Holiday by Design Read online

  “I don’t want you to keep working for Chick, either,” Georgie said fiercely. “He’s a total jerk.”

  “I realize that now. I seem to attract that kind of person. In lovers and in bosses.” Joanna was grateful Georgie was a good enough friend she never rubbed Joanna’s nose in the fact that she’d warned her against getting involved with both Chick and Ivan Klemenko—a designer she’d done some work for who’d stolen her ideas and passed them off as his own—from day one. And Joanna, as usual, had willfully gone her own way...and paid the price. She sighed heavily. What was done was done. And nothing was going to change the past now. “Look, that’s enough about me. Let’s talk about you for a change.”

  For the next ten minutes, Georgie filled Joanna in on the doings in the Prince household. Finally, when Joanna was about to say she’d better get back to work, Georgie said, “I have something else to tell you. But you have to promise you won’t laugh.”

  “Laugh? Why would I laugh? What have you done now?”

  “Well, after all the years I’ve said I didn’t want children...” Georgie’s voice trailed off.

  It took a few seconds for the import of Georgie’s statement to sink in. Then Joanna squealed. “Georgie! Are you pregnant? I don’t believe it!”

  Georgie laughed, the sound filled with joy. “I know. I don’t believe it, either.”

  “Oh, Georgie, that’s wonderful.” Joanna told herself she was not jealous. She did not begrudge this to her friend. “How...how far along are you?” Georgie and Zach had been married in April.

  “A little over three months. I went to the doctor yesterday.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes. Wow.”

  “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, Joanna, I’m so happy I can’t believe it. We haven’t told anyone yet except my mom, not even the children.” Zach had three children from his previous marriage. The youngest, Emma, was just four. The oldest, Katie, was eleven. Remembering how unhappy Katie had been at first, before Georgie had won her over, Joanna said, “What do you think Katie will say?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a little worried, to tell you the truth.”

  “I’ll bet she’ll be fine. Most girls love having a little sister.”

  “Except she already has a little sister.”

  “I know, but think about yourself. You have three younger sisters, and you once told me you were thrilled about every one of them.”

  They talked another ten minutes about the baby, which was due the middle of March, and about how the velvet gown could work even around a baby bump, then began to say their goodbyes. Before hanging up, Georgie said, “Hang in there, Jo.”

  Joanna made a face. “I will. Actually, on Monday, I plan to visit Up and Coming, that gallery I told you about. Who knows? They might agree to let me show my collection there, and then maybe one of the banks will change its mind and lend me the money I need.” She made a face. “Yeah, and I’ll probably win the lottery, too.”

  “See? I knew you’d come up with another idea,” Georgie said, completely ignoring Joanna’s attempt at dark humor. “And if the gallery and loan don’t work out for you, Zach and I will be happy to finance the rest of the collection.”

  “I know. You’ve already told me that. But I can’t let you do that, Georgie. What if...” But Joanna couldn’t give voice to her greatest fear, not even to Georgie.

  “Do not say it, Joanna! You will not fail. Your collection will be a huge hit. Huge. Listen, I know fashion. So do my sisters. And we all love your clothes.”

  With that ringing endorsement still reverberating in her ears, Joanna said goodbye. But the moment the connection was broken, her spirits flagged again. Yes, Georgie and her sisters did love her clothes, but they were prejudiced.

  So even if the owner of Up and Coming said yes to her on Monday, and even if one of the banks did change its mind and lend her the money to finish the collection, she could still fail.

  As soon as the thought formed, she got mad at herself. What was wrong with her? Why was she even entertaining such a negative idea? She was not and never had been a negative person. She was a chance taker. She believed in herself and in her talent.

  Georgie was right. She would succeed!

  No matter what it took.

  * * *

  “Will you be home for dinner tonight, Marcus?”

  Marcus Osborne Barlow III shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mother. Walker and I have a dinner meeting scheduled.” Walker Creighton was the family’s longtime lawyer and also sat on the board of Barlow International. When his mother didn’t answer, Marcus looked up from the Seattle Times. Her grayish-blue eyes—whose color he’d inherited—seemed stricken. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked down at her half-eaten English muffin. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

  It was never nothing with his mother. Ever since his father’s unexpected death of a heart attack fifteen years earlier just before Marcus’s twenty-first birthday in his third year of college, Laurette Bertrand Barlow had been incapable of handling much more than what to have for dinner. And sometimes she seemed incapable of doing even that. She hadn’t always been this way. When his father was alive, she’d been a different woman. Or had she? Maybe, like most young people, he’d simply been too wrapped up in his own life to notice.

  Marcus finished the last of his coffee and put the paper down. He’d learned that coaxing his mother didn’t work, so he simply sat there quietly. After long seconds, she finally met his gaze. “It’s Vanessa.”

  “What about her?” he said more sharply than he’d intended.

  “She talked back to me last night. I will not be talked to that way, Marcus.”

  Vanessa was Marcus’s twenty-year-old sister. Only five when their father died, she idolized Marcus. And he adored her, even as he sometimes despaired of making her into the kind of young lady who would do the Barlow family and company proud. The kind of young lady a man so seldom found nowadays.

