DYLAN COULD FEEL anxiety radiating from Carrie as she led him through the front door of the bungalow a few blocks from his house.
He didn’t understand it. She knew he believed in her talent, possibly more than she did. He also understood her willingness to share this portion of herself was a gift, one he wouldn’t take for granted.
She flipped on the light, revealing a charming space filled with neutral-toned furnishings interspersed with colorful pillows, rugs and accents that lent the room an eclectic yet inviting feel. The homey living room connected to a small but functional kitchen with white cabinets, stainless-steel appliances and a small maple dining room set on one side.
“This place looks like you,” he told her with a smile.
“I used to rent Gray’s carriage house, but it felt a little too cozy once he and Avery got together. This house works for what I need just as well, although I dream of owning a place of my own one day.”
“What’s going on with your dad’s house?”
She shrugged as she placed her purse and keys on the table behind the sofa. “We’ve got to get through probate before we can sell it. I’m not sure who would buy the place at this point. It’s kind of oversize for Magnolia. Maybe a family new to town or someone who’d want to convert it to a bed-and-breakfast.”
“I still can’t believe none of you want it.” Living in that big house overlooking the rest of the neighborhood had seemed part and parcel to who Carrie was. Her father’s princess. Dylan knew the old antebellum structure had been as much a prison as a castle, but he still associated it with her.
“Not at all,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s strange but after we cleaned it out, I wanted nothing more to do with that house. In fact, I haven’t been over there in almost a month. Avery says we can deal with it once the estate is settled, but I’m not sure how involved I’ll be. It represents a time in my life that I’d prefer not to revisit.”
“Then don’t ever go back,” he told her, understanding the need to leave the past in the past. He never went near the part of town where he’d lived as a kid. There was nothing for him there but bad memories.
He turned as a cacophony of tiny meows and cries sounded from the back of the house.
“My fosters,” Carrie explained, her eyes darting to the hallway and then to him. “I need to check on them for a minute. You can wait here or else I’m using the spare bedroom—second door on the right—as my studio.”
“Okay,” he said as she walked away. He wasn’t sure which she wanted him to do but curiosity left him unable to resist heading down the hall.
He passed her bedroom and tried not to notice the intimacy of the sliver of bed he could see from the partially open door. Instead, he opened the door she’d indicated as her studio space. The room smelled of turpentine and acrylic paint, a mix of scents he’d always associated with Carrie.
She might have stopped painting for years, but she’d never quit being an artist. It was a part of her, much like her identity as Niall’s daughter.
His breath caught in his throat as he flipped on the light, and he heard her soft footsteps approach behind him as he walked into the room.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, taking in the rows of a half dozen canvases. “Do you sleep?”
“Not a lot,” she answered, her voice tight with anticipation.
“They’re stunning.”
“You don’t have to say that,” she told him, almost defensively.
“It’s true. The style is different than what you used to do.”
“I don’t even know what to call it. Something between intense impressionism and fluid realism. It’s certainly a change from the paintings I do at the store. This is just what comes out when I let myself feel. Back in high school I was so concerned with getting all the technical bits right. I thought I needed to be deliberate and methodical because that’s how my father taught me to paint. Now it’s like the brush has a mind of its own. I get totally engrossed and lose track of the time. I love the unpredictability of it, which kind of feels like a joke given how much the chaos of the past few months has been a burden to me.”
“You feel it,” Dylan said, drawn forward by the emotion he could see in the work. The color and bold brush strokes, along with the unique compositions of the pieces. “They’re sensual,” he murmured then chuckled at the incredulous look she gave him.
“My sisters said the same thing, but I don’t paint like that on purpose. I’m not trying to be provocative.”
“Doesn’t change that they are. It’s not a criticism, Carrie. These paintings express who you are. I can’t believe how many canvases you have with how busy the rest of your life has been lately.”
She moved to stand next to him, ran a finger along the edge of one canvas. “It’s like a dam broke inside me. All those years of not painting. I told myself I didn’t miss it, that I was happy taking care of my dad. But...”
“You weren’t happy,” he said, hating himself for leaving her with Niall. Maybe if she would have gone with Dylan, things could have been different for them.
“I wasn’t unhappy.” She turned to him, her eyes flashing as if daring him to argue. “My dedication to this town isn’t fabricated. I love it here. I always have. Yes, I had moments that I wished my life could have gone in another direction. You were a part of one of those moments.”
“I wish we’d both made different choices back then,” he murmured.
