The sun tried to poke through the cloud cover as Jonathan strode up Market Street toward the Painted Stone and Fort Mackinac. Just when he wanted to pull his jacket collar up to protect his neck from the cold, he’d step into a pool of sunshine and feel spring.
He whistled a flat tune as he ambled. He had too much to accomplish to walk slowly, but the thought of seeing Alanna held him back. He sidestepped another tourist as he approached the paned-glass front of the studio. It beckoned him, but he stood a moment checking for Alanna through the windows. The studio stood stark, nobody filling its space. The ridiculousness of his hesitation tensed his shoulders. He needed to get in there, get the information, and leave. If he hadn’t promised Edward photos, he’d have called.
Space, he needed space to clear the hold Alanna’s return had on him. He needed to get his head straight. Fast. If Rachelle Stone had created that web page like he’d suggested, he wouldn’t have to approach Alanna now.
His phone buzzed against his hip. He snagged it and glanced at the caller ID. Since he didn’t recognize the number, he let it slide over to voice mail and opened the door. The bells jangled their greeting. He winced. Alanna would round the corner in a minute then freeze when she saw him. Not the kind of reaction he liked to elicit in a woman, especially one he was attracted to. He strode to a painting. Maybe if he stood engrossed in one, he could miss her inevitable reaction.
Jonathan picked a painting that illustrated the view from Fort Mackinac down across Lake Huron to the lighthouses. The artist had painted the field of grass a vibrant green—the color of cucumbers. Roofs poked through the trees until gentle waves rocked the island with a rich blue the color of a blue jay’s feathers. Lower, the Round Island Lighthouse peeked from the bottom right-hand corner of the painting, looking like a squat, barn-red ice-cream cone topped with vanilla custard.
The painting held Mrs. Stones scrawled signature in the corner but didn’t look right. Jonathan studied it a moment but couldn’t peg what bothered him. He snapped a photo with his phone then turned to the next painting. This one was a winter scene, the storefronts bursting with color against the blinding white of snow- covered streets.
The click of heels ricocheted against the hardwood floor. “Jonathan?”
He kept his gaze on the painting as he snapped a photo of it.
“What are you doing?”
“I have a client who wants to commission a painting for his wife in honor of their fortieth anniversary.”
“Why take photos?”
He turned to look at her, noting the fine lines straining the edges of her eyes. “He liked your mom’s art. Since she doesn’t have a website, he asked me to take some photos to e-mail him. Can I have her current contact info?”
Her jaw worked, not the reaction he’d expected. Shouldn’t she show some excitement that he’d made the recommendation?
“I doubt she has time right now with all Dad’s problems.”
Jonathan slipped his phone in his pocket. “Shouldn’t she make that decision? After all, aren’t you here to keep the studio running?
And doesn’t that mean they need the income a commission like this could provide?”
The lines tightened as she frowned at him. “I don’t like it.”
“Okay. I don’t like these paintings.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re missing something.”
Alanna fisted her hands against her hips in a tight stance. “Excuse me?”
“They don’t quite fit Rachelle’s style.” The words sounded stupid as he said them.
Alanna felt heat flush her neck. It wasn’t from his presence. Couldn’t be.
Could her mom accept the commission? Even a few thousand dollars would help immensely. She watched Jonathan for a moment. He nosed closer to the painting until his schnoz almost touched the paint-layered canvas. He stepped back and squinted. He looked ridiculous, but she mimicked his motions. As she neared the layers of paint, she stilled.
That’s what bothered her.
Mom didn’t layer oils like she had in these paintings.
Sure, she liked to add a sense of texture, but these paintings seemed to have the oils caked. Maybe her style had evolved. It wasn’t like Alanna had paid tons of attention since she bolted from the island. College then law school and launching a career had absorbed her.
Mom had given her small paintings of her favorite spots on the island for the occasional birthday and Christmas presents. The lighthouses. A favorite cottage. Altogether it formed a nice collage of the area. But she hadn’t seen large paintings for a long time other than those at the cottage. Long enough for Mom’s technique to change and get heavier?
Alanna didn’t know, but she wouldn’t admit anything. “You’re ridiculous.”
He shrugged. “Maybe, but your mom’s one of the best artists around. My client has planned an anniversary weekend here for his wife. A painting that commemorates their love and the island is ideal.” He squinted at the painting then turned to her. “But I want her to paint. Not some knockoff.”