  “What did she say to you?” he asked.

  His mother flushed. “She told me I was stupid.”

  “Stupid!” Marcus was appalled. Sometimes he understood why Vanessa was impatient with their mother. After all, Laurette was often difficult to deal with. But showing disrespect, no matter the provocation, would not be tolerated. Especially since Creighton had been urging Marcus to assume more international business travel. How could he take charge abroad when his mother and sister still expected him to mediate their disagreements?

  Suppressing a sigh, he said, “I’ll speak to her.” He put down his paper, rose and headed for the stairs.

  Five minutes later, he knocked on Vanessa’s bedroom door. In the mood he was in, he almost went in without waiting for an answer, but if he was to lead by example, good manners dictated he wait.

  “Is that you, Mother?” was followed by the door opening. Vanessa, blond hair still tousled from sleep, stood there in a very short blue bathrobe and bare feet. Her eyes, dark blue like their father’s had been, lost their defiant glare when she realized it was her brother at the door and not her mother.

  “I thought you’d already gone to the office,” she said, smiling.

  “I have a meeting in Kirkland today.” Wasn’t she cold?

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you have a class this morning?” Vanessa was taking a couple of design classes at the Art Institute of Seattle.

  “It was canceled. The instructor’s wife went into labor yesterday, so I thought I’d check out that new exhibit at the Frye.” She tightened the skimpy robe around her. For the first time, she seemed to sense his mood. “Is something wrong, Marcus?”

  “Mother says last night you called her stupid.”

  Vanessa shook her head. “That’s not quite true.”

  “Not quite true? How
can something be not quite true?”

  “I didn’t call her stupid. I said what she’d said was stupid. That’s not the same thing.”

  “You’re splitting hairs. Talking to your mother that way is disrespectful, and you know it.”

  “Don’t you even want to know what it was she said?”

  “No. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you must always treat your mother with respect.”

  “But, Marcus—”

  “No buts.”

  “So I can’t even disagree with her?” The defiant glare was back in full force.

  “I didn’t say that. It’s entirely possible to have a difference of opinion without being rude...or disrespectful.”

  Vanessa rolled her eyes. “You know, Marcus, as much as I love you, you have a tendency to sound like some old man. I mean, come on, no one talks the way you do anymore.”

  “Excuse me?” he said stiffly. If he sounded older than he was, maybe it was because he’d never had a choice. Did she ever think of that? A week after his father’s death, he’d had to put on a suit and tie and meet with Barstow’s board to convince them he’d be capable of assuming the company’s reins in five years. It wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to do, but who else was there to do it?

  And this was what his sister thought of him now? Suddenly he saw Vanessa through the eyes of their mother. Maybe Laurette had been right all along. Maybe he did spoil Vanessa.

  “I’ve been defending your bad behavior long enough,” he said, hardening his heart. “Mother is right. From now on, things are going to be different. You will apologize to Mother. And you will be grounded for the weekend.”

  “Grounded! I’m twenty years old! You can’t ground me.”

  “I most certainly can. The fact that you are twenty years old has no bearing on anything, especially when you still sometimes behave as if you are ten. Remember this, Vanessa. You live under my roof. You are dependent on me. That means you follow my rules. If you don’t want to follow my rules, then you’re free to find a place of your own.”

  Her mouth dropped open. He knew she was shocked, for he had never before talked to her this way.

  “Now get dressed and come downstairs and apologize to your mother. I’m leaving for my meeting, and when I come home tonight, I expect you to be here. And that you will have already given Mother your sincere apology.”

  As he turned to go back downstairs, he fully expected to hear her door slam, because Vanessa had a temper. Instead, there was silence. He strode down the hall, then stopped. Shaking his head, he turned around and walked back to his sister’s door. He was sorry to have spoken so harshly. After all, he did know how difficult his mother could be and how she could strain anyone’s patience.

  He grasped the knob of Vanessa’s door, but he didn’t open it. He couldn’t. At the age of twenty, he’d had to thrust aside all his dreams and hopes for the future. He’d had to grow up fast. To assume responsibility for both his siblings and his mother, not to mention an entire corporation and the workers who depended on him.

  If he wanted Vanessa to be a credit to him and to their family, to become the lovely woman he knew she could be, then this rebelliousness of hers needed to be reined in.

  He released the knob and headed for the stairs. This time, he didn’t look back.

  Chapter Two

  On Monday, Chick left for Oregon and a buying trip, so Joanna put the phone on voice mail and took a couple of hours for lunch. Luckily, it was a pretty day—cool but sunny—so she walked the fifteen blocks from Chick’s office to Up and Coming’s trendy location in Belltown, right on the fringes of Queen Anne.

  Joanna had read about Up and Coming in Phoebe Lancaster’s column in the July issue of Around Puget Sound magazine. The gallery featured new artists, and apparently they weren’t limited to painters and sculptors because sometime this fall they were scheduled to showcase the work of a jewelry designer. When Joanna had read that, she’d immediately wondered if it might be possible to have her work shown there, too. After all, she was an artist—every bit as much as someone who designed jewelry. The idea had excited her, and she’d filed it in the back of her mind, thinking it might be something she could explore in the future.

