Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) (18 page)

“How?”

Milla smiled then, wide and broad and a little proud. “I bit her. Often. Mostly in public. I’d be all sweet and angelic and she’d be all proud of me and would be showing me off and I’d just reach out and bite the
hell
out of her. Betsy—” She flashed her daughter a warning glance.

“I know, Mommy. I can’t say hell or bitch or—”

“That’s enough!”

“Oh, god,” Trudy murmured. Some of the misery over losing Mac lifted off her chest. The tiniest bit of a smile tugged at her mouth. “That’s horrid!”

Tipping her head, Milla said, “Totally worth it. Even though she was kind of squishy. And she screamed so loud. Betsy has nothing on Foster Mom Number One.”

“I knew she didn’t want to adopt me—she’d always tell me that. I didn’t know she wanted to adopt you, though.” Her grin faded. “I’m sorry, Milla, that because of me you didn’t get a forever family.”

Milla snorted. “What the hell do you think you and I are? God, Trudy, you can be so dense. Family comes in all forms. I wouldn’t have minded being adopted at all, but I most definitely would have minded being adopted without you. You and I made our own family, even though it didn’t fit the mold.”

“And you went on to make a
real
family. You and Jarrod did, with all your babies.”

“Gertrude T. Prendergast!” Milla exploded. “Stop being so damned dense!”

Trudy burst into tears.
Again
.

“Oh, god, I am so sorry. That was mean of me.” Milla put a resigned Kyle down in his car seat, where he closed his eyes and promptly went to sleep.

“Probably wishes he was hanging out with his dad instead of us crying girls,” Trudy said, notching her chin at her nephew.

“Trudy,” Milla said soberly. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. It’s just that you seem to have this warped view of the past. The whole Tubster Trudy thing was nasty, yeah, but it was also kinda funny, but you were so hurt it was like you couldn’t even laugh at it. And even though none of the foster families ever adopted us, you only remember the bad times. The mean things they said to you. I don’t think you ever remember how much fun we had.”

Trudy snorted.

“No, really. It could be fun. Foster Dad Number Two would swing us around by our feet. Foster Mom Number Six taught us how to bake pies. Foster Dad Number Four taught us how to drive when we were still so little we had to tie boxes to our feet to reach the pedals. Do you remember any of that?”

Snuffling, Trudy shook her head.

“I wonder, sometimes,” her sister added, “if maybe you’re so sensitive because you felt rejected when Mom gave us up. But she loved us, Trudy. And she was trying to do right by us. The last thing I ever saw her do was to tie your shoes before the social worker took us away. She told us to be brave and not to look back, but I did. And she was crying, Trudy. Crying hard. She didn’t want to let us go.”

“I don’t remember that,” Trudy said. “I know she was trying to get her life back together, but I guess I always felt like she would have done better if she’d loved us more. If she’d loved me more.”

“Trudy?” Milla’s voice was quiet.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the hysterectomy before it happened?”

Trudy sucked in a shuddering breath. “I was going to, honestly. I called you to tell you, but…”

“But what?”

“But you were so excited. You said you had big news to tell me.”

“Betsy?”

Tucking her head to her chin, Trudy heaved a breath. “Yeah. You told me you and Jarrod were finally pregnant. I wasn’t about to tell you I’d just found out I was about to go into menopause, at age twenty.”

“So you found out you couldn’t have children of your own the moment I started having mine. And all you wanted when you grew up were your own children. Your own family.”

Trudy shrugged. “Something like that.”

For a long moment, silence filled the air. Even Betsy held still, quiet, staring wide-eyed at her mom and aunt.

“Think about it, Trudy,” Milla finally said. “Think about who you never were but how you always thought of yourself. Think about family and what that really means. And think about Mac. Think about what he really deserves.”

