Sculpting Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 2) (10 page)

I tapped on the computer's keys idly for a minute, trying to think of a solution. I could probably teach him to use one of the websites, I decided. Maybe not more than one, but I could probably get by with one - or at least write up basic instructions so that he could handle it. That, at least, would solve the technical side.

As for the issue of his acrid and contentious personality clashing with his fans... I really didn't know how I could fix that. Maybe they'd appreciate his bluntness?

I did a bit more poking around online, but kept on getting distracted by the growling of my stomach. If I was going to keep working on this problem, I decided to myself, I needed to take care of my growing hunger pangs.

A half hour later, I munched on a freshly pressed turkey and tomato panini as I pored over my computer. As it turned out, I'd discovered, there were actually a whole host of different websites out there in the wilds of the Internet that offered "all-in-one" social media tools. Post one thing on the one website, and it would automatically distribute that post out across every other channel. No need to visit Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Twitter, and more in order to share a new status update - post on the tool, and it would go to all of them at once!

I just needed to pick one of these all-in-one tools.

It took me most of the afternoon to get everything set up, but finally, just as I finished off my mid-afternoon cup of coffee to re-up my caffeine buzz, I sent out a test message. I waited for a moment, closing my eyes and crossing my fingers - and then checked the various social media profiles I'd constructed for de St. James.

It worked! I nearly jumped up from my seat in happiness, only holding back at the thought of how silly I might look to the other patrons of the coffee shop when this seemingly professional woman started dancing around and grinning like a lunatic.

Still, I couldn't keep a smile off of my face. Dean Benjamin de St. James now had an official Instagram, Twitter, Facebook page, and even a Pinterest board. I'd scrolled back through the articles that I'd found on him, adding both the links and the cropped out images to his new social media accounts so that they wouldn't seem blank. And, even as I celebrated the success of my test post, I got a little notification from the social media manager - I'd just gotten my very first like!

Great! Things were working! I barely had enough patience to put together a quick little user guide for de St. James (complete with as many screenshots as I could manage, with red arrows pointing to all of the relevant buttons) before I just had to get out and head over to de St. James' house to show him.

Challenge, schmallenge! I totally had these three tasks for de St. James under control!

When I arrived at the man's house, however, I couldn't bring myself to physically climb out of my truck and head inside. Even just looking up at the deceptively pleasant exterior of his house reminded me of all the dirtiness and filth on the inside, of how de St. James had given me nothing but sneering attitude.

I didn't really need to show him this right away, did I? After all, if I showed him the social media stuff now, he'd just keep on calling me over the next few days as I worked on the other two tasks, pestering me and keeping me from focusing.

All around, I finally concluded, it would be much better for me to wait until I'd successfully accomplished all three tasks. That way, I could go give him everything he needed at the same time. The benefits of this plan, as I saw, were twofold; first, I'd be able to drop everything on him at once, so he couldn't pester me with questions. Second - and more importantly - I wouldn't need to set foot in de St. James' house more than once.

I knew that I was delaying on purpose out of selfish reasons, but it only took one brief recollection of that squirming thing, whether it had been a particularly small mouse or an especially large cockroach, disappearing into the newspaper in de St. James' studio for me to decide.

I'd give him the documentation and good news later.

I sat in my truck for another couple of minutes, looking out at the deceptively beautiful and artistic house in front of me (how had de St. James ended up here? The house had such nice lines, looked so elegant! It deserved better than to be turned into a garbage-filled hoarder's home). Just as I finally reached for my keys, intending to head back to the gallery and go check in again on Lizzie as she wrapped up her day, my phone started buzzing in my purse.

I jumped at the sudden sound, frantically convinced for an instant that de St. James was staring out his window and could see me parked in front of his house. When I fished the phone out of my purse, however, I instead saw that the call came from Carter. I smiled at the picture of him, hair tousled and brown eyes warm, that appeared in my head as I swiped across the screen to answer.

"Hey there, you," I greeted him as I held the phone up to my ear.

"Hey there, yourself," he returned, his voice warm and rich even over the phone's connection. "How are things going? How's life in interesting times treating you?"

I glanced over at the passenger seat, at my computer and the printed-out notes on how de St. James could manage all his social media. "You know, it's not nearly as bad as I thought it would be, at least so far."

"That's good, that's good," he said, sounding like he was thinking about something else. I waited as he paused for a moment, and then continued on. "Listen, do you have any plans for this evening? I happen to be free, and there's this new restaurant that I've had my eye on trying for a while..."

Normally, I'd happily accept a dinner invitation from Carter, a lead-in to a night of sparkling conversation, flirty glances, and definitely plenty of sexual tension - but the list that de St. James had given me beckoned, reminded me of my duty. I hated to turn down Carter, especially when he sounded so cute and hopeful on the phone, but I needed to get these tasks checked off.

"I'm afraid that I'll need to take a rain check," I sighed. "See, de St. James assigned me a few tasks that I need to do for him, in order to prove that I'm trustworthy. I've managed to get a good start on the first one today, but there are still two more, and I really want to get through them all before he gives up confidence in me."

"Three tasks? He's got you running around on the Labors of Hercules," Carter cracked, but I still heard the note of disappointment in his voice. "I suppose that I can wait, as long as these tasks don't end up keeping you away from me for too long."

"One out of three is already finished!" I pointed out to him. "So at worst, you'll just have to put up with not seeing me for a couple more days, and then I'll take that dinner invitation. And if all goes well, maybe I'll even be able to pay for one of our dates out!"

