“Like I said. It’s not a kiss.” His smirk widened into a grin.
She released a huff while trying not to smile. Bellamy McKenna was impossibly wily. Any woman would be lucky to get to spend the rest of her life with him because things would never be dull. That was for certain.Shejust couldn’t be that woman, although at the moment she couldn’t exactly remember why.
He unfolded the paper and handed it to her. “I’d be honored if you would be one of my guests tomorrow evening.”
As she took the wrinkled sheet, his eyes held a hesitancy, even a shyness, she’d never seen there before. What was this about?
She read the bold black print at the center. “‘Please join Templeton & Evans Art Gallery in presenting the talented W.B.M. as he introduces himself and his newest landscape paintings.’”
She met Bellamy’s gaze. “You’re having a show?”
“Aye, so.” He nodded as though he still needed to convince himself.
This was a huge step for him. Nohugewasn’t the right word. It wasgargantuan,immense,colossal. Aye,colossalwas a descriptive, solid word to describe this move Bellamy was taking. After he did so, he would no longer be able to keep his painting a secret from St. Louis. Everyone wouldknow that Bellamy the matchmaker was also W. B. M. the painter.
“I hope you’ll come,” he said again, this time straightening his vest and backing up.
“Of course I’ll come.” She wanted to squeeze his arm in reassurance. But he’d moved to the top of the steps now.
“Then I’ll be seeing you there. Come at eight.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Bring your parents, if you’d like. And wear the jewelry.”
She knew she needed to protest, but she couldn’t find it within herself to do so. Instead, she nodded.
His grin this time was happy, even excited. As he bounded down the steps and toward his horse, she was happy and excited for him. Even though revealing her secret writing life had been difficult and she was still uncertain about how to proceed, a weight she hadn’t known she was carrying had been lifted and she felt free now. Free from the lies. Free from the pretending. Free from having to live for her parents’ approval. Free to live her own life as God had intended for her.
She could only hope Bellamy would find that same freedom.
26
Bellamy stepped into the room, and his gut churned as he took in his paintings. Some were on silver easels, a handful hung in frames on the wall, and still others were situated on pedestals.
The Templeton & Evans Gallery was spacious, with large windows overlooking an elaborate garden with a maze. The evening sun was dropping low and casting a burnished glow over the shrubs and flower beds, and it slanted through the windows, adding an amber light to the lanterns lit strategically to showcase the paintings.
Several guests, older women, appeared to have arrived early, and they were already near one of the paintings and were discussing it while sipping champagne from crystal flutes. Mr. Davenport, the curator who had been working with Bellamy over the past months and helping to sell his paintings, was talking with the group but facing the door.
When Bellamy had approached him several days ago abouthaving a show, the curator had been all too eager to finally get to meet the talented W.B.M.
At the sight of Bellamy, Mr. Davenport nodded his way, then excused himself from the guests before sidling through the displays toward Bellamy. A tall, middle-aged man with lean features, Mr. Davenport wore a blue silk tailcoat over an embroidered velvet vest paired with light gray trousers. He carried himself with a stately elegance, one he’d probably perfected in order to be seen as a higher class than he really was.
Bellamy hadn’t needed to pry much amongst the pub’s customers to discover Mr. Davenport was from Pennsylvania and the son of a cobbler. He’d left home and lived in Philadelphia for a number of years, where he’d worked as a clerk for a local art collector. He’d eventually learned the trade and started collecting on his own.
“Mr. McKenna.” Mr. Davenport’s forehead creased with worry as he scanned the lobby, likely hoping for a glimpse of Mr. Moore. “Is everything all right?”
Bellamy removed his black felt hat, the best one he owned. “Everything is as it should be.” Like Mr. Davenport, he was attired in his evening wear, except his was simpler with his black tailcoat matching his vest and trousers. He’d polished his leather shoes and slicked back his hair and given himself a fresh shave for the occasion, and he’d left the sling at home against Jenny’s protests.
Even so, he guessed he would be underdressed compared to many wealthy patrons of the art. But he didn’t mind. He wanted them to accept him as he was, a young Irishman, an immigrant matchmaker who owned a pub with his family. He didn’t want to put on airs, didn’t want to act differently,didn’t want to try to impress anyone, didn’t want to be anyone but himself.
Bellamy followed Mr. Davenport’s gaze into the lobby with its high-vaulted ceiling. Fountains and plants and bird cages decorated the open area, along with the paintings and artwork of the more established artists of St. Louis.
Bellamy wasn’t sure he’d ever rise to such ranks. However, fame and fortune weren’t important. He hadn’t painted to make a name for himself. And he didn’t need the fortune, apparently not with Oscar’s real estate investments. No, Bellamy had painted because it had connected him with his mam. He’d believed in bringing his paintings to life that he would be honoring her memory and her spurned efforts.
As it had turned out, her efforts hadn’t been spurned. Oscar hadn’t been the one destroying her painting career. She’d done it to herself through her choice to use drugs.
Over the past few days since Oscar’s revelation about Mam’s problems, Bellamy had thought a lot about her. She might have had a difficult life while growing up with a da and mam who’d been too busy fighting and drinking to love her, but Oscar had offered her his love and a better future. Why hadn’t she chosen a new way, one filled with hope? Why had she clung so tightly to the pain of her past?
