Page 6 of A Small Town Spring

“I do,” he confirms, a little shyly.“If it’s a good fit.But I actually like painting for hire.Things like the Greystone Inn are a nice palate cleanser from my usual stuff, and they keep me in oils and brushes.”

“What’s your usual stuff?”I don’t know all that much about art, but I like to support local artists the way I like to support anything local.I have several pieces I bought on whims to decorate my apartment and my cottage, but I haven’t collected with intent.

“I do oils,” he says.“I cut my teeth on landscapes, but I love doing architectural painting.It’s always a fun challenge to see if I can capture the spirit of a place and make it recognizable to those who know it best.”He bites his pink bottom lip.“It’s not that interesting to hear about, I’m afraid.”

“To the contrary.I’m a words person, not a visual arts person,” I say, forgetting to be tongue-tied by his beauty as I respond, “and I think it would be incredible to be able to capture something real in a painting.”

“You’re a writer?”Toby says, leaning back in his chair.His shirt tightens across his chest, and I can see the outline of his nipples through the thin fabric.

I swallow against a dry tongue.“Hardly.I leave the writing to the professionals.”I point at Jack, who smiles.“No, my job is to badger the publishers to pay my writers what they deserve, then badger the writers to turn in their work.Come to think of it, I do a lot of badgering.”

“And you’re the best badgerer there is,” Jack says.He looks at Toby.“Pete and I would be renting a third-floor walk-up in the city if not for Kingston here.”

Toby looks around the nicely appointed room in their lovely Cape-style house and raises his eyebrows at me.“You must be a very good badgerer, indeed.”

“Now what you need is a badgerer of your own,” Jack says.“Have you talked to Pete about meeting with his art agent?”

Toby shakes his head briskly.“No, I wouldn’t want to bother him about that.”

“Dude, he wouldn’t mind at all making an introduction,” Jack says decisively.“And Fernanda is really terrific.A killer, but terrific.”

“Fernanda Ruiz?She’s Pete’s art agent?”Toby says, as if the name means something to him.

I’ve met the woman once or twice at events, and she is formidable.You have to have a thick skin and sharp instincts to make it in the art world, from what I understand—it may be even worse than publishing.

“You know her?”Jack asks.

“Of her.She’s kind of a legend.And I’m not ready?—”

“I’ve seen your stuff,” Jack interrupts.“It’s astonishing.”

Jack’s vehemence surprises me.He’s gotten more interested in art, I noticed, since his and Pete’s honeymoon in which they hit up every museum in western Europe and a fair number in eastern Europe as well.I know Pete’s always going to be his favorite artist, but Toby must have some talent for Jack to be in his corner.

“Thanks,” Toby says quietly.He looks at his plate.“Ivy and I came here to work, and we’ve been working.I’ve never been so productive, in fact.But I didn’t expect to get my bluff called this soon.”

“What do you mean?”I ask.

“Every art school kid has ambitions for gallery shows and big-name buyers, fame and fortune.It’s what we’re supposed to want.I’m at the stage where I either have to shit or get off the pot, to borrow a phrase, and I thought it would be easier to… well, shit.”

Hearing the crass expression come from his handsome face and in his London accent makes me laugh.“You are something, Toby,” I say.“But I know a bit about artists with unrealized ambitions.You don’t want to have any regrets.”

Our gazes lock again, and this time I don’t look away.

“I try not to,” he murmurs, and I can’t stop my gaze from dropping to his mouth for a split second before returning to his amber eyes.

“It’s a personal policy of mine as well,” I say, forcing myself to act the part of… myself.Myself when I’m not mesmerized by a British painter with a face I know is going to appear in my dreams tonight.“No regrets.”

“To no regrets,” Jack says, lifting his glass in a second toast for our end of the table.

“No regrets,” Toby repeats, clinking our glasses together again.

I drain my wine in a long gulp.It’s easy enough to say and quite another thing to actually do.

After dinner,we move back to the kitchen, where Beck slices a raspberry tart.We switch to herbal tea and the mood shifts as Pete brings Ivy to sit on the blue leather barstool next to me.He gives me a significant look and pointedly wanders away.

“I’m sorry we haven’t gotten a chance to chat more,” she says.“Pete says your people are Jamaican?”

“Grandparents on both sides,” I confirm.“I give you one guess as to where they hailed from.”

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