His Darling Bride (Echoes of the Heart #3) (14 page)

“You shouldn’t be in here,” Mike said.

Chapter Eight

Bethany wasn’t on the co-op’s August schedule.

Mike had double-checked George’s email to be sure. Which was why he hadn’t thought twice about coming back to his studio to tinker with the collection of prints that he’d promised his mother—after he’d asked George to, grudgingly, decamp to her own office at her apartment.

He’d needed his part of the loft to himself in between his sessions with Joe, to get lost in the last series of photos he’d captured for Jeremy. And to mull over how he was going to explain to Bethany and her family—assuming Bethany ever gave him the chance—exactly who and what he was.

“
I’m
not supposed to be here?” Bethany sputtered.

Mike watched her girlfriends silently ease out of the office. “I was going to tell you about all of this as soon as we went on our date.”

Bethany looked ready to bolt herself.

“Please.” He inched closer. Today she had green paint splattered all over her vintage-looking sundress and the white men’s T-shirt she’d worn beneath it. She looked exhausted. “Let me explain before you assume the worst.”

“The worst?”

“I know how this looks.”

“Like you’ve been lying about who you are? To me and my whole family.
While
we’ve all been trusting you to help my father.”

“None of my therapy patients know about this part of my life. There’s no need for them to. But as soon as I found out Joe was your father, I knew I had to tell you.”

“Except you didn’t.”

“We were going to get together to talk, remember? I’ve tried to reach you.”

She gazed around at his work.

“I’m sorry for how all this looks,” he apologized again. “But I’m glad you know.”

Bethany stared at him as if she wanted to burst into the kind of laughter that ripped you apart. He’d hurt her, not trying to and not really understanding how he could have avoided it. She picked up his hat from the desk and held it out to him, saying nothing.

He slipped on the faded, worn Stetson. “This is—was—my brother’s. Jeremy was the cowboy, not me. At least, he always wanted to be one.”

Like the money clip their father had given Jeremy his last Christmas—even though Jeremy had been confined to a hospital bed for over a year and had no way to spend money—Mike now took his brother’s hat with him everywhere he went. He looked around and smiled at the lovingly selected photographs covering every wall of his studio. He felt Jeremy’s memory draw closer.

“These are my personal favorites,” he said. “I did a half dozen series after Jeremy died. Photographing his hat for a year, taking it all over the world on trips he’d helped me map out. These were his bucket-list places that he knew he’d never get to see. He was too sick by then. His last year or so . . . my photographs were how my big brother traveled. I guess”—Mike motioned to the images around them—“even after Jeremy was gone, I was trying to keep him from missing out on the life he should have lived.”

Bethany nodded, compassion softening her shock.

She swallowed. “And the artist co-ops?”

“They’re one of the ways I invest the income from my photography, funding grass-roots art communities in urban landscapes. Cultivating art awareness and participation by promising young talent—in a creative climate too often monopolized by high-end dealers and those who can afford to throw money away on trends. The residency programs encourage more organic artistic pursuits.”

“You . . . funded my residency.”

He nodded.

He knew how it made him sound—like he’d known who she was from the start.

“I’m the money around here, Bethany, that’s all. My business manager—you’ve emailed back and forth with George—and the residents run the art centers I set up. They pretty much make all the decisions. I write the checks I’m told to write. Your application was reviewed by a committee of current residents. George pulls together a five-name short list whenever a slot opens up. She selects two of you based on the committee’s recommendations, and I review digital portfolios of the finalists. My decision was based on your body of work. It was an impartial selection. I never meet any of the co-op residents. Each center evolves from the vision of artists who create there, and the communities they volunteer in. George helps me make sure who and what I am never get in the way.”

Bethany was still as a statue, only inches away, making him want to hold her, physically reassure her, kiss her so she’d remember how good they could make each other feel.

“How many centers are you running?” she asked. “You know, in addition to traveling the globe taking fine-art photographs that people pay a fortune for. And tending bar part-time like a drifter who has nothing better to do with his life. Oh, and sidelining as a rogue physical therapist. Because why not, right?”

It sounded careless.

Irresponsible.

Reckless.

Mike sighed at the labels his parents had given his life since Jeremy.

He
was
a drifter. He had a purpose in life: doing his damnedest to honor his brother with each choice he made. But after ten years of searching for the next opportunity, the next artistic or business challenge, he’d started to wonder if there was something to what his parents were saying. If it wasn’t time to rethink, dig in a little deeper, and not move on quite so fast or so far, with another adventure on the horizon and his latest success in his rearview.

“I’ve started four co-ops so far,” he said, wondering if he could explain in a way that would help Bethany understand, without him sounding like a complete flake. “I’ve chosen larger cities that I’ve lived in long enough to get a read on the local landscape. Seattle, San Francisco, Chicago, and now Atlanta. The first one was just a crazy idea that George helped me bring to life. Then it took off, and I was hooked. Each new location has a strong enough local art climate to offer a steady influx of residents, and to allow the artists to share their craft and teach others how to find their own creative voices. Nothing fancy. Everything’s grass-roots, steering clear of affiliations with fine-art galleries or investors who make decisions based on valuing art as a commodity.”

“Nothing fancy?”

Bethany’s monotone question made him want to shake her and tell her to go ahead and get angry. Instead, she felt like a calm, distant stranger. He could handle just about any other reaction from her but that.

