She grinned up at him mischievously. “Who says I don’t?”
“Wait. You paint?”
“Paint? No. I’ve experimented a little with textiles, but just as a hobby. Just as well. Art can be a messy business, and my mother could never abide a mess in the house. If she has her way, I’ll follow in her footsteps and become a historian or conservator. Respectable and tidy.”
“And if you had your way?”
She blinked at him, dismayed to realize he was waiting for an answer, and even more dismayed to realize she didn’t have one. No one had ever asked what she wanted. She’d been given options, from her mother mostly, like a menu for Chinese takeout. Choose one from column A and one from column B. Column A being marriage to a suitable man, children, and a tasteful home, and Column B having to do with her career. Strictly speaking, none of the Grants had to work, but in families with old names and even older money, not making oneself useful in some conspicuous way was considered vulgar. They weren’t from Palm Beach, after all.
“I really don’t know,” she’d answered at last. “I suppose I’d have a little studio somewhere. A real one overlooking the sea, and I’d make beautiful seascapes out of all kinds of fabrics.”
“That’s an actual thing?”
“It’s called textile art. Think of a combination of sculpture and painting, done with bits of fabric. I started playing around with it when I was a kid. I loved the beach, but my parents never had time to take me. So I made my own beaches—out of fabric scraps. I still play around with it sometimes, but with school, it’s hard to find the time.”
“Why didn’t I know anything about this?”
She shrugged, suddenly shy. “It’s just a hobby.”
He’d pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You, Rory Grant, are full of surprises.” They’d begun to walk again, her hand tucked into his jacket pocket. “So why haven’t I ever seen any of your work? I don’t recall seeing anything like what you just described hanging in your apartment.”
“There’s one in the spare room. And a few more in the closet.”
“The spare room you won’t let me go into?”
“Because it’s a mess. I used to use it as a studio when I was selling them.”
He stopped walking and turned to face her. “I thought you said it was just a hobby.”
She shrugged. “It is—or was. Like I said, no time. But a friend took some pictures once and showed them to an interior designer she knows. He took seven pieces on consignment and sold them in two weeks.”
“Aha! Another piece of the story emerges. So when do I get a look? Or don’t I rate?”
His enthusiasm sent little whorls of pleasure dancing in Rory’s chest. She was usually squeamish about mentioning her art, but it felt good to have someone take her seriously. “If you’re really interested I can arrange a private showing—unless you’re in a hurry to get home.”
“What? Now?”
She reached for his hand. “Come with me.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were standing in front of Finn’s, one of Boston’s most exclusive seafood restaurants, gazing at a beautifully lit seascape in the front window.
She stood quietly, trying to see the piece as Hux would—for the first time. A torturous sea and rock-strewn shore, a low, leaden sky. She had chosen the fabrics with painstaking care. Watered silk and bits of crushed taffeta, denim and twill and crepe de chine, tulle and foamy bits of lace, carefully layered to create a sense of movement and depth.
It had taken nearly six months to finish and had fetched a whopping $700. Not that she cared about the money. Unlike most artists, she had that luxury. For her, what mattered was that it was hanging in the window of a prominent restaurant, her initials in the lower right-hand corner, for all of Boston to see.
“You really did this?” he asked, his eyes still riveted to the window. “It’s incredible. It feels like I could walk right into those waves. And the sky . . .” His face was half in shadow when he finally turned to look at her, but the half she could see was smiling. “Rory, this is more than just a hobby. It’s a gift. Were they all like this one?”
“Similar, but this is my favorite. It’s called North of November.”
“I still can’t believe it. You should have pieces in galleries all over town.”
She laughed. “If only.”
“What?”
“You don’t just put your work in a gallery, Hux. Especially if you’re a nobody. A new artist has a better chance of winning the lottery than getting into a decent show. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only reason this one ended up here is because my last name is Grant. The owner thought it would ingratiate him with my mother. He certainly read that one wrong.”