“I understand that everyone wants to think badly of Niall for how he handled his life. I’m not denying that my father was a deeply flawed man who made innumerable mistakes, but in most of those he wasn’t alone. Take the money he gave you.” She laughed without humor. “I mean, you took money to break up with me. Yes, it was awful that he bribed you, but you had a choice. We all make choices.”
Dylan did his best not to wince. He hated the reminder of how much he’d messed up. But not for the reasons Carrie thought.
“I didn’t deserve you,” he said softly, remembering that time in his life. The anger that had overwhelmed him to the point where he didn’t know if he could control the darkness inside him. “You were so filled with light and—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like breaking my heart was some kind of altruistic gesture. I might have been young, but I wasn’t totally naive. I wanted you and would have done anything to make it work. You were the only reason I would have found the nerve to leave. But you gave up on us. More than that. You threw me aside for a check. Just be honest. Tell me I wasn’t enough. I could deal with the truth easier than I can manage your placating lies.”
Her words gutted him. Without thinking he reached into his back pocket and yanked out his wallet. “You want the truth?” He opened it and took out the worn slip of paper, thrusting it toward her before he could think better of it.
Her delicate brows furrowing, she opened the folded check. “What’s this?”
“What does it look like?” he demanded, then forced himself to take a breath as her eyes filled with tears. “God, Carrie, don’t cry. The last thing I wanted to do by giving you that was to make you cry.”
“Why?” she asked, her jaw set in a tight line. “Why didn’t you cash it? How come you let me believe you took his money?”
“I did take it,” Dylan said. “Not because I wanted your father’s money but when he gave me the check, he told me that I wasn’t good enough for you. He knew my dad and his temper. He knew the trouble I’d been in and the path I seemed set to go down. Hell, the whole town knew you could do better than me.”
“I didn’t,” she whispered.
“That was the problem. You saw something in me that wasn’t there. I had to prove to you I couldn’t be the man you wanted—needed—me to be.”
She flipped the check around and held it up to him as if he hadn’t looked at it a thousand times in the past ten years. “By lying?”
His name across the “pay to the order of” line in Niall’s loopy scrawl. The date of it—twenty-four hours before Niall told Carrie about the bribe. Two days before she tracked him down and confronted Dylan, nursing the worst hangover of his life. Three days before Dylan packed up his meager belongings and left behind Magnolia and the girl who’d captured his heart.
For good he’d thought at the time.
“I didn’t lie. I took the check.”
“Dylan.” The way she said his name, like an exasperated teacher trying to rein in a recalcitrant student made his lips quirk. He continued to be shocked at how much he liked her displays of inner resolve. He’d always known she had that strength inside her. “You never cashed it.”
“I planned to,” he lied and the way her eyes narrowed told him he wasn’t fooling her for a minute. “I would have if I’d ever needed the money.”
“You needed the money.”
Yeah. He had. He’d made it to Boston and his uncle’s doorstep with literally pennies to his name. “It wasn’t about the money,” he said honestly.
“No,” she agreed. “It was about finding a way to break it off with me.”
“Because you deserved better.”
“Enough with that tired line.” She ripped the check in half and then ripped it again and again and tossed the tiny scraps of paper toward him. “Do you think this makes it better? You let me believe for all these years that you’d been bribed by my father. At least I could take solace in knowing the money he gave you would have set you up in a new life.”
Dylan muttered a curse. “I can’t believe you made that statement. I allowed myself to be bought off by your dirtbag father and you rationalize things by telling yourself that I needed the money?”
Her eyes blazed. “It’s an easier pill to swallow than knowing you were so hell-bent on getting away from me that the check was just a lousy excuse.”
He shook his head, wishing he could shake her until she understood what it had done to him to walk away from her. She’d been the only good thing in his life, and he’d crushed his own heart in order to save her from him.
“I would have let you go. If you didn’t love me, I wouldn’t have wanted to hold on to you.” Her voice cracked and she drew in a shuddery breath. “You didn’t have to lie.”
“I loved you more than anyone or anything I’d ever known.” He stepped closer to her, studied the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. So many aspects of both of them—who they were and who they’d become—had changed in the intervening years. Somehow, the small physical reminder of the girl she’d been gave him a huge measure of comfort.
“You shouldn’t have left me that way,” she said, her tone firm.
“You’re right.”
She sucked in a breath as if his agreement defused her anger in a way that surprised her. He wished he could explain it or promise her that he wouldn’t hurt her again.
If he believed that about himself, he’d take her in his arms right now and never let her go.
Instead, he forced himself to look away from her. Her paintings surrounded them—the passion she’d put into each one evident. What if he ruined things again? What if he found a way to hurt them both?
