Whispers Of The Heart. Ruth Scofield

right,” she capitulated. “If you don’t mind. I’ll meet you downstairs in…fifteen minutes?”

      He waited in front of her door, leaning on the passenger side of his car. She smiled at him, a tentative offering, but she didn’t glance away. He felt hopeful.

      “If you don’t mind, can we stop at Mirror Images first?” She held forth a large, maroon portfolio case. “I have to drop off a couple of additional paintings for framing. It won’t take long.”

      “Sure, let’s go.” He held the car door wide for her, then put her case in the trunk and started the motor.

      “Where, exactly?” he asked.

      She directed him down the hill, and he pulled up in front of the small gallery wedged between an empty corner store and one featuring used clothing. Only a night-light appeared to illuminate the first floor.

      “It appears to be closed,” he commented. “Does the gallery usually stay open late?”

      “Only during the summer hours, really, but Curtis uses the upstairs for his workroom and classes. He’s often there late. Besides, tonight he’s expecting me. Want to come in?”

      “Sure. I’ll get your case.”

      Autumn slid from the car and, as he opened the trunk, went to ring the bell. When she retraced her steps to reach for her case, he said, “I’ll get it.”

      She hadn’t made up her mind whether to argue with him or not, he noted. While dark eyelashes gave a hint of fluttering uncertainty, she paused a second too long over her decision. He didn’t wait. He swung the case from the trunk, snapping the lid closed, hiding his own smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d realized her shyness. She hadn’t yet acquired the modern woman’s assertiveness.

      Above them, a slight, graying man raised the window and called down to them to wait where they were. A moment later, he let them into the gallery. Autumn introduced the two men.

      “Brent Hyatt. Don’t I know you?” Curtis’s inquisitive gaze was friendly as he turned on some lights and led the way up the back stairs. “You’re on the mayor’s committee, working toward urban renewal, aren’t you?”

      “Yeah, that’s me,” Brent answered. “Are you interested in the revitalization going on down here?”

      “You know it. Wouldn’t be down here if I didn’t believe in it. I’d have a pricy place down on the Plaza or out in Johnson County,” Curtis said empathically. He cleared a worktable of oak frame pieces and matting, stacking everything neatly in a box.

      “But I wouldn’t mind relocating to a larger space in a good renovation if I could afford it.” He glanced up at Brent as he worked. “Anything of a smaller nature going on besides that big project proposal in the papers recently?”

      “Yeah, I’ve heard of a couple buildings with new owners interested in just your kind of gallery.” Brent set the case on the cleared table as he replied, then stepped back to allow Autumn to attend to business. “Lot of work needed, though. Might take some time. I’ll put you in touch with them if you’d like.”

      “Sounds good to me.” Curtis nodded, then turned to Autumn. “Now Autumn, let’s see what you’ve brought me.”

      Autumn stepped forward and unzipped her case. Curtis made humming noises as he looked at the five watercolors she pulled out. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Hmm…”

      Brent tried hard not to gawk, but he felt agog to see her work. He caught a quick glance of bright splashes of color, of dewy petals and quick rushing water in a streambed. The impressionist style shone with spirit and verve, a style much looser than the architectural renderings she’d done for his competitor.

      “This one and this one,” Curtis made up his mind quickly. “And let me keep this one, too. We’ll frame it to match the one that’s up. I have a customer who comes in every week or two who looked at that one. Maybe she’ll take a pair.”

      Of the three chosen, two were similar, but from different angles, still lifes of a pot of bright-red tulips sharing the space with a fruit basket of ripe strawberries. The third showed an old black upright piano with a bowl of daffodils sitting on one end, music sheets on its rack.

      He liked them. Very much, actually. Autumn had real talent.

      Further, he thought his mother, Catherine, would like these, and he knew immediately that he’d purchase the piano painting for her birthday next month. The style would appeal to her. But he wouldn’t do it now, he’d wait until Curtis had them framed and up. Somehow, he felt Autumn might find it embarrassing.

      It was well after eight by the time they arrived at the restaurant. The big room held only two other tables of diners, and Autumn, after a hesitant glance around, relaxed considerably. The waiter greeted him by name, a courtesy not lost on Autumn.

      “Hi, Frank,” he returned, easily recalling the man’s name. Remembering people’s names and knowing their occupation was a talent of his. He liked knowing people, liked knowing about their families and where their interests and concerns lay. Meeting new groups of people never bothered him. He belonged to a couple of circles active in civic affairs. He’d even had his picture in the newspaper on occasion, once or twice with the current mayor. He didn’t mind admitting to ambitions to serve the city, but he didn’t know about higher political aims, as Laureen sometimes suggested.

      He ordered quickly and waited patiently while Autumn made her choice more slowly, taking the opportunity to study her features. She had a tender, wide mouth in an oval face enhanced by shiny dark hair. Her lashes lay against her cheek like feathery swatches as she read the menu.

      Later, they lingered over their pasta. She seemed content to let him lead the conversation. He did so with a relaxed approach, touching only on general subjects such as the neighborhood, its history, and the spring weather.

      Instinctively, he chose not to push Autumn into confidences she wasn’t ready to give, so he shied away from asking about her dating life. Though he wanted to know. For now, he felt he’d gained a giant leap in meeting Curtis Jennings; he’d detected mere friendship between them, though a long-standing one.

      Instead, he let her know a little about himself and Timmy.

      “Timmy and I moved into a house in midtown last year. We had a lot of fun doing it over, with Grandma’s help, of course. She helped him pick his favorite colors and wallpaper and such.”

      “You must feel very lucky to have an active grandparent to help out with Timmy,” she murmured.

      “Yes, we’re very blessed. Timmy never knew his mother, really. He was only six months old when she died in a car accident.”

      “Oh, how sad,” she said, her gaze direct and compassionate. “Spring and I lost our parents at a young age, too, only a little older than Tim is now. We were raised by an uncle. Now he’s gone, as well. Does Timmy ask about her much?”

      “Not often. He spends a lot of time with his grandmother, you see, which seems to fill the gaps for him. And I haven’t rushed him into a nursery school, preferring to hire a sitter this past year when I’ve needed one. But Mrs. Myers, the sitter, is moving away next month, so we’ll lose her. Anyway, Tim is enrolled next year at a Christian school in a prekindergarten class for four-year-olds. They keep the class size small.”

      “Do you think he’ll like it?”

      “Yes. Yes, I do. He goes to Bible class on Sunday mornings now and loves it.”

      They left the restaurant, and he drove her back to her building through nearly deserted streets. A frown caught him. He really did believe in the renewal projects and knew that it took almost a pioneer spirit to bring prosperity and life back to these sections of the city, but it concerned him a little to leave Autumn there. He insisted on seeing her to her door.

      “That really isn’t necessary,” she murmured, flashing him a questioning glance. “Tomorrow’s a working day.”