Never having driven into downtown Nashville midmorning on a Tuesday before, Dylan had been uncertain what to expect. The experience once again left him wishing Nashville had a true public transit system. Traffic seemed to bombard him from every direction as soon as he got off I-40 at the Broadway exit.
It was enough to make him start praying again.
Just a couple of blocks up Broadway from the interstate was the imposing 1930s art deco building, once the main post office for Nashville, now the Frist Center for the Visual Arts, Nashville’s only art museum. It had opened when he was in high school, but Dylan had been forced to wait until he was seventeen and had his driver’s license before he’d been able to visit. Then every weekend when he wasn’t working or studying or adding pieces to his portfolio for college entrance applications, he was at the Frist, drinking in the ever-changing art exhibits from all over the world and representing all eras and mediums.
He slung the long strap of his bag over his head so it crossed his chest, and his sketch pad and pencils rested on his right hip, ready should inspiration strike. He made it to the top of the steps leading to the main entrance before he remembered he still had his cell phone in his pocket—reminded only when it started ringing.
Diverting from entering the door, he answered it. “Hello?”
“Mr. Bradley? Please hold for Dean Holtz.”
A frisson of excitement jolted through Dylan as the line went silent then clicked twice. The dean of Robertson’s art department wouldn’t be calling him personally if he didn’t have good news.
“Dylan, Leonard Holtz here. Wanted to tell you that I do need you for the spring semester. You’ll be teaching Italian Renaissance Art for the art history side and the special studies studio on portraiture for the BFA students.”
Portraiture. His first art love. And the talent that had led him astray—almost as far astray as Rhonda had led him. “Thank you, Dr. Holtz.”
“I understand from my secretary that you need to come in as soon as possible to fill out the paperwork and pick up the sample syllabi and curriculum requirements so you can start planning.”
Dylan glanced up at the stone facade of the art museum and let out a silent sigh. “I’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
“We’re glad to have you on board.”
Dylan echoed the dean’s farewell, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and trudged down the steps and back around the side of the building to his vehicle.
His ability to draw and paint realistic—somewhat embellished—human forms had paid his way through college. And eventually had become the leverage Rhonda had needed to get him to do whatever she wanted him to do.
How was he to know that no one at Watts-Maxwell cared that he’d illustrated the covers of steamy romance novels to pay his way through school?
No, he’d taken Rhonda’s word for it and allowed her to use that knowledge to coerce him into becoming her arm candy. And he’d let her because she was older, more experienced with the way the administration and school politics worked—and because she was the first person ever to show any pride in his accomplishments. Sure, after the first year or so, he’d realized it was the reflected glow of his success she wanted—she had discovered him; she had put his name on the Philadelphia art map.
At the intersection of Broadway and I-40, he considered for a moment whether surface streets or the interstate would be closer. But when he looked down Broadway to where it split at West End and saw the backed-up traffic, he made his choice. They might be farther distance-wise, but the interstates sure would be a lot faster.
Within the allotted twenty minutes, he found a parking space behind Davidson Hall, and chin tucked into the up-turned collar of his jacket—why did forty degrees in Nashville feel colder than the low teens in Philadelphia?—he started past Davidson Hall to cross the quadrangle to Sumner Hall. Halfway across, the quiet campus suddenly came alive with students pouring from the buildings, talking, laughing, calling to one another, talking on their cell phones.
Since they weren’t watching where they were going, Dylan paid close attention so he wouldn’t get run over or smack into anyone. He finally made it to Sumner—and to warmth. He didn’t remember it getting this cold in Nashville before Christmas, but he was going to have to give up the idea that he was accustomed to a colder climate and go ahead and get out his heavy coat when he got back to the carriage house.
“Dylan?”
He looked around, unable to tell where the echoing female voice came from against the noise of the students beginning to crowd the hall on their way to and from finals.
“Dylan Bradley?” She spoke again, this time from above him. Bridget Wetzler, the drama professor, came down the last few stairs, struggling to get her scarf untangled from the stack of books and papers she carried.
“Dr. Wetzler.” He took the end of the scarf from her hands, freed it from between a notebook and a textbook, and looped it loosely around her neck.