Then Griswold brayed, Betsy shrieked, a startled Gabbie fell over and cried so hard she lost her breath, and Kyle started in on the world’s worst case of hiccups. The conversation was over. An hour later, Trudy helped her sister gather the baby, toddler, and preschooler, and helped them out to the car, then went back to her loft and sat cross-legged on her bed, doing exactly what her sister had told her to do. She thought.

She shouldn’t have gone off on Mac the way she had. He’d only been trying to understand. And she’d hurt him. Her sister was right—she’d been so fixated on her own past that she’d failed to hear him out. To even look at him. He’d been trying to be the perfect gentleman and she’d slapped him down.

Four hours later (thinking wasn’t as easy as Milla made it out to be), she’d ultimately decided to call Mac and beg for his forgiveness, but he didn’t answer her texts or calls. Day blended into night, and still he didn’t respond.

Nor did he call or text back the next day.

And her heart broke a little more.

W
hen Mac
still hadn’t called Trudy back by the morning of his art show, she decided she had to face him. Yes, sure, he might need his space, but what Milla had said stuck firm in her mind: she needed to give Mac what he deserved.

And he deserved to hear an apology from her.

Finally, she decided to make the two-hour drive to Meadowview, her stomach filled with battling butterflies as she drove. Only when she arrived, Mac’s car was missing, and the butterflies were about to drive her past the point of sanity if they didn’t stop bouncing about.

“He’s photographing the Meisner girl’s wedding today.” Doe said, answering Trudy’s question as she emptied the dishwasher in the kitchen. For once, the girl’s tone wasn’t caustic, but rather seemed…sad. Concerned.

“He’s not answering my calls or texts.”

“Yeah, the idiot dropped his cell phone in the pond the other day. I got him another, but there was something messed up with it and now he’s not getting calls. Clients are calling me, which is driving me nuts.” Doe flicked a glance at Trudy, and her expression softened. “I’d send you to the location, but the Meisner girl is marrying one of Hollywood’s notorious bachelors. Mac didn’t even know the location—someone picked him up in a limo early this morning.”

“But his show is tonight, in Sacramento,” Trudy said, puzzled.

“Yeah, the limo driver is supposed to drop him off there. I have to pack all his photographs and haul them down there, then set them up without him. Want me to tell him you stopped by?”

Trudy hesitated. “Um, sure. I’ll just…I guess I’ll head back home. Thanks, anyway.”

Doe turned and stared at her. “That’s it? You walk out on him, show back up, then chicken out again and run away?”

“Doe…” Trudy warned.

“Never mind. Forget I said anything. ” Doe strolled past her to push open the kitchen window. Outside, Nanny bleated. Doe handed Trudy a leaf of lettuce. “But before you go, make yourself useful. Nanny needs a walk, and I vote you to do it.

Trudy took the lettuce, one of Nanny’s favorite treats. It had taken a while, but the goat, with her quirky personality, had grown on Trudy. As had Doe, and Aaron…and Mac. But she didn’t for a second believe Nanny needed to be walked. She raised an eyebrow at Doe.

“And while you’re at it, stop by Mac’s studio,” the girl added, the quirk of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “There’s something you need to see.”

Aha. Now the truth was out. This wasn’t about goat walking. Doe had a plan in mind. “Will I like what I see?” Trudy asked.

Doe snorted. “If you don’t, you’re dumber than a doornail.”

“Doorknob, Doe. It’s ‘dumber than a doorknob.’”

The girl answered by putting the flat of her hand on Trudy’s back and nudging Trudy forward. “It’s Mac’s Warrior Woman series. I’m letting you get the first peek before the show tonight. Check out the pictures in his studio first, then look at the ones in his office.” She propelled her out the doorway. “And don’t forget to feed Nanny the lettuce. She adores you, but she’s known to retaliate.”

Nanny bounded alongside Trudy, happily munching lettuce, as the two made their way up the pathway to Mac’s studio. In the branches shading the pathway, robins twittered, grateful for the cool morning and for the worms drawn to the surface by an overnight watering.

