The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove (19 page)

“So, Miss Art Critic. Do you have a name?”

She hesitated a bit. “Um…Ruth. Ruthie.”

Damn if she wasn’t blushing, that petal perfect skin turning ever so pink. “Tell me, Ruthie, do you work here?”

“Sometimes,” she said.

“And what do you do when you’re not working here?”

“Oh…a little of this and a little of that.” She licked her lips.

Now why would she be nervous? It couldn’t be because of him, could it? He smiled slowly at the thought. May as well test the waters. He stepped closer to her and gently took the tray from her hands, putting it on the little half-moon table underneath the painting. He purposefully moved into her personal space and touched her cheek. “Well…Ruthie…maybe I could escort you home after you finish here and you could tell me more about ‘a little of this and a little of that.’”

At that moment a man came walking toward them with Sir Galahad written all over him. Ruthie saw the man and grabbed the remaining champagne flute off the tray.

“Excuse me,” she said, and hurried to meet the man. “Charles,” she called. “Look what I saved for you.” She handed him the drink and took his arm, steering him back out to the large room.

Gus sighed. Hell and Damnation. That was a bust. He waited for his blood to cool before heading back out to find Mary Keith. He’d look at her husband’s paintings more closely, but for damn sure he’d buy the one in the hallway.

Lia barely managed to make it to Charles without spilling the champagne, and wouldn’t that have been charming with the Wolff watching. She tried to ignore her still-thumping heart and listen to Charles, who had obviously misinterpreted her action as interest in him. They strolled back to the main exhibition area and moments later, from across the room, she saw the Wolff talking to Mary. It was a perfect opportunity to extricate herself from Charles with the excuse that she had to fetch more champagne flutes. Charles offered to help, but she politely declined. No way was she going to find herself alone with him, even if he was her mentor’s son.

Once in the kitchen she took a moment to collect herself. The man she’d encountered in the hallway was no stranger, even though she’d never met him. He was August Wolff, one of the richest men in San Francisco, and by all accounts one of the fastest when it came to women. Since she’d been back from Europe she’d seen his photo many times, usually with some beautiful dancer or singer. Angel Lindemann was his latest conquest. She was a golden beauty like Lia’s sister Emma, with an exquisite voice to match. The notion of Lia being with someone like him was like inviting a warthog to a garden party—it just wasn’t going to happen.

But in all her twenty-eight years, she had never,
ever
reacted to a man that way. His pictures didn’t do him justice. In person he was big and dark and so…so
male
. Unlike her former husband, George, who wore formal attire so effortlessly, this man seemed to put up with his suit, the muscles in his chest and arms not exactly bulging through his clothes, but waiting patiently to be set free. His hair was longish and tousled, and his striking face with cleft chin held the faint shadow of a beard. When he’d looked into her eyes and touched her cheek, she’d gone numb, almost paralyzed, as if she would do whatever he asked on the spot. As if she were drugged. Thank God Charles had picked that moment to walk down the hall; she couldn’t stand the feeling of being out of control.

But oh, the way he made her feel. Like a woman, at last.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“A
nd how is the gentleman farmer doing this morning?” Will Firestone made his way down to the lower garden where Gus, in shirtsleeves despite the chill December air, was pulling out the last of the beanstalks and tilling the soil before adding compost for the winter. Although Mr. Chou spoke very little English, he was an expert at assigning the jobs—usually requiring hard labor—that he wanted Gus to do. Gus could have hired someone else to do the work, of course, but truth be told, he enjoyed it. If his brother back in Iowa could see him now, he’d laugh himself silly. But they’d see each other soon enough over Christmas. Maybe he’d even let him in on the joke: the teenage boy who hated farming now can’t get enough of it.

“I’m bustin’ my tail, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Yes, well, one of these days you’ll learn that when one has money, one can pay to have others get their hands dirty.”

Gus stuck the shovel in the dirt and wiped his face with a handkerchief before putting his jacket back on. “You’ve got a point there,” he said. “Come on, I’ll buy you a hot toddy.”

The two men walked up to the house, where Mrs. Coats did indeed have hot whiskey, sugar, and spices waiting in the library, along with some freshly baked ginger cookies. Gus poured himself and Will a drink, pulled a chair in front of the fireplace, and stuck out his stockinged feet to warm them up. “Damn that feels good.” He nodded for Will to join him. “You brought the papers to sign on the Ballentine merger, I take it?”

Will stretched out himself. “Yep, no hurry, though. I’m heading up to Seattle tomorrow to talk with Rochester about that container deal, so I wanted to make sure they didn’t get lost on your desk.” He took a sip of his drink. “So I hear you stopped by the studio after I left.”