“This is who you are,” he told her. “An artist. You deserve to explore your gifts, to figure out what you want from your life away from your father’s shadow.”
“Possibly away from Magnolia.” She gave voice to the truth he didn’t want to hear.
“Yes.” He traced one finger along the curve of her cheek. “I know you had dreams that didn’t involve this town, Carrie. I remember everything, each little detail you shared. You wanted to travel. To go to Europe and see the Eiffel Tower, to walk along the Seine and spend the afternoon at a small café.”
Her eyes drifted closed as she pressed into him. “It seems ridiculous now that I stayed. I was such a coward.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. My mom left. You left. I can tell myself and everyone else that I stayed because Dad needed me, but I needed him just as much. I wanted an excuse not to face the world and risk failing.” She swallowed, looked away. “To risk knowing whether my father was right about my lack of talent.”
“You’re talented.” Unable to help himself, Dylan reached for her, pulled her close.
For a weighted breath she remained stiff in his arms. Then she sagged against him and he held her, hoping that his embrace, the beat of his heart, would tell her all the things he couldn’t say out loud.
He didn’t want to be her enemy but wasn’t sure he knew how to accept the thought of being her friend enough to satisfy him.
“Thank you for sharing your art with me.” He might not be sure of anything, but he knew this was a special gift.
She inclined her head, gave him a crooked smile. “Thanks for not letting my dad bribe you.”
“I’m sorry I took the check at all.”
“Me, too.” She brushed a kiss across his lips. He appreciated her honesty even if he wanted more. The kiss was filled with apology and acceptance. It was as if they’d come to an understanding and moved beyond their damaged past.
At least that was his hope.
“I should go,” he said before he lost himself in her. With the truth in the open between them, the last bit of the wall guarding his heart also came down. If he let himself, he could fall for her again.
Who was he kidding? Dylan was tumbling down the hill full speed at this point. But he knew that meant nothing but trouble for both of them.
She looked like she wanted to argue. Damn if he didn’t want her to.
She stepped away instead. “Thank you again for rescuing my lights.”
“My pleasure,” he said, realizing it truly was. He might not believe in all the Christmas fanfare, but even he could see that Carrie embracing her identity as an artist was a true miracle.
He walked out of her house into the cool evening, feeling a level of contentment he hadn’t known in ages.
Just as he got to his car, a text message flashed on his phone. It was from Steven Ross.
Signed the deal. Let’s do this.
Dylan’s stomach tumbled then went into a free fall like a boulder dislodged from the side of a mountain and pitched over a cliff. He had the funding he needed to turn the old textile factory into luxury housing. No more possibility of a new company taking over that space, the way Carrie and Malcolm seemed to hope.
As he drove through the festive streets, bright with colorful lights and cheery holiday inflatables, he tried to convince himself that wouldn’t change anything. Carrie had always known his plans.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing except his heart.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Carrie whirled around at the sound of her sister’s voice early the next morning. Avery stood in the entrance to the gallery, eyes wide as she took in the newly transformed space.
“I’m sorry,” Carrie offered without preamble. “I know we’d talked about a few pop-up sip-and-paint events throughout the weekend to encourage more business for the studio.”
Nerves fluttered across Carrie’s spine and she forced her voice to stay even. She didn’t like disappointing people and understood her painting classes brought in much-needed revenue. “But this is The Reed Gallery. I want it to continue as an art gallery. I mean, technically you own it so you can tell me to shut the heck up and teach book clubs and bunco groups how to draw cutesy scenes all day long.”
“You’re really painting,” Avery murmured as she moved forward into the space.
“You knew that.” Carrie shrugged. “I showed you one of my canvases.”
“Yes,” Avery agreed, “but it was only one. I didn’t know you were doing this much.”
Carrie followed her sister’s gaze. She’d gone to bed after Dylan left last night, somehow physically exhausted from the emotional release of knowing the truth behind his leaving years ago. Not that his reasons changed anything. He’d taken the check, let her believe he’d cashed it. He still left.
But knowing he hadn’t been bribed by her father...mattered.
She’d slept better than she had in weeks but woken in the wee hours, suddenly consumed with the thought of truly revealing herself. Not just to Dylan but to the town, to the world, to herself. She wanted to be more than Niall Reed’s daughter. More than everyone’s most reliable helper.
She wanted to finally claim her place in the town.
She’d stacked the canvases in the back of the station wagon and headed for the gallery while the winter sky was still inky dark.