“Thanks.” She settled her armload of stuff on her more-than-ample hip. “It’s great that I ran into you. I was actually going to call you later on today.”
She, too, had red hair—in a shoulder-length bob, and he was pretty sure that it wasn’t her natural color, which, from the color of her eyebrows, he suspected was a dull, mousy brown—and she had greenish brown eyes and a white, straight smile. But nothing about her drove him mad with the desire to draw or paint her. “You were going to call me?”
“Yes. You see, the faculty holiday party is Friday evening, and I wondered if you might be interested in attending as my guest.”
Dylan resisted the urge to take a step back. Not that she wasn’t cute—in a plump, forty-is-the-new-thirty, cat-lady kind of way.
The drama teacher’s expressive face registered she’d recognized his shock. “Now, before you get freaked out being asked out by a total stranger, I’m asking because I know you’re trying to get on the faculty here, and if you do end up teaching as an adjunct in the spring, this is a great way for you to start getting to know some of the other faculty and adjuncts in a more relaxed, casual environment. You wouldn’t even have to feel the need to stay with me once we’re in the door. You could mingle and network as you see fit.”
And he could observe Caylor Evans without her even realizing it. No. No thoughts of the English professor whose Rubenesque beauty made her the perfect muse for someone who specialized in the Italian Renaissance style of painting. “Sounds like fun.”
“Great! Why don’t you just meet me at my office—I’m in Davidson 215—right around seven o’clock Friday evening, and we can walk over to the dining hall together. It is kinda dressy, so you’ll want to wear a suit and tie. The president always comes in a tuxedo—probably bought it for a wedding or something and figures this is the only opportunity he’ll have to get any use out of it.”
Dylan could relate—he could wear the two-thousand-dollar Armani suit from Boyds Rhonda had convinced him he needed. He’d bought it and paid to have it tailored (leading to his no longer being able to afford to stay in his own apartment six months ago), bought a pair of three-hundred-dollar wingtips, since none of his shoes were good enough for it, wore the ensemble out on a date with her once, and then listened in horrified disbelief when she told him a suit wasn’t the right look for him.
“And the vice president?” he asked.
“She has a little black dress that would make Audrey Hepburn jealous.” She looked at her watch and moved toward the doors. “I’ve got to run to a meeting with a student. But I’ll see you Friday?”
“I’ll meet you at your office at seven.”
As soon as she vanished out into the wind and cold and rush of students, Dylan took the stairs up to the third floor and found the dean’s suite of offices. The secretary gave him all the requisite paperwork, and he sat at the small table in the corner of her office to fill it out.
“I’ve got the photocopies of your transcripts that you dropped off with your curriculum vitae, but we’ll need official copies as soon as you can get them sent to us.”
He didn’t look up from the tax form. “I’ve already requested them from both schools. They should be here before next semester starts.”
A little while later, Dylan handed over the filled-out forms and accepted a manila folder of information about the classes he’d be teaching. Assured the secretary didn’t need anything else from him, Dylan left, opening the folder to look through it as he walked down the hall. Both classes were scheduled for Mondays and Wednesdays—Italian Renaissance Art from 9:30 to 10:45 in the morning, and the portraiture studio from 12:45 to 3:30. Good. Studio needed a double period.
He read the course descriptions next. The art history class he could teach in his sleep—he’d taught it every semester for the last four years at Watts-Maxwell. The one that he hadn’t taught before was portraiture, even though that had been his major field as a student.
Advanced studio work with studies from the live model.
Live model? Where was he supposed to find someone to come model for the class for three hours, two days a week? He was grateful it wasn’t a class with studies from a nude model. He didn’t consider himself a prude—and given the amount of bare flesh in Titian’s work, on which he’d written his master’s thesis, how could he?—but in both undergraduate and graduate school, the required drawing and painting studios that used nude models had presented some of the most uncomfortable moments of his life.
Of course, he was somewhat hypocritical with that—because drawing or painting a nude for purely artistic reasons had bothered him, but creating sensual, chest-baring, bosom-heaving images for steamy romance novels hadn’t raised a single qualm for him. At least not then.
But now…
No one knew the pseudonym he’d painted those covers under almost ten years ago. But those books had hit the bestseller lists. There were even a few websites dedicated to the cover art of those books, discussion forums about trying to discover the name of the male model the artist Patrick Callaghan had used for each of the six covers.
