“I’ve been busy, Mom. It’s my private viewing tonight, and—”
“We’re all busy, Skylar, and I’d appreciate not having to chase my own daughter for a response. Particularly when you’re the only one without a job.”
Sky thought of the commissions she had lined up. She had enough work to keep her busy through most of next year. “I have a job.”
“I mean a proper job. I’m doing the seating plan for Christmas Eve. We’ll be eighty for dinner. Lunch is more intimate—forty. When will you be arriving?”
Sky leaned her head back against the seat, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Forty? Intimate?
So much for a cozy family Christmas.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Then decide.”
Skylar imagined her mother seated at her elegant Queen Anne desk, ticking off the items on her to-do list.
Phone dreamy, wayward daughter.
“Christmas Eve.” At the last possible moment. “I’ll be home Christmas Eve, but I’ll make my own arrangements so you can cross me off your list. I’ll talk with Richard and see what works for him.”
“Richard has already sent through his plans.”
Without sharing them with her? “He emailed you? I was assuming we’d travel together.”
“You need to stop assuming and take action, Skylar. Richard’s career is on the rise, but he still found time to respond to my email personally. Your father is impressed, and we all know he’s not easy to impress.”
Sky’s fingers tightened on the phone.
She knew. She’d been trying to impress her father for years, so far with no success.
Something tugged deep inside her.
In third grade she’d painted him a picture. It had taken days of hard, painstaking effort to produce something she thought he’d like. She’d been excited by the result.
Look at this, Daddy. I painted it for your office.
He’d barely glanced at the picture and the next day she’d noticed it in the trash, buried beneath empty cans and juice cartons.
She never drew anything for him again.
She watched as snowflakes swirled and danced past the windows and tried not to mind that Richard had apparently succeeded where she had failed.
“He’s smart,” her mother was saying. “Persuasive. Charming.”
Except when he was under pressure. Then he was short-tempered and far from charming. But that wasn’t a side he showed to the voting public or her family.
She stirred in her seat, feeling guilty for not being more understanding.
This was his dream, and she knew how it felt to have a dream.
Richard Everson had nurtured ambitions of running for office since childhood. The occasional burst of irritability at this point was understandable.
Her mother was still talking. “You’re lucky to have found a man like him, but you won’t hang on to him if you’re dreamy and romantic. Relationships require application and hard work.”
And that, Skylar thought, was exactly how her parents’ marriage had always seemed to her. Work. More corporate merger than loving union.
Was that really what love was?
She hoped not.
“When is he arriving?”
“Christmas Eve, in time for lunch. He’ll be excellent at this sort of event.”
Event? “It’s Christmas, Mom.”
“I thought you would finally have grown out of romanticizing the holidays.” Her mother sounded impatient. “Your father has given a great deal of thought to the guest list. There are influential people attending. People who will be useful to Richard’s career.”
Not friends or family. People of influence.
“Anyone I know?”
“The list was attached to the email Stephanie sent. I hope you take time to prepare.”
“Preparing” involved absorbing and memorizing pages of notes on each individual. Likes, dislikes, topics to be avoided at all costs.
Even at Christmas it was all about networking.
A wild idea flitted into her mind. Christmas in a cottage on Puffin Island. Log fire, good wine and the company of her friends. She and Richard together without the pressures of the outside world.
It was a dreamy idea.
It was also heresy and it was never going to happen.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t be here, Mom.”
“You couldn’t have picked a worse time. You’re putting a great deal of pressure on Richard. As your father said when he spoke to him earlier, expecting him to fly to London right now is unreasonable.”
“Richard spoke to Dad?”
“He called this morning.” Her mother paused. “Choosing that man is the one thing in your life you’ve done right. Don’t make a mistake tonight, Skylar.”
Make a mistake about what?
“Wait a minute—what are you talking about?”
“I’ve said enough. The rest is up to you. Make good choices.” Her mother ended the call and Skylar sat for a moment, staring out of the window.
Make good choices.
Her family had never understood that, for her, art and the process of creating something tangible and beautiful, whether a pot or a necklace, wasn’t a choice. It was a need, maybe even an obsession. It came from deep inside. She had images clamoring in her head, ideas crowding her brain. Inspiration was everywhere, there were days where she was dizzy and dazzled by possibilities.
Choice wasn’t part of it.
She could no more have given up what she did than she could have given up breathing, but her family had never understood that. Their approach to life was analytical. Their appreciation of art was limited to its cultural significance or financial value.
Growing up, there had been days when she’d wondered if her parents had brought the wrong baby home from the hospital. They were good people, but she felt as if she was in the wrong house.
The phone rang again. This time it was Brittany and Emily, her friends who were both back on Puffin Island, in Maine.
“Tell us what you’re wearing.” Brittany’s voice came down the phone and Skylar grinned.
No doubt about it, without her friends she’d go insane.
Friends were like solar power, bringing warmth and light to dark corners.
“The silver dress with the white coat. Totally impractical.”
“No burgers, no ketchup and stay away from red wine. I bet you look like a snow queen. We rang to wish you luck because after tonight you’ll be too famous to talk to us. Are you excited?”
Skylar tried to forget the conversation with her mother. “I think so.”
“You think?” This time it was Emily. “Sky, this is huge. You should be so proud. We are.”
“Drink champagne, take photos and we’ll celebrate when you’re home.” Brittany’s voice echoed down the phone. “Wish we could be there with you. You shouldn’t be alone.”
Skylar