. The gallery has been in the same location for decades. My father started it. You could say that appreciation of fine art runs in our family.”
“It does in mine too. My grandfather is an artist.”
“It seems we have a good deal in common.” He took her arm, drawing her alongside him. “Come and show me your work. I can tell you have a good eye. The blend of colors on this Blue piece is amazing. Tell me what you were feeling when you painted this. That always intrigues me.”
She told him.