The Art of Romance (42 page)

Sympathy filled Dylan’s brown eyes. “What happened?”

“He met Sage.”

“He met…” Comprehension eased the lines of confusion between his brows. “Oh. She flirted with him, and he fell for her.”

“Yep. And then she ran away. Packed up her car and drove off in the middle of the night. Mama and Daddy were in the final stages of getting ready to move to Switzerland, I was getting ready to go back to the UK to finish my PhD, and Papa—my grandfather—had just been diagnosed with cancer. And of course Sage left me to do damage control—to try to find out where she’d gone, to clean up the mess she’d left between Bryan and me.”

Caylor looked down at their joined hands, unable to look Dylan in the eye for the next part. “I…I tried to win Bryan back. I threw myself at him. He’d wanted to be physically intimate almost from the beginning of our relationship—and sometimes I wonder if he proposed to me to see if I’d sleep with him once we were engaged. But no matter how hard I tried—and I tried everything short of taking off my clothes and climbing into bed with him—he didn’t want me anymore.”

Dylan’s hands tightened around hers. “Then he’s an idiot, and you’re the better for it. You aren’t damaged goods, the way I am.”

Caylor lifted Dylan’s hands and kissed the backs of them. “My pastor has a verse he likes to quote. It’s from 2 Corinthians, and it says that in Christ, we’re new creatures; the old passes away, and He makes us new. I believe that. I hope you can come to see the truth of it in your life. Because you aren’t damaged goods.”

Moisture gathered along Dylan’s bottom lashes, and he blinked a couple of times. “‘Love sees perfect that which is imperfect.’”

“I’ve never heard that before.” Caylor ran the saying over and over through her mind, wanting to correct the grammar of it.

“It’s something Perty always told us boys. She said that though we’re always going to be imperfect, when someone loves us, they don’t see the imperfections—they see us as perfect.”

Silence fell between them for the first time in almost an hour, their hands still clasped on the table between them.

“Dylan?”

“Yes?”

“How long do we have to do just the hand-holding part?” She let only one corner of her mouth quirk up.

He blinked then grinned back at her. “I’ll ask my counselor on Friday.”

D
ylan paced a circle in the small, dim room. The shirt collar shouldn’t feel so tight, so rough against his neck—not with as much money as he’d paid for it. Of course, this was only the third time he’d worn this suit, and he was unaccustomed to dressing up like this for art showings, so he wasn’t surprised at his discomfort.

He could hear the guests arriving—the voices, the clink of glasses at the makeshift bar. He clasped his fingers behind his neck and took several deep breaths. He’d never been this nervous at a show before—because even though it had been his art on display, Rhonda had always taken center stage.

Though, he supposed, Mother would do the same thing tonight. But he’d never had to make an entrance before.

A light tap on the door gave him half a second’s notice before Emerson entered the back room. “Are you ready to be introduced?”

He dropped his arms to his sides and backed up a step when she stopped just a bit too close to him. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Emerson reached up and straightened his tie and shirt collar, then smoothed her hands down the lapels of his jacket. He’d made it clear at the game he wasn’t interested, yet she still seemed intent on making people think they were together tonight. And Mother was nearly as bad—even after she’d paid lip service to him by way of an apology at church on Sunday the week after the newspaper photo fiasco—encouraging the photographer to take pictures of Dylan and Ems together before the event started.

Oh how he wished Caylor were here.

His mother’s voice, magnified by a borrowed PA system, silenced the crowd beyond the door.

“I want to thank all of you for coming out tonight. If you haven’t already, please be sure to get a glass of wine and some of the lovely canapés made for us by Chef Christy.” A light smattering of applause followed this.

“Now, the moment I’ve been waiting for. As many of you know, my oldest son left Nashville, studied art in New York, and has been living in Philadelphia for the last several years honing his craft. As you’ve seen here tonight on your way in, his talent far exceeds his reputation. Some of the reviews that have been written of his previous shows back East call him ‘brilliant,’ ‘an audacious talent,’ ‘in company with the masters of technique,’ and ‘an exciting new talent for the new millennium.’ “

Dylan jolted at those words being spoken in his mother’s voice—until he noticed Emerson was mouthing the words along with her. Obviously, Mother had not written this speech herself.

“So tonight is your opportunity to acquire a painting by this up-and-coming artist before his art hits the mainstream and the prices skyrocket. And your money goes toward a wonderful charity.” Mother spent a moment talking about the crisis pregnancy center she’d supposedly been donating to over the years.

Dylan wiped his hands on the handkerchief Gramps had given him earlier for that very purpose—when he had seen Dylan wiping his hands on his pants legs.

“Without further ado, it’s my very great pleasure to introduce our guest of honor tonight, our artist, Dylan Bradley.”

Emerson threw the door open, and Dylan walked through with as much dignity as he could muster. Rhonda would have been profoundly mortified by the spectacle his mother made of the introduction—having him make an entrance to the applause of the exhibit attendees.

Frankly, he was mortified. And he’d much rather be at JRU at the opening-night production of
Much Ado about Nothing
—sitting with Caylor, his arm around her, as he had last weekend at the World War II program.

He raised his hand in a wave of acknowledgment of the crowd’s tribute to him. “Thank you all for coming tonight. I hope you all enjoy viewing the art.”

Mother rolled her eyes and turned away from him. “Enjoy yourselves—and try not to fight over the pieces,” she quipped. A few people laughed politely as they dispersed to wander among the temporary walls displaying the pieces Dylan could barely remember painting and really hoped he wouldn’t have to take home tonight.

“Dylan, darling.” Grandma Paxton took him by the hands and made him lean over and kiss her cheeks. “I’m so pleased your mother invited us to come down for your little show, since we’ve never gotten to see any of your work. I have to say, it is very…interesting.”

