Page 12 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

He sipped his whiskey, the notes of leather competing with his subtle pine scent. “Cause more trouble, of course. She’s a mean and vindictive woman, the kind who will cut off her nose to spite her face, if you know my meaning. I’m sick of the lot of it. We all are. But now it seems she has a very powerful man working with her.”

Pushing off the wall, he faced her, his blue eyes narrowing. She could feel the intensity pouring off him in waves.

“You’re safe here, and so is your child. So is your work. This community is behind you, and everyone associated with the arts center. We have an emergency board meeting set for tomorrow.”

“I appreciate your assurances, Jamie,” she said softly. “They must be pretty intent on causing trouble. You don’t take away someone’s house unless you want to send a big message.”

His mouth tightened. “You’re right, of course, but we’ll face down whatever they throw at us. I only wish for your sake that the feud had ended.”

He glanced down at his feet as if contemplating his next words carefully.

She put a hand on his arm in comfort. “What?”

He looked up, his blue eyes filled with fierce light. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back to France? I don’t want you to. Not at all. Only it seems unfair not to ask you. I’ve seen trouble like this before—for other artists—and it hasn’t been easy. You’re a woman who craves peace, I think.”

It startled her that he could read her so well. “I had a lot of volatility growing up. Sandrine helped me find my peace until I learned to do it myself.” Of course, she’d made some missteps there. She’d thought she was getting peace with Franz. He’d seemed such a quiet man in the beginning, but he’d been temperamental and dramatic—as much a narcissist as the parents she’d been desperate to escape.

He nodded after a moment. “If you went… I’d—figure things out on my end.”

She didn’t know what that meant exactly, but her answer was a no-brainer. “I’m not leaving because some people are trying to stop something good from happening here. Trust me, this ain’t my first rodeo, as Linc would say. My father is a controversial pop artist. Think Andy Warhol and then take it a little further. My mother paints in the post-modern school and had a very controversial nudes period, which showcased people having affairs, like my father, and women having orgasms on their own. Like it’s a shock we women have and like orgasms.”

His mouth pursed like he was fighting a smile, but his face flushed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. What I’m trying to say is that I’m the kid of two very out-there artists, so I’ve faced this before. People have petitioned to have my parents’ paintings removed for indecency. But the most fun was when protesters threw rotten eggs at their work as well as our family when we arrived for the gallery showing.”

His mouth parted before slamming shut. “But that’s atrocious!”

“Yes, and that’s why I sculpt flowers,” she joked.

“Except you aren’t doing flowers this time, right, but the Celtic Tree of Life?” Jamie waved his hand suddenly. “Forget I asked. Maybe you don’t want to talk about your work.”

“I’m happy to. A tree from Irish mythology shouldn’t rub anyone the wrong way, but maybe I need to add roses. Bets’ roses. That might make Mary Kincaid see red, right?”

Jamie laughed. “I like your fighting spirit. But the thing with the eggs couldn’t have been easy as a child.”

She glanced over at Greta. Ollie was teaching her how to encourage the puppy to jump, and her daughter’s sweetheart face was scrunched in concentration. She was still so innocent, so small. “No, it wasn’t. Which is why I get the heebie-jeebies when I think about exploring other themes with my art, even though I want to break out more.”

“Like with what?” he asked softly.

Before now, she’d only spoken to Sandrine about this, but it felt natural to confess the truth to him. “The female form. In glass. I’ve always secretly been drawn to my mother’s more sensational paintings. It would be fascinating to bring something like that to life in glass. I happen to think women’s bodies are beautiful.”

“You aren’t wrong there,” he answered after a moment.

She met his heated eyes before looking away. “But I don’t want Greta to get egged because of my work, even though it outrages me that anyone would try to suppress artists. I feel like a hypocrite sometimes. Crap, how’s this for honesty. I sometimes feel like saying to a reporter, ‘Hi, I’m Sophie Giombetti, the nicest artist in the art world, who’s totally scared of controversy.’”

Suddenly it struck her hard that she’d landed smack-dab in the center of one despite having done nothing to rock the boat. No, she’d played it safe like she always did.

And yet, she wasn’t running. In fact, she’d known this arts center had faced some pushback from members of the local community. Had she decided in the back of her mind to face her fears at last? She felt a tremor go through her body.

Jamie didn’t ask questions—he simply extended his whiskey to her. Their hands touched as she took it from him. His eyes held hers while she drank, aware that his lips had touched the very glass she was now touching herself. The intimacy made her belly tighten with desire, and it was as luxurious a feeling as when her glass started to turn liquid from the heat.

“How old were you when you were egged?” he asked.

She lifted her shoulder. “Ten. I want to be brave and say it doesn’t bother me anymore, but the truth is I can still smell the rotten eggs. Feel them hitting me. I know it’s a mind trick, but it’s there. And I can still see that disgusting yellow-green gunk staining my favorite cherry-red dress. We had to throw it out, of course, and part of me wants to say,Get out the little violin, Sophie. You could afford another dress. No biggie.”

He closed his hand around hers. “Except it was a biggie, as you say.”

His quiet certainty was as calming as his honest gaze. “Yes, it was. Tell me more about you and your interest in art. You clearly want the local children to have access to art classes or you wouldn’t be heading up that project.”

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