  Well, the future was here. Up and Coming was one of her last resorts. Maybe her very last resort.

  Located on a shady, tree-lined street where several restaurants and boutiques mingled with half a dozen galleries, Up and Coming had an elegant facade with double walnut doors flanked by old-fashioned gas lamps. Its two large display windows held vividly colored ceramic vases and bowls, along with fanciful animals carved from what looked like mahogany. One—a mouse with an impudent expression—made her smile. It also gave her hope that the owner had an open mind about what constituted art.

  Tiny silver bells tinkled when Joanna opened the door and walked inside. A tall blonde with a severe hairdo, slicked back and fashioned into a tiny ballerina bun, looked up at Joanna’s entrance.

  “Yes?” She didn’t smile. Instead, her gaze flicked to Joanna’s knee-high boots with their four-inch heels, then traveled up and over her diamond-patterned black stockings, black miniskirt and tight leather jacket.

  “Hello,” Joanna said brightly. Walking over to the counter where the woman stood with an open catalogue in front of her, Joanna extended her right hand. “I’m Joanna Spinelli. I wrote to you last week about the possibility of showing my work here.”

  The blonde ignored the hand. “And what might that work be?” Still no smile. In fact, her eyes, a frosty dark blue that matched her long-sleeved, high-necked wool dress, were looking at Joanna as if she had wandered into the gallery by mistake.

  “I’m a, um, fashion designer.” Joanna could have kicked herself for the hesitation in her voice. “You may have heard of my label? JS Designs? I did the bridesmaids’ gowns for the Fairchild wedding in the spring. There was a spread in Puget Sound Magazine—”

  “We are an art gallery, Miss...”

  “Spinelli,” Joanna repeated.

  The blonde fingered her double strand of pearls. “Spinelli.” This was said as if the name itself was distasteful.

  “And I know you’re an art gallery,” Joanna said, “but I read an article recently about how you’ll be showing some jewelry by a local artist and I thought—”

  “Yes. Well. That designer is the sister of the owner.”

  “Oh.” Joanna’s heart sank. This was not going well. “Um, then, perhaps I could speak to the owner? I brought my portfolio with me to show—”

  “Mr. Barlow is a busy man and rarely here.”

  Telling herself not to be cowed by this snobby woman, Joanna drew herself up to her full five feet three plus the four-inch heels. “And you are?”

  The blonde’s eyes narrowed as if she couldn’t quite believe Joanna had the audacity to ask her name. For a moment, Joanna was sure she didn’t intend to answer, but finally she said, “I am the manager of the gallery. Brenda Garfield.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Garfield. Now, if you could just take a look at my designs...”

  Lifting the portfolio to the glass countertop, Joanna opened it to the first photograph. The model, a favorite of Joanna’s, was an ethereal-looking redhead—a Nicole Kidman type, Joanna had always thought—and she was wearing one of Joanna’s hand-crocheted dresses—a pale apricot confection with a swirling skirt, worn over a matching silk slip. The photographer had created the illusion of sun-kissed clouds drifting around her. It had cost Joanna the earth to have these photographs shot, but she figured the investment in her future was worth it.

  The Garfield wo
man barely glanced at the photo.

  Determined not to give up, Joanna turned the page. This photo featured a willowy, dark-haired model standing on a moonlit balcony. She was wearing a midnight-blue satin evening dress overlaid with ecru lace and held a champagne glass in her hand.

  Brenda Garfield’s eyes briefly skimmed the photograph, then rose to meet Joanna’s own. “I doubt Mr. Barlow would be interested,” she said coldly.

  Joanna would have liked to say what she was thinking, but stopped herself just in time. Never burn bridges. How often had her mother advised that? “I’ll just leave my card,” she said politely. “He can look at my designs on my website.”

  “As you wish.”

  Joanna figured the card would be thrown in the trash the moment she was out the door. Suppressing a sigh, she closed her portfolio and, head held high, said, “Thank you for your time.”

  Joanna waited until she’d walked outside and out of sight of the snooty Brenda Garfield before giving vent to her feelings. I won’t cry, she told herself as the full weight of her crushed hopes and lost dreams bore down on her shoulders.

  “I might as well forget about this damn place,” she said aloud. “She isn’t going to tell the owner about me.” For one second, she almost pitched the album containing the photos into the trash container standing on the curb.

  But something stopped her.

  Maybe the portfolio was worthless. Maybe no one else would ever look at her designs again. Maybe things looked dark right now, but tomorrow was another day.

  And she was not a quitter.

  Besides, these photos were too beautiful and had cost too much to end up in a public trash receptacle.

  * * *

  Cornelia Fairchild Hunt had just finished arranging a large bouquet of fresh-cut flowers in the morning room when Martha, her longtime housekeeper who had come along with her when she’d moved into her new husband’s mansion in the spring, walked into the room.