They’d be so disappointed if they learned the truth.
“Thank you so much for your call, Dr. Holtz. And thank you for keeping this just between us.” Perty turned off the cordless phone and set it on the table between the two armchairs, then picked up her knitting again, determined to get this sleeve set before lunch.
“I thought you weren’t going to interfere.” Gerald snapped the newspaper to straighten the pages.
“There’s interfering and then there’s helping out behind the scenes. I’m just helping out my grandson behind the scenes. Leonard needed additional adjuncts for the spring. I wanted to make sure he gave Dylan the consideration he deserves.”
Gerald grunted. “If the boy finds out, there’s no telling how he’ll react.”
She let the half-finished sweater fall back into her lap. “If he ever finds out. Hopefully if he ever does, he’ll be enjoying teaching at Robertson so much that he’ll be grateful instead of angry.”
Her husband grunted again and flipped the page of the section.
“He’s so different since he came back.” Perty ran her hand along the rib-knit cuff of the extra-long sleeve. The bright blue sweater would look so good on her extra-tall oldest grandson. Perhaps even bring a smile to his face—something she hadn’t seen since he’d driven in a week ago, his SUV loaded with all his worldly possessions, a world-weary forlornness in his expression that broke her heart.
“Defensive, for sure.”
“Oh, if I could get my hands on that woman…” Perty squeezed her fists, ignoring the slight pain in her knuckles. “She had no right to do what she did to my boy.”
“He’s not blameless in this, remember.”
“I’m not saying he’s blameless. He made a stupid choice. But what did she do to him in the years before that to get him to the point where he would make a decision like that? He was raised better.” For the past five years, her heart had ached just a little more each time he called to say he wasn’t coming home for Christmas. “I’m not calling names or making accusations, but isolating someone from his family is something that happens in abusive relationships.”
“True.”
She reached for her coffee cup, discovered it was empty, and set the knitting down into the basket beside her chair. “And why else would a handsome young man like Dylan get involved with a woman in her forties unless she somehow coerced him into it?”
Gerald didn’t respond. Frustrated, Perty took her coffee cup back into the kitchen to refill it. Compared to the sunroom, the kitchen was dark, the overcast sky outside not letting much light through.
Ready to settle in and enjoy her second cup—or was it her fourth? fifth?—she set the ceramic mug down on the warming plate and bent to pick up the knitting again.
Gerald looked up at her, looked down at his own empty coffee mug, and then back up at her with a comically pitiful expression.
“Oh for mercy’s sake.” She snatched the mug and took it in to refill it. He had, after all, made breakfast this morning and brought it to her, in her chair, on a tray.
“Thank you, my love.” Gerald caught her hand and kissed the back of it when she handed the cup to him.
She settled back into the plush wing chair and propped her feet on the matching ottoman. The fragrance of coconut tickled her senses as she sipped the strong, macaroon-flavored coffee.
“Have you ever considered that Dylan fell in love with this woman?” Gerald cradled his mug between his hands, as if warming them.
“No. He didn’t—he wouldn’t. Not with someone almost old enough to be his mother.”
“Do you remember what you always used to say about Dylan never acting his age as a boy?”
She tapped her thumbnail on the handle of the mug. “No.”
“Helen…”
Her face ached from trying not to smile. He only used her given name whenever he was about to lose it. Which, with him, meant going totally silent for the next twelve to twenty-four hours. “Oh, all right. Dylan has always acted older than his age because he has an old soul.”
“And…?”
“And that it wouldn’t surprise me if he ended up falling for a woman who’s older than he.” She set the cup back on the small electric warmer and picked up her knitting again. “But I never meant someone that much older. Five years, maybe ten. Not twenty. And definitely not someone who would pull him away from everything he grew up to believe in—like family and God.”
“Do you know for certain that he no longer believes in God?”
“Why else would he have abandoned all his morals and moved in with that…woman?” Unable to focus on the intricate stitches she needed to be making, Perty rested her hands in the nest of soft cotton-rayon-blend yarn.
