“I was beginning to worry you’d decided to make a run for it, after all.” His mother’s warm smile was sweet as she pointed at his usual spot. “Cook made prime rib. I know it’s your favorite.” It wasn’t, but now wasn’t the time to correct her, so Caleb nodded. When he sat at her right hand, she gripped his hand hard. She knew his stepfather had broken the news. As always, she was determined not to discuss something so unpleasant as an unfavorable diagnosis.
“Whit, remind Winter I need a phone call or a text or something to let me know when she’s skipping dinner.” She tsked. “The lady works too hard. I hope once the wedding goes off like a dream that she’ll be able to slow down.”
Caleb met his stepfather’s hard stare and nodded. This was what Senior meant. His mother was mostly there with them, but she’d forgotten that the wedding was canceled. Reminding her would upset them all.
“Yes, Mama,” Whit mumbled and shook out his linen napkin before taking a sip of the wine next to his plate.
Something, maybe the tension in the air, was enough to clear away her confusion. His mother straightened in her seat and cleared her throat. “Right. I forgot for a second. Winter is no longer part of the family.” She forced a laugh. “That is due to having too much on my mind, gentlemen. There’s no need for such solemn faces. Everyone smile, I command it.” Her smile, Caleb noted, was genuine.
His mother motioned at them to continue their eating. “So, did you boys come to an agreement?”
“We did. I’m going to start the lodge, now that the plans are approved. Should be a fun build, with a few modifications.” Caleb met his stepfather’s stare. “Guess I better find a place to stay in Sweetwater.”
His mother’s frown seemed to be one of confusion, but eventually her smile returned. “Well, now, that lodge has been a long time in the making, hasn’t it? Once you get it open way up there on the top of the mountain, that is going to be a nice place to stay.”
Ever the optimist... For her, it was hard to imagine living outside of the comforts of home. Whit Callaway, Sr. respected Caleb’s mom, loved her and worked hard to make sure she had every creature comfort.
For those reasons alone, Caleb would smooth things over with his family.
Building the lodge would be an interesting project.
Staying one step ahead of Winter would be a real challenge.
For his mother, he’d absolutely give it his best.
Winter had dragged him into this mess. The least she could do is keep a low profile until Whit was elected. Selling her that would be the biggest challenge of his life.
“WELL, NOW, A birdie told me you might make a visit today,” Janet Abernathy said from her spot on the ladder’s third rung. “Bright and early for a Monday, too.” Winter eased closer as the ladder rattled, concerned her interview might be interrupted by her having to call for an ambulance. Janet was holding a framed painting with both hands, but Winter couldn’t see either a hammer or a nail, so her purpose was unclear. The subject of the painting was enough to freeze Winter in her tracks.
Someone had captured the mist rising off of one of the valleys in the reserve at daybreak. The pink of sunrise tinged one side of the wispy smoke, while the other glistened. Somehow, an artist had managed to convey the beauty and the delicate details in vivid color. This special instant could never last, except in paint and brushstrokes.
Winter had no words to describe the techniques or the principles that made this painting art, but the emotions it provoked could be named: awe at nature’s fragile, powerful beauty and love for the mountains that meant home. Neither Knoxville nor Nashville made her feel the same.
One painting had exactly what made these mountains like no other place for her.
“Pretty, right?” Janet said. At some point, she’d braced the painting against the wall and joined Winter in admiring it. Enthralled, Winter had missed the whole thing.
“Amazing. What’s it called?” Winter inched closer, realizing there was no need to whisper. They were alone in the wide-open space of the gallery, but it felt right.
“Painting number seven. The girl has no poetry, even if she’s brimming with natural talent.” Janet sighed. “Or this is her poetry.”
Drawn to the painting, Winter studied the darker corners, old growth forests making a frame for the airy center. “Enchanted. The title should have something to do with enchanted.” Winter shook her head. She’d memorized her grandmother’s stories before studying Cherokee folklore and history on her own, but not everyone else had the same interests. “Sorry. The Cherokee have a story about a secret lake that has restorative properties. A wounded animal could enter the lake and come out on the other side, healed. One day a hunter discovered it and was warned to never tell another soul. Humans being as they are, the hunter broke his promise and suffered the consequences. Now, the lake is hidden, but on cool mornings, the mist rises.” Winter rubbed her forehead, aware all over again how a lot of people didn’t care to hear her stories. Kids did. Adults, not as much.
When she turned to say something to get the job interview she’d planned back on track, Winter found Leanne Hendrix frozen in the roughed-in doorway leading to Sweetwater Souvenir. After all the renovation, the large open space was a perfect white backdrop, just the three of them and this art. Janet had propped one shoulder against the wall, her head tilted to the side. It seemed she was waiting, but for what?
Winter cleared her throat. “Who’s the artist?” The urge to self-consciously fluff her hair was strong, but she fought it. Wearing one of the dark, perfectly tailored suits she’d chosen as armor while she worked in the district office of the reserve had been a boost to her confidence.
Or that had been the plan.
The silence in the room was chiseling away at it.
“I painted it. I didn’t know the story. I just wanted to keep the memory of a perfect morning forever.” Leanne shifted a step farther into the room with a nervous glance at Janet, whose face was slowly morphing into the Cheshire cat. She wore a grin so big it made Winter nervous. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Me, too. I’m also pleased as all get-out that I’m right about Leanne’s talent. Since it’s one of the larger pieces we have, I’ll hang it right there, where anyone walking down Main Street can see it and be drawn inside.” Janet held up one finger, bright red nail polish flashing. “However, we’re either going to have to put an astronomical price on it or mark it ‘not for sale.’ Otherwise, I’ll have a big ol’ hole on the wall the second day after we get these doors open.” She tapped her chin. “What to do, what to do...”
Before Winter could bring up the reason for her visit, Janet had moved back into the souvenir shop on the other side. The musical bells tinkling signaled a visitor to Sweetwater Souvenir.
“She does that. It’s like she has a sixth sense when someone with money is about to walk in.” Leanne shoved her hands in her back pockets and met Winter’s stare. They both laughed and her shoulders relaxed.
“I wanted to talk to her about the part-time job.” Winter waved a hand toward the open doorway. “But I have no money in my pocket. I might have lost my chance forever.”
Leanne shook her head. “No, I mentioned you’d be by to ask about the job. She’ll be back.” She tapped her forehead with one finger. “Never forgets anything, Miss Janet.”
They’d shared a burger, but other than stories other people told about them, neither she nor Leanne knew much about the other. They’d never been particularly close.
“I didn’t know you were an artist. Why didn’t