"You know, I really don't have a problem with you just owing me a lot of favors," Carter replied to that, and I had to grin at his irrepressible determination.

"I'll talk to you later, maybe tomorrow," I promised. "I'll explain what's going on, and maybe you can even help me out with these."

"Sure thing. Take care, Becca." And he hung up.

I lowered the phone, gazed at it for a minute before putting it back in my purse and turning my truck back towards home. It hadn't just been my imagination, I was pretty sure - Carter sounded a little frustrated with me at the end of the call, there. I knew that, after our first couple dates, things had slowed down between us, but I just wanted to take my time, to not plunge into another potentially disastrous relationship right after finally struggling out of my failed marriage. Surely he understood that.

Maybe I could sneak in a dinner with him tomorrow, especially if I made more progress on these tasks, I decided as a compromise as I drove through the quiet streets of Davis on my way home.

That would help soothe any ruffled feathers.

Of course, if I'd foreseen the disastrous evening that this innocent little thought would bring, I would have immediately deep-sixed the idea...

Chapter Twelve

*

The next morning, I couldn't quite get myself dressed and ready for work in time to be at the Halesford Gallery when it opened - but hey, what are assistants for?

"Halesford Gallery, this is Lizzie," came Lizzie's voice, two rings after I dialed the number for my workplace.

"Hi Lizzie, it's Becca," I greeted her, sipping comfortably on my coffee, still dressed in my pajamas. "Just wanted to call and make sure that everything's going smoothly this morning."

This was great! I could check in on my assistant, make sure that the gallery was open and ready, without even having to change out of my pajamas! I could really get used to this.

"Yeah, things are going about the same as normal," Lizzie replied, but I heard the note of melancholy in her voice.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She sighed loudly into the receiver, giving me the brief impression that the gallery was being struck by a localized tornado. "I mean, there's still been, like, no sales! I thought that I'd be helping people, you know? Selling stuff! But I'm basically just stuck here with nothing to do but screw around on my phone, and Mark won't even text me back because he's annoyed that I didn't tell him about how Jillian felt, and-"

"Lizzie! Lizzie!" I tried in vain to get a word or two in edgewise, but eventually gave up and focused instead on drinking my coffee as Lizzie's litany of complaints tumbled past me. I understood what she was saying - business was definitely slow - but she didn't have to take advantage of all this downtime to talk my ear off!

Finally, when the girl paused for breath (she must have amazing lung capacity, I thought to myself with a twinge of envy), I managed to speak up. "Lizzie, I know, and I'm sorry that it's not perfect," I said quickly. "But look, why don't you think of some ways that we could try and fix it?"

She paused. "What do you mean?"

The words had just slipped out of me on the spur of the moment, but I couldn't bite them back now. "I mean, why not try and think of some ways for us to get more people in the door?" I pressed on. "How could we advertise, or convince more people to buy art? What sort of things could the gallery do, or add, or say?"

"Really?" Her voice had changed completely, going from hopelessly despondent to full of excitement. "I can try and come up with advertising?"

"Nothing expensive, and I haven't yet given you a budget," I quickly warned her, not wanting this to get out of hand, but she was already making little squeaking noises with glee. "Don't commit to any orders yet!"

"Oh, Becca, thank you thank you thank you!" Lizzie practically shouted into the phone, and then went off on a tangent about how she knew that she was creative, she'd done really well in high school art and had thought of being an advertising executive, and a bunch of other stuff that I didn't fully hear.

"Well, it sounds like you've got things under control," I finally said into the phone, although Lizzie was still babbling on and I wasn't sure if she could even hear my words. "I'll leave you to it, then."

I hung up and glanced over at Salem, who had padded out of his little round kitty bed to watch me enjoy my morning cup of coffee. "Excitable girl," I told him.

He just blinked back at me, yawned to reveal a bright pink tongue, and then flopped over on his side so that he could go back to sleep.

After forcing myself up off of the couch and into my bedroom in order to get dressed (if I stayed in my pajamas, I knew, my motivation would never really materialize), I turned my attention next to item two on de St. James' list: FIND NEW MODELS.

"New models of what?" I asked aloud. Did he want people to pose for him? Was he looking for something else, given that his sculptures all appeared purely abstract? I really didn't understand what he needed.

I paced around my apartment a few times, repeating "find new models" out loud to myself over and over, but nothing new came into my head. Salem watched me, looking smug that he didn't have to face my problems.

There wasn't any other way, I decided. Although I really didn't want to have to go back to the man's house, I needed clarification.

Fortunately, I still had the contact information that Onyx had provided to me. I dove into my purse, pulling out various receipts and other odds and ends, until I located that sheet of paper. Unfolding it, I grinned as I saw that my memory hadn't failed me.

There, at the top of the page above his address, was de St. James' phone number. I hoped that speaking with him by phone wouldn't be quite as intimidating as confronting him face to face.

I dialed the number and listened to it ring, on and on. I tried to count how many times I heard the other end buzz, but lost count somewhere after eighteen or so. Did de St. James not own an answering machine?

Finally, however, just as I was about to hang up, give up, and maybe try calling him again in a few hours, I heard the other end of the line click. "Yes, what is it, dammit?" growled de St. James' unmistakable voice.

And, of course, he sounded angry.

"Hi! It's me - Becca Grace, from the Halesford Gallery!" I greeted him, trying my best to sound both courteous and pleasant. Maybe, if I just pushed enough positive emotion through the line, I could charm him and get rid of his bad mood-