The door to Mac’s studio refused to open when Trudy cranked the handle. Was it locked? She jiggled the handle again and realized the door simply stuck. She leaned her shoulder against the wood and shoved, then tumbled into the room.

A room filled with images of her.

About ten large-sized photographs hung from the walls, each featuring her. All nudes. She looked closely. Well, almost all.

Her heart clenched in her chest. All the photographs had been professionally framed and labeled: Warrior Woman.
Warrior Woman in Victory
.
Warrior Woman in Motion.
Warrior Woman in Battle
.

All the blood rushed from her head and she gripped the door handle to steady herself. These were not the images of Angie, the model she’d help Mac hire. The images that were supposed to go to the gallery tonight.

Mac had made
her
his Warrior Woman.

And he still had a signed contract that gave him the rights to show her naked images.

T
rudy’s body quaked
, her breathing shallowed, as she stood staring at the scene in Mac’s studio. Nude photographs of her stared back. What the heck was he thinking? Didn’t he realize what would happen if nude images of her were shown? Didn’t he remember how the owners of Essentially Green would react?

How could he expose her this way, when he knew her entire future was riding on the close-minded belief system of the business owners of a clothing company whose contract would keep her from losing her home?

She growled. Of course he knew. He remembered, all right. He just didn’t care.

What a
skunk
! She heard Doe come in behind her She whipped her head around, ready to what—yell at the girl? Of course not. It wasn’t Doe’s fault her brother had gone and betrayed the woman he’d claimed to love.

But before she could speak, she was struck by an expression in Doe’s eyes as the girl stared at Mac’s work.

Pride.

“He’s brilliant, isn’t he? With the right muse, that is,” Doe said.

Confusion jumbled Trudy’s thoughts together. “What?”

Doe strode around the room, examining the photographs. She stopped by a picture of Trudy, on her back, her arms softly draped over breasts and pubic bone, eyes soft and dreamy. They’d just had sex then, right? That was the first photo she’d deliberately allowed Mac to take of her, after they’d made love by the pond.

“
Warrior Woman in Ecstasy
. Not gonna ask how he got that one, but it’s amazing. Profound, really. And this one—” Doe tapped a picture of Trudy standing on the pond’s dock, her body silhouetted against a dying sun, the only image visible was her reflection in the pond’s water. “
Warrior Woman in Reflection
. Genius. The man’s a genius. He just needed the right muse, that’s all.”

Trudy’s breathing still felt like she was inhaling and exhaling oxygen-lacking air, but her pulse slowed as she watched Doe take in Mac’s work. Doe obviously saw something Trudy didn’t in these photographs. Trudy took in how girl’s eyes were dreamy, her expression soft. Vulnerable.

Exposing her soft underbelly.

No porcupine quills on Doe, now.

Trudy followed Doe around the room, seeing the photographs differently now. Seeing them through Doe’s eyes.

“I guess it’s not good enough for Mac to have the idea in his head,” Doe continued. “Seems like his ideas can’t directly translate to posed images. Nope, my brother’s genius lies in how he captures the soul of the moment. Too bad the world won’t ever know how brilliant he’s become.”

“What are you talking about? His show is tonight, ” Trudy snapped. And these nude photographs of her would be front and center.

“Yeah, I know,” Doe said, letting out a dramatic sigh. “He’s showing his crappy Warrior Woman series, and he’ll be panned, once again.”

“These are hardly crappy.” Trudy stepped forward, and with a whisper-gentle touch, laid her fingertips on
Warrior Woman in Repose
. Even she had to admit these photographs were brilliant. Not only were they technically skillful, but Mac had captured something ethereal and…full of soul. A moment in time. There, for her to see, was her own strength, her vulnerability, joy, emotion…

She caught sight of a photo of her labeled Warrior
Woman in Anguish
. This had been taken the moment she’d walked out of Milla’s hospital room after Kyle’s birth…after she’d fought so badly with her sister. But even in that expression of pain was a shimmer of strength…as if she’d already found the backbone to deal with the pity Milla had lovingly given her.