Gus was still annoyed at the botched flirtation with the pretty young maid. “Bad news travels fast, I see.”

“Not so bad from their perspective. It seems you bought two of Keith’s works plus one of Amelia Starling’s early pieces. Did you meet her while you were there?”

“Amelia Starling? Never heard of her, didn’t meet anyone by that name. I just saw a picture I liked, so I bought it.”

“Ah. Well I have good news, then. I’m having a small dinner party on Christmas Eve, to which I’ve invited Miss Starling and her partner. Join us and you’ll be able to meet her.”

“What do you mean, ‘partner’?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. She moved here from the East Coast with a man named Sander de Kalb; supposedly they’re ‘cousins’ and they have a place in the Castro District. That’s all I know.”

“Hmmm. Sounds quite…bohemian.”

Will smirked. “Exactly. Now you’re getting the picture. So, can we count on you?”

“Not likely. I’m taking the train to Vinton to see my brother and his family.”

“Let me guess, while you’re there you’re going to quietly slip an envelope under the tree that has the deed to his farm, paid in full. Am I right?”

Gus shrugged. “Something like that.” Will was spooky sometimes, or maybe just too damn nosy for his own good. “You conspiring with our man Hansen, again?”

“No. Just being logical. That’s definitely a Gus Wolff kind of maneuver—low key but effective.” He looked at Gus. “You don’t talk much about your family. Why not?”

“Not much to tell. They couldn’t afford to feed me so I went off to feed myself.”

“Looks like you can pretty much gorge yourself every night now.”

Gus smiled briefly and closed his eyes. “Yep. Pretty much.”

They talked about business for a few more minutes. Will finished his drink and got up to leave. “We’ll miss you on Christmas Eve, but you’ve got another chance on New Year’s Day. My parents are unveiling a mural they commissioned from Miss Starling and insist on showing it off to ‘a small group of friends,’ which translates to a crush of two hundred or more. The artist will be there, so you can actually meet the woman whose work you admire so much you actually plunked down some greenbacks for it.”

Gus sounded bored. “So, you’re inviting me to another ‘language lesson’?”

Will grinned. “Mary chuckled when I told her about that. She’s old city money herself. And she’s a love. She gets it.”

Gus closed his eyes again. “Maybe I’ll be there.”

“Any time after five p.m. I guarantee it’ll be worth your while.”

“Safe trip to Seattle,” Gus said, determined not to commit.

“Merry Christmas, friend,” Will called back.

Mrs. Coats saw Will out and returned to the library. “Do you need anything, Mr. Wolff?”

“You’ve got the presents wrapped and packed up?”

“Yes, sir. The items for your nieces and nephews and the perfume for your sister-in-law are ready for your trip.”

“And the other?”

“St. Michael’s will receive the boxes for the third-grade girls on Christmas Eve, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Coats. That’ll be it for now.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was quiet now except for the crackling of the log in the fire. Gus continued to sip his drink as he watched the play of light. What was the girl Ruthie doing right now? Was she going to spend the holidays with her family? Was she going to spend it with the man she’d latched onto? Something about her tugged at him. He didn’t know what it was, just that he wanted more of it.

Hell and damnation indeed.

“You are going to be inundated with commissions after they see this, darling.” Sandy held up one side of the massive canvas while Lia walked around and around the painting, wrapping it in muslin like a mummy.

“My main concern is that the Firestones like it,” she said. “They’re paying for it, after all.”

“I admit that the very worst side of me hopes they demand a refund, in which case you won’t have the funds to rent your own place and you’ll be forced to stay here with me.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment. And I don’t think Roger would believe you either.” She winked at Sandy as she passed him for the fifth time.

Sandy had the decency to blush. “He is a lovely fellow, isn’t he?”

“Yes he is, and you two deserve some privacy to see if you can make a go of it.” Lia finished wrapping the artwork and tied it with several lengths of string. “The delivery wagon is due here at noon,” she said. “Let’s eat lunch now so I can go out with them and supervise the hanging.” She tapped Sandy on the shoulder. “By the way, have I told you lately how brilliant you were to rent a house with double doors leading to the garden?”

“Only every other day since you got this commission,” Sandy said.

They leaned the painting against the wall and headed into the kitchen, where Lia made a salad of greens, cut up vegetables, and small shrimp nestled in two hollowed boules of sourdough bread. Of all the things she’d come to love about the city, sourdough bread was at the top of her list.

“I’m hopeful Roger and I can make something happen,” Sandy mused in the middle of their meal. “But what about you? You haven’t found anybody and now you’re going to be living alone. Painting isn’t exactly a team sport.”