Part 19 (1/2)

”Yes,” she said. ”That's all. As of now. Naturally, I'm hoping more will come of it.”

”Like what?”

She realized she couldn't read him. He seemed distant. Or at least he had in the past few moments.

Distant and a little bit cold. Strange. She'd antic.i.p.ated that he might be distant and cold, even angry with her, when he learned of the existence of the paintings. But she never would have guessed that this other bit of news would upset him.

”Logan. What's the matter?”

”Nothing. Just tell me. What exactly are you hoping for?”

His disdainful tone grated. She answered with heat. ”What do you think I'm hoping for? That Belinda

Goldstone will want to hang my paintings in her gallery, that I'll have a major show and that the show will

sell out. What do we all hope for,Logan? Appreciation. Acceptance. To get paid and paid well for the work that we've done.”

He was sitting very still. ”You're angry,” he said.

She pushed her plate away. ”No. Yes. It means a lot to me,that's all, that someone like Belinda Goldstone wants to see my work. I'd like to think that you're pleased for me. But you don't seem pleased. You don't seem pleased at all.”

”I am pleased.”

She stared at him across the table, wanting to believe him, but not quite able to.

He slid his napkin in at the side of his plate and pushed his chair back. ”Lace...” His eyes pleaded. His

tone was gentle again.

Her heart went to mush.

She let her shoulders droop. ”I guess I am a little sensitive about this.”

In two long strides he was beside her, taking her hand, pulling her up and into his waiting arms. ”I'm

sorry,” he whispered as he stroked her hair. ”I didn't mean to hurt you...” She wrapped her arms around him, pressed herself close. ”It's okay. Never mind. You're right. Nothing's really happened yet, anyway. And it could very well turn out that nothing will.”

He tipped her chin up and his mouth came down to cover hers. With a low moan, she slid her arms around his neck. A few minutes later, they went upstairs.

* * * The next day was Sunday.Logandidn't have to work. They spent a long, lazy morning reading the Sunday papers in bed, with Rosie between them, gurgling and cooing and waving her tiny, plump hands above the blankets. Later, they dressed and put Rosie in her car seat and drove down into the Valley to buy a few things for the house-some new deck chairs and an entry hall table. That night, they left Rosie with a sitter and went out to dinner at a place they both liked over onCommercial Street. It wasn't until Monday morning afterLoganhad left for his office that Lacey found herself rethinking their exchange of Sat.u.r.day night. As Rosie napped, she sat in her studio with her sketch pad in her lap and brooded over the words her husband hadn't said. Simple expressions of encouragement and understanding, like... Good luck. Or, I'll keep my fingers crossed for you.

Or, Of course, Belinda Goldstone will call.

Or,You're a d.a.m.n good artist and it's about time you got a break.

Eventually, Rosie woke. Lacey heard the fitful cries from the monitor on the windowsill and came back

to herself with a start. She looked down at the sketch pad in her hands. Blank. Well, she thought, that's what brooding will get you. Nowhere. Was she overreacting? Probably. As she'd admitted toLoganthe other night, shewas sensitive on this subject. Probably waytoo sensitive. The wisest thing to do, she knew, was to let it go for now. And when the subject came up again, she'd try her best to approach it calmly and rationally. She'd make a concerted effort not to allow her own insecurities to get all mixed up with whatever might be bothering her husband. Rosie cried louder. Lacey set her sketch pad aside and went to take care of her baby. * * * Two days later, on Wednesday, at eleven in the morning, Mack called from aKey Westhospital.

”It's a boy,” he announced. ”Eight pounds, two ounces.”

Lacey let out a glad cry. ”Oh, Mack! Congratulations. I can hardly believe it. His name. What's his name?”

”Ian Alexander. The Alexander's for my stepfather-”

”And Ian after our dad. Great choice.”

”We think so.”

”Is Jenna...?”

”She's right here. A little tired.”

”I'll bet. I promise I won't keep her long.”

Jenna came on the line. ”Lace. h.e.l.lo.”

Lacey's eyes blurred with sudden moisture. She swiped at them with the heel of her hand. ”Hey. A

beautiful boy, huh?” ”Yep. You're an auntie.” ”Oh, Jen. I can't believe it. I ... I want to see him.” ”Then come. Bring Rosie. AndLogan. Come see us.” Both sisters were silent. Lacey knew that Jenna was thinking the same thing that she was. Loganwould find some reason why they couldn't go. Jenna hitched in a tight little breath. ”It's all right,” she said, her voice weary. ”I understand. Maybe someday...” ”Yes,” Lacey agreed. ”Someday soon...” Why did that feel like such a complete lie? ”...and I should let you go now, shouldn't I?” ”I'll call you, in a day or two, after we're out of this hospital and back home where we belong.” ”Yes. Oh, please do.” ”We ... we don't talk enough anymore, Lace.” Lacey closed her eyes and murmured, ”I know.” ”What? I can hardly hear you.” Lacey spoke right into the mouthpiece this time. ”I said, I know. We don't talk enough. I keep meaning to call you, but...” But what? There was really no excuse.

Except that she and Logan had a good life. And Jenna wasn't part of it. Jenna was someone Lacey and Logannever talked about. Logancertainly never mentioned her. He'd loved Jenna for over a decade, had wanted to marry her. She had helped to make his house a beautiful home. Yet it was as if he'd prefer to pretend that she simply didn't exist. Then again, maybe Lacey had it wrong. Yes,Logannever mentioned Jenna. But Lacey never talked about her either.

Jenna said, ”Let's not allow ourselves to drift apart.”