Somehow, Mac had captured the essence of her own inner warrior woman.

“Go in his office. I think you’ll know what I mean when I say his show is gonna be crappy.” On that enigmatic note, Doe gave her arm a squeeze and slipped from the room.

Puzzled, Trudy opened the connecting door to Mac’s office and stepped inside. At once she understood. Twelve perfectly framed photographs leaned up against a set of packing cases. Twelve technically skillful, well-posed pictures, featuring a woman—Trudy’s friend from the modeling agency, Angie—in a variety of poses. Each photo in this room matched one Mac had taken of Trudy. Each were professionally framed and labeled the same, too.
Warrior Woman in Agony. Warrior Woman in Ecstasy. Warrior Woman in Tragedy.

But these twelve pictures lacked any kind of passion or soul. Nowhere in this room could Trudy see Mac’s heart. His art.

The knowledge came floating over her like a wispy summer cloud. She’d been his muse. Mac had reclaimed his brilliance with her—had found that elusive quality he’d been seeking for the last five years.

But these were the pictures he planned to show tonight. Not the photographs of her in the other room. He was willing to put the crappy (as Doe called them) photographs on display for the public and critics to judge. His art in the other room would not be on display. But legally he could still show the pictures of her, but he wasn’t, even though it would cost him the acclaim he’d hoped to gain. But why?

She knew why. He was doing it because of her. Doing it
for
her.

He loved her.

And she knew what she had to do.

“Doe?” she called out loudly, then remembered the girl had taken off.

“Right here!”

She whipped around to see Doe poking her head through the door. “You never left, did you?” she accused, but with a grin.

“Nope. Just stood there waiting for you to come to your senses.” Doe said. Her forehead furrowed. “Have you?”

“Your brother once referred to you as a porcupine—he said you protect yourself with sharp quills. I just realized I was a turtle.”

“Um…” The lines in Doe’s brow grew deeper.

“For most of my life, I’ve protected myself by hiding under my shell. But…” She smiled at Doe, who slowly relaxed her worried expression, letting hope sparkle in her eyes. “But you know what?”

“Time to stick your neck out?”

Trudy grinned. “For once, Doe, you got a cliché right. Now let’s get going. Warrior Woman isn’t going to get to the gallery by herself.”

Doe raced across the room and grabbed Trudy in a bear hug. “I love you, Trudy,” she said, her voice muffled from sticking her face in Trudy’s neck.

Trudy patted the girl and hugged her back for a long, long moment, then said, “I love you, too, Doe. I love you, too.”

* * *

I
n the small
anteroom off the main floor in the River City Art Museum and Gallery, Mac tugged at his bow tie. Any tighter and the damned thing would choke him to death. But he hadn’t had a chance to change into more “artist-y” clothes Doe had sent with him and still wore the tux he’d been forced to put on as the Meisner wedding photographer. Did he really need to go through with this? Couldn’t people check out the opening of his show without him?

“Place is filling up,” came a voice from behind him.

He twisted and gave Ian Ackerley a wan smile. The owner of the art gallery had come up to Meadowview a few days before to examine the collection. Mac showed him the pictures of Angie. Although Ian had agreed that the Warrior Woman series in front of him wasn’t Mac’s best work, he’d found the work adequate for the showing. But not stupendous.

Then Ian caught sight of Trudy’s Warrior Woman series and went apeshit.

The man wasn’t a happy gallery owner when Mac told him those photos were off limits. Not to be viewed by anyone. “You’re throwing your career as an artist away,” Ian had said.

Mac had shrugged and walked away.

But even though Doe had pointed out to him that legally he’d be allowed to show the pictures he’d taken of Trudy instead of the ones he’d taken of Angie, he knew his sister had been baiting him. Testing him. Making sure he’d be a true gentleman.