With a sigh, Gerald pulled his reading glasses off, folded the bows closed, and tapped one end against his chin—just as he had probably done on countless occasions when on the bench. “Do you honestly believe that the only people who make bad choices are those who aren’t Christians?”
She, too, pulled off her reading glasses, letting them hang by the crystal-bejeweled chain around her neck. “Of course not. And I pray that is not the case with Dylan.”
“If memory serves, he had stopped attending church regularly before he graduated from high school—back when the building program became so divisive. He has always been overly sensitive to conflict. Made me wonder then if he was choosing Sunday shifts at the restaurant just so he didn’t have to witness the infighting at church.”
How had she not noticed this about her favorite grandchild—the one she’d always felt took after her more than after Gerald? (Not that she meant to have favorites, of course, but these things happened.)
The security alarm beeped twice, indicating someone had opened a door and that the system was disarmed.
“Gramps? Perty?”
“In the sunroom, dear,” she called.
Dylan came in, looking ruggedly windblown, his curly hair pulled back from his face with a band that hugged the crown of his head. He’d shaved for church Sunday, but not since then, apparently. Not that she minded at all. In their younger years, when on vacation, Gerald would forgo shaving, and she remembered liking that quite well.
“You left a message that you wanted to see me?” He unzipped his jacket to reveal a maroon flannel shirt over a white turtleneck. With well-worn but nice jeans, a brown belt, and brown outdoorsy lace-up boots, he could have passed for Paul Bunyan.
She pulled her feet off the ottoman and patted it, not wanting a crick in her neck from looking up at him.
He pulled off the jacket and tossed it over the footstool before sitting down.
A lump formed in Perty’s throat. How many hours had he sat there, on that stool, elbows on his knees, chin on his fists, listening to her read? Yet then it had always been with a sense of excitement in his eyes, a smile never far from his lips. What did she need to do to bring that back and erase the dolefulness that hung about him like an albatross?
“I figured you’d be at the museum all day, that we wouldn’t see you until later tonight.”
“I got a call from Dr. Holtz at Robertson to go in and sign the paperwork to teach next semester. Renaissance art history and a portraiture studio.” He ran his thumb over a worn spot in the denim near his left knee.
“That’s wonderful. I know you’ll love teaching there. Are they day or evening classes?”
He told her the schedule, and a bit of the melancholy left him as he talked about it, though with an economy of words. Still no smile, no sense of excitement or anticipation came to the surface by the time he finished.
“That will be a great foot in the door there if you decide you want to pursue a full-time faculty position should one come open next year.” Still no flicker. Maybe he would cotton to her next idea. “I had an idea last night that I wanted to run by you. You could make a little money from it if you wanted to, but it would mostly be a free service you’d provide.”
He raised his thick, dark brows—a genetic gift from her Eastern European roots—which she took to mean he was amenable to listening to the idea.
“Would you be interested in teaching an art class for the senior adults at church? It can be afternoons or evenings, whatever you prefer—but daylight hours work best for most of us—and you could charge a registration fee if you really wanted to, though most people would be doing well to be able to afford basic art supplies.”
His expression went through a myriad of changes—first attention, then interest, then—confusion? Confusion over what she was saying?
“Dylan?”
“Why?” He shook his head, the skin between his brows folding together in a frown.
“Why…what?” Now she was confused, too.
“Why do you want me to get up in front of all of your friends? As Dad pointed out Sunday, I know I’m a disappointment to everyone in the family.” He shrugged as if this were an inconsequential statement.
Perty leaned forward and pressed her palms to his stubbly cheeks, forcing him to look at her. “I may be disappointed in your actions, but I am not disappointed in you. I love you, and I could not be prouder of your accomplishments and talents. And I want to show all of my friends just how accomplished and talented”—she pulled her hands forward until his lips began to pucker—”and handsome my grandson is. Do you think I could take Paxton to that group and have him teach them something? No one would understand a word coming out of his mouth, bless his heart. Have Spencer teach them international business structures or Tyler talk to them about math?”
His face moved under her hands, both cheeks pulling upward. Her throat constricted as Dylan slowly smiled. He captured her wrists in his hands, pulled them away from his face, and kissed her palms.
“Thank you, Perty.”
“For what?”
“For proving me wrong.”