Alanna jolted at his tone. “How can you say that?”
“Because these aren’t your mom’s paintings. And I have proof.” He turned to the winter scene. “See here. . .” He pointed at Ste. Anne’s Church. “Rachelle would have ensured the stained-glass windows were accurate.”
“Maybe she wanted to do something different.” But she knew Jonathan was right. Her mom loved that church, always had. Mom had wanted to renew her vows there but changed her mind when Alanna refused to come. Remorse cloaked Alanna at her selfishness. She should have swallowed her anger and forced herself to return for one ceremony. She could have taken the ferry back as soon as the celebration ended. Instead, she’d claimed a case wouldn’t let her escape. She’d let her pride and fear hold her back.
Now that seemed ridiculous. After all, how many locals had hounded her the few days she’d been back?
“You with me?” Jonathan’s voice jerked her from her thoughts.
“You’re still wrong.”
“Nope, and I’ll find a way to prove it.”
She turned from the painting and felt pulled into his gaze. His eyes reflected his high intelligence. If she wasn’t careful, he would identify what was wrong with the painting. “What?”
“You know I’m tenacious.”
With everything but chasing her. How many mistaken relationships could she have avoided if he’d asked her to come back? “Most of the time.”
His eyebrow arched. “Really. Then I’ll show you how much it’s woven in the fabric of who I am.”
“Why waste your time on something so insignificant?”
“It’s not if I suggest a client buy a painting from your mother only to learn he didn’t get what he paid for.”
She tore her gaze from his and pivoted so her body angled toward the painting and away from him. Heat flushed her cheeks, but she prayed he didn’t notice. If he did, he’d know immediately that the possibility bothered her, too.
“What about Jacklyn?”
He looked at her like she’d gone crazy. “What?”
“Don’t you have a child with her?”
Color flushed up his neck. “Seriously? You think that?”
The shrill ring of the phone pierced the space between them like a wonderful warning. She hurried toward the desk, her stomach twisting at his expression. “I’ve got to get that.”
Jonathan didn’t move. His stillness reminded her of an alert Doberman. Poised and ready to pounce but studying the surroundings first. Exactly what she didn’t need.
She had to call Mom and find out what was going on with those paintings.
The phone rang as she picked it up. “The Painted Stone.”
“Hello. This is Patience. Is this Alanna?”
Alanna’s heart sank at the sound of her mom’s best friend. She shouldn’t be surprised that Mrs. Matthews would eventually call.
“A little birdie told me you’d returned.” The voice held the warmth of someone welcoming the prodigal home.
Alanna rubbed at a knot of tension at her temple. “Arrived a few days ago.”
“And you haven’t called?” The woman clucked her tongue. “My dear child, I promised your mother I would keep an eye on you. Can’t do that if you never come by.”
Alanna couldn’t think of the last time she’d been called a child. She’d slipped that title off at least fifteen years earlier.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She sighed. “I’ve been busy keeping everything going.”
“For a successful attorney like you? I doubt the studio is the least challenge.”
Jonathan cleared his throat, and Alanna glanced his way. He pointed to his watch then the door. “I’ll be back.”
“All right.” They’d have to finish their conversation. But postponing it until after she talked to Mom provided a needed reprieve. She had to figure out what was going on. Shouldn’t be too difficult for someone who pieced together complex disputes.
“Alanna Stone.” Mrs. Matthews’s tone was tinged with welcome.
She rubbed her temple harder. “I’ll stop by soon. It’s tricky with the studio’s hours.”
“Your mother always managed.”
Alanna didn’t even attempt to hide her sigh. “I’m not Mom.”
“That is true.” The old woman chuckled. “Your mother’s life would have been easier these last years if you’d been more like her in your teens.”
The bell jangled, and Alanna turned back around. She smiled as she watched Mr. Tomkin walk in, a padfolio tucked under his arm. Just the distraction she needed.
“Well, thank you for calling. I’ve got to assist a customer.”
Alanna hung up without waiting for Mrs. Matthews’s goodbye. She’d learned in fourth-grade Sunday school that little short of perfection satisfied the woman. She already knew she wasn’t perfect.
“Mr. Tomkin. What can I do for you?” Anything he needed couldn’t be harder than dealing with Mrs. Matthews and Jonathan.