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“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 woman 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.
“Mrs. Hunt, Georgie’s on the phone.”
“Thank you, Martha.” Cornelia smiled, always delighted to hear from her oldest daughter. Now that Georgie had