After carrying her work into the gallery, she’d pushed the paint party supplies to the back wall, stripped the posters and canvases they’d hung and started positioning her works throughout the main gallery. It was like putting a bit of her soul on display.
Her palms sweat and her heart pounded like she’d just sprinted down Main Street stark naked.
These paintings weren’t just color and brush strokes. They were a part of her—who she was and what it had taken for her to get there. Maybe other people wouldn’t be able to see how much of herself she’d put onto each canvas, but Carrie knew.
The expression on Avery’s face conveyed that she understood, as well.
“It’s time,” Carrie said simply.
Avery didn’t answer. Instead, she enveloped Carrie in a tight hug then picked up the hammer that sat on a nearby chair. “Let’s get the rest of them up. If you don’t put Magnolia on the map with the festival, then certainly the art will do it.”
Carrie released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “You aren’t upset about me changing the plan for today? I do understand the gallery legally belongs to—”
“This space is yours as much as it is mine,” Avery said, squeezing Carrie’s shoulder. “Your art belongs here.”
Carrie turned on her favorite holiday music playlist and they worked in companionable silence until the bells chimed over the door to the entrance sometime later.
“What the hell is going on in here? You’re hijacking the festival,” Meredith announced.
They’d gotten all of the paintings hung over the course of the past hour. For the first time in years, the gallery felt alive. Yes, she’d kept it open even after her dad had stopped painting—or at least stopped selling his art. She’d had enough of his old works to space out on the walls. But they’d felt tired and haphazard, a desperate attempt to stay relevant instead of a true expression of his talent.
Now, with the vibrant colors and bold lines of her own compositions under the professional light Niall had installed when money was flush, it all felt real.
Right.
“We’re just finishing,” she said, turning to her younger sister. Carrie gasped as she realized Meredith wasn’t alone.
She’d entered the gallery, but a row of people stood on the other side of the big picture window, their gazes moving between Carrie and the art that surrounded her.
“Is this all yours?” Meredith asked.
“Yes,” Carrie breathed, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “They’ve been pouring out of me. It feels like ten years’ worth of emotion dumped onto the canvases.” She gave a strangled laugh. “And now I’m wondering why I picked this morning to hang them.”
Avery came out of the office at that moment. “What’s everyone doing?”
“I just got to town and this is how I found them.” Meredith glanced over her shoulder. “No one is working on setup for the festival because they’re all too busy gawking at our soon-to-be famous artist sister.”
“I doubt that,” Carrie answered.
Meredith whistled as she approached one of the larger canvases. “Now I get why Niall made you believe you had no talent. His ego never would have been able to handle how much better you were than him.”
“We had different styles.” Carrie crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly self-conscious. “Seriously, I need them to stop staring in at me like I’m some kind of zoo animal.”
“Get used to it,” Meredith advised. “I have a feeling this is only the start. Wave to your adoring public, Care-bear. It’s good practice.”
Cheeks burning, Carrie forced herself to meet the gazes of the people watching, most of whom she’d known since childhood.
As if on cue, all of them broke into applause. Even with the door closed, she could hear the cheering.
Her eyes filled with tears that she blinked away. “Now I know how Sally Field felt at the Oscars,” she told her sisters, trying to keep a hold on her emotions.
“That’s right.” Meredith patted her shoulder. “They like you and your immense talent. Now let’s go get ready for the festival.”
“Okay.” Carrie nodded and swiped at her eyes.
She grabbed a jacket and followed Avery and Meredith out onto the sidewalk.
“We know she’s amazing,” Meredith announced, “but we need to focus, people. You can come to the gallery later tonight and fawn over Carrie.” She pointed a finger at the group. “No talking about the art. Not yet. Carrie will get all verklempt and we need her on her ‘A’ game today.”
“‘A’ game,” Carrie repeated then huffed out a laugh. “Good to know.”
Avery patted her back. “There’s no point in arguing when she’s like this.”
“I understand.”
So did everyone else, apparently. Even Mayor Mal nodded and started across the street to the town square where most of the activities would be centered for the weekend.
“It’s her dog trainer tone,” Avery said.
“I like it.”
Carrie followed the crowd. Josie opened her mouth to speak then snapped it shut again when Meredith threw her a warning look. Instead, the older woman gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up and hurried along with the rest of the business owners.
Carrie couldn’t help the glow of pride radiating through her chest.
But now she needed to focus on the festival.
She glanced at her watch and then up at the sky. Streaks of pink and purple trailed above her. It was going to be a good day. A great day.
Everything was finally working out right.