“I purchase the buildings outright so there’s no rent,” he continued. “I front each center enough money to launch the nonprofit and keep it viable financially for at least a year. George swoops in and implements our business plan. And then I turn the day-to-day running of things over to her and the talent we pull in through the residencies. The artists dig into the community, create pieces for shows to generate exposure and sales and fund-raising contacts that bring in local business donations—from people interested in tax write-offs, and the ones who truly believe in what we’re doing. Every single center has been self-sufficient within a year.”

“Which is when you move on,” Bethany summed up, as if he were making all kinds of good sense. “Wow. It’s . . . impressive, everything you’ve done.”

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” he said, wary of her easy acceptance. “George must have left the office door unlocked last night. When I told her I was coming down, she was doing inventory in the supply room. I have a project I’m working on. When I’m here, I come and go through the side entrance in the alley that only George and I have the combination to. And I swear, Bethany, I was going to—”

“Let me get this straight,” she interrupted. “You’re HMT.”

“Harrison Michael Taylor.”

“A world-renowned fine-art photographer, who’s been taking snapshots of my family home and gabbing about them with my niece. Because you’re the physical therapist whom my dad’s depending on to save his job and make sure he’s strong enough not to collapse at my sister’s wedding. And you’re the owner of the nonprofit that’s giving me a chance to find my way back into painting,
and
you’re the bartender who’s been flirting with me—kissing me—to the point that my entire hometown is talking about us.”

“Yes.” Mike stepped closer, feeling like he was on trial.

Emotion finally sparked in Bethany’s eyes. Distrust. Disappointment, maybe. Most definitely hurt.

“Is that it?” she asked.

A part of him wished he were the kind of louse who could lie to her—a mongrel like Benjie. But there was only one way to do this and have a shot at convincing her that he was a good guy, caught in a bind he’d never seen coming. He was genuinely interested in Bethany, in the artistic voice she was struggling to bring back to life,
and
in her father’s recovery. He wanted a chance, somehow, to stay connected to all of it.

“There’s one more thing.” He slid open the top drawer in his desk and picked up the packet of paper he’d left there.

It was the fax George had received from the director of the JHTF Developing Artist grant. Mike turned to the final page of the scholarship application from five years ago. The full-color photograph of the landscape that had been submitted as a sample of the artist’s best work was an image of a country meadow near a pond at sunset. It was so realistic, so lifelike even copied in a facsimile, it could have been a photograph.

The work was joyous, the artist’s love for her subject and her craft clear. Each time Mike looked at it, the clarity and creative vision of what she’d accomplished sucked him in. The same as when he’d first seen it—as part of the portfolio of work Bethany had submitted with her residency application.

He handed over the packet.

She glanced at the sheet on top, her eyes rounding. After a double take his way, she flipped through the rest.

“How . . . did you get this?” she asked. “Why do you have this?”

“My parents chair the Jeremy Harrison Taylor Foundation.”

Bethany swallowed. “Jeremy . . .”

Mike nodded. “My brother. Our parents are philanthropists. When Jeremy was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, we were told his disease was progressing so quickly he wouldn’t live to see his thirtieth birthday. Our parents launched—”

“JHTF.” Bethany backed closer to the door to the artists’ portion of the loft. “The foundation that sponsored my full-ride scholarship to Pratt’s fine-art program?”

Mike nodded.

The annual art grant had been created in Jeremy’s honor, posthumously, at Mike’s insistence. He anonymously—to his mother’s perpetual dismay—contributed a sizable portion of his income from HMT gallery sales each year to fund art scholarships to a dozen graduating high school seniors. The income from the family money he’d invested in a trust supported even more art-related projects, through the foundation’s long-reaching nonprofit arm.

“Wow,” Bethany repeated. “You’re JHTF.”

“My parents are JHTF.” The foundation that had consumed their lives for the last twenty years. “I have nothing to do with the day-to-day business.”

“Of course you don’t.” Bethany’s anger flared. “Do you have anything to do with
any
of the things that are going on in your life?”

“Wait. What?” That’s what she had to say? “I’ve done a lot of good with my life, for a lot of people.”

And a part of him had been excited when he’d discovered Bethany in his office, anticipating her admiration for his photography and the things that the money from his business made possible. Instead, it felt as if he’d slipped into a warped, Freudian replay of his mother’s running commentary on him wasting his potential.

“You’re dabbling in things and people and places,” Bethany said,
“until you get bored and move on. Or am I missing something?”

If she’d thrown a bucket of ice water at Mike, he couldn’t have been more shocked.

“I don’t get bored.” And he hated feeling defensive. It made him furious. Even now, when furious was the last thing he wanted to be with Bethany. “But I do move on a lot. Which I’ve made certain I don’t have to answer to anyone for. Certainly not someone who keeps kissing me and then running from me, and then she decides she’ll date me, and then she runs some more.”

Bethany blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. She stepped closer. This time he jerked away.

“Mike,” she said softly, sounding like the Bethany he’d thought he knew. “I—”

“My relationship with my family has been strained since I was nineteen and my older brother died,” he bit out. “Jeremy was the last thing I had in common with my parents. I’ve accomplished a lot in the last ten years, whatever anyone thinks about how or why I’ve done it.”

“You’re right.” She looked around them. “This is none of my business.”

Another ice-cold blast.

“No.” Mike inhaled, mentally kicking himself. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just . . . What I said just now is about my mess with my parents, not about you. I know this is a shock. I probably should have told you that day at Joe and Marsha’s. But I didn’t want your dad postponing rehab if things between us got rockier. I didn’t want to risk . . .” Not seeing her again. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything at once, but I’m not sorry that you know now.”