Her test had been unneeded. No way would he do Trudy wrong. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. To break his heart. But whatever had wounded Trudy was too deep, he figured. Too much for her to willingly give in to love. To allow him to love her, to risk getting hurt.

So he’d left her alone. As much as he wanted to drive down to Sacramento and make her face him, he’d tried to be a gentleman and had stayed away. He figured she’d come to him if she was ready.

Maybe someday she would.

But that time wasn’t now. And he had to move on. Forget about her.

Not that forgetting about Gertrude T. Prendergast would ever be possible.

The anteroom door opened to let in Doe and Remy, and a flash caught Mac’s eye. A press photographer. Before the door
snicked
shut, Mac noticed guy wasn’t even using a good press camera, just some cheap piece of digital junk one could buy in a grocery store.

“You all right?” Coming to stand by his side, Doe shot him a worried look.

“Yeah, sure. Not quite ready for the public flogging by the critics, is all,” he said ruefully.

“Mac, I promise you, they won’t hate it.”

He shrugged. “But they won’t love it, either.” A quick chug from the water bottle Doe pressed into his hand quenched his dry mouth.

“Good food,” Remy said before shoving a canapé in his mouth and holding out a plate piled high with goodies. “Better than the night your dad got his award here.”

The art gallery’s large entrance hall had been set up to host a small cocktail party. Attendees had been noshing on goodies for the last fifteen minutes, waiting for Mac’s arrival before the doors to the gallery opened. But food was the last thing on Mac’s mind.

Doe cracked the door and peeked out into the crowd. “That dipshit art critic from New York is here,” she said. “What did he say about your last show?”

“Oh, god, is Tipper Michaels here?” Mac groaned. “He said something about how soulless my life must be if my art’s any reflection.”

A strangled sound came out of Doe’s mouth. “Glad I called him a dipshit, then.”

“Language, Doe—”

“Oh!” she squealed suddenly. “Tristan Schuyler is here with his mom and little sister!”

Mac turned to Remy and whispered, “Who’s Tristan Schuyler?”

“
Not
Buck,” the sheriff said under his breath, referencing the boy who’d knocked up Doe and run off. When Doe glanced in their direction, Remy cleared his throat and added loudly, “Star of the Meadowview High swim team a few years back. College kid. Nice guy.”

Apparently satisfied with Remy’s explanation, Doe resumed spying on the crowd.

“Who else is out there?” Remy called out.

Doe’s voice was muffled. “Um, Tristan’s sister Cathy, but Mac doesn’t know her. Chessie and Theo—he’s hot for an old guy. Delilah. Sophie and Ethan—he used to be some famous Broadway actor, right?”

As Doe prattled on, naming just about everyone from Meadowview (the place had to be a veritable ghost town, what with so many people in Sacramento to view his show), Mac zoned out, until he heard her say a name.

“Who did you just say was here?” he asked sharply.

“Betsy. At least, I’m figuring that’s the little girl twisting around in Milla’s arms, screaming something about wanting to see Uncle Mac and ride a donkey.” Doe whipped her head around and shot him a glare. “When did some random kid start calling you Uncle Mac?”

“First, she’s not a random kid, and second, I have no idea. More importantly, why is Milla here?” he demanded.

Doe’s expression grew guilty. “Um…I kind of invited her.”

“Why?”

She raised a shoulder. “I like her.”

“Doe…”

Ian interrupted, telling him it was time he stepped into the crowd. He pressed a portable microphone in Mac’s hand and informed him he was to make a speech before the doors to the gallery opened and the public was allowed in to see Warrior Woman. Then the gallery owner stepped away, leaving Mac alone with Remy and Doe, who was holding the door open and gesturing for him to enter the throng.

He ran a hand over his brow. “Do I have time to ditch?”

“You’re being a huge baby,” Doe snapped out. “Stop dramatizing everything. Besides, I think you’ll be happy with the way tonight’s going to turn out.”

“Oh, really?” he snorted. “Why, you planning on taking out the worst of the critics before their reviews can hit the newsstands?”