“Thanks, Grandma. Is Grandpa with you?” Dylan glanced around the room, looking for his mother’s father—so he could avoid him.

“He’s back by the bar, chatting up some tall redhead.”

Tall redhead? Dylan spun on his heel. Sure enough, towering over his grandfather, a bottle of water in her hand, stood Caylor, wearing the dark aqua cocktail dress she’d worn to the faculty holiday party at school. She looked up and locked gazes with him over his grandfather’s head. As tactfully as she could, she excused herself from Grandpa Paxton and made her way through the crowd over to him.

He shook a few people’s hands before she got to him, but he couldn’t get rid of them fast enough. Slipping his arm around Caylor’s waist, he closed his eyes and took a slow breath in through his nose. She smelled like raspberries and vanilla tonight.

He leaned over and kissed her temple. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to the opening-night production.”

“I went to the preshow rehearsal and wished everyone luck and went over a few pronunciations with people. But once the show started, there really was no reason I needed to stay, since we plan on seeing it tomorrow night. Besides, coming and supporting you in this is much more important than sitting through the shake-out performance.” She leaned closer, pressing her lips close to his ear. “I have to tell you, though, I like your other work—your
real
work—much better than these paintings.”

He laughed and hugged her. Ken had told him to look for and make note of the ways in which Caylor was different from Rhonda—the ways in which Caylor was more positive, more beneficial for him. The list just kept growing.

His grandmother cleared her throat.

“Oh, sorry. This is my grandmother, Vera Dillon-Paxton, Mother’s mom. Grandma, I’d like you to meet Dr. Caylor Evans. My girlfriend.” It was the first time he’d called her that. It felt a little strange calling a thirty-five-year-old woman his girlfriend. But the way she blushed and smiled self-consciously when he said it made him want to call her that at every opportunity from now on.

Grandma’s expression turned from curious to forbidding.
“Doctor
Evans?”

Caylor withdrew her hand from Grandma’s. “Yes. I’m a professor of English at James Robertson University here in Nashville.”

“So…” Grandma looked speculatively from Caylor to Dylan, “she’s not in your department? Not your supervisor?”

Thank goodness he’d already told Caylor everything—including how his parents and maternal grandparents had taken it. “No Grandma. We’re in completely different departments. Colleagues. And I’ve already checked”—he cut his gaze toward Caylor, who hadn’t heard this before—”and there’s no rule anywhere in the faculty handbook forbidding professors in different departments from dating.”

Caylor’s smile returned full force.

Mother chose that moment to walk by. Dylan stopped her to introduce her to Caylor. Mother pasted on her best politician’s smile, clasped Caylor’s hand in both of hers as if they were long lost friends, and said she was looking forward to getting to know Caylor better. She barely glanced at Dylan, whispered something to her mother, and then moved on to another group of people. Typical. Lavish praise on him and his work in front of all of the guests, but still give him the personal cold shoulder.

The shawl Mother wore over her strapless gown slipped, revealing an expanse of right shoulder and back.

Dylan frowned, reaching for Caylor’s bottle of water to quench his dry mouth and throat. “Grandma, how did Mother get that scar on her back? I’ve never seen it before.”

Grandma harrumphed. “That’s where she had that hideous tattoo removed.”

He inhaled half the mouthful of water, choking and sputtering, eyes watering. “Tattoo? Mother had a tattoo?”

Grandma glared at him. “Yes. When she was young and stupid—eighteen—she eloped with a young hooligan she’d been dating for all of two weeks. They drove all the way from Cleveland to New York in one night and got tattoos to commemorate the event.”

“What was it?”

“An angel and a demon sitting on a motorcycle kissing.” Grandma narrowed her eyes. “But if you ever tell her that you know anything about it, that I told you, you will be cut out of the will. It goes no further.” She turned her scowl on Caylor, who raised her hand as if being sworn in by a judge.

“Wait—she
married
this guy?” Dylan dropped his voice so no one would overhear them.

Grandma closed her eyes as if the memory pained her. “Yes. But as soon as your grandfather found them, he began the proceedings to have it annulled. That’s when we made the decision to send your mother to Vanderbilt for college. Grandpa and Gerald Bradley were old school chums, and he knew Gerald would keep an eye on Grace for us. And it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” Grandma looked past Dylan and Caylor toward the bar.

Dylan followed her gaze—Grandpa leaned against the bar flirting with Emerson.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go remind your grandfather to behave himself.”

Caylor slipped her hand in Dylan’s and turned to face him. “What in the world was that about?”

“The tattoo thing?” Dylan told her the story about the Christmas photo shoot and Mother’s reaction to seeing his tattoo. “I didn’t tell her I have another one here,” he touched his left upper arm, then smiled and leaned forward. “And it was inspired by the art I did for one of your book covers. Next time I wear short sleeves, I’ll show it to you.” He looked over at where his mother schmoozed with several potential campaign donors. “The hypocrite.”

“Dylan—look at it from her perspective. She’s probably embarrassed, horrified, by what she did, by the bad choices she made. And in her mind, a tattoo is the physical embodiment of poor judgment and bad decisions. So seeing that her wayward son had a tattoo—no doubt a remnant of what she considers his misspent years away—probably made her relive whatever pain she still carries around with her from her own past.”

He wanted to argue, tell her that she didn’t know his mother the way he did. But after learning a piece of Mother’s past he’d never known before, he had to wonder if he’d ever truly known her. “You’re right. I have to give her the benefit of the doubt. But I have to ask—are you always going to be so reasonable about everything?”

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Nah. Only when you’re not. And I expect you to do the same for me.”

He was about to kiss the tip of her nose when Emerson joined them. She thrust her hand out toward Caylor, who had to extract hers from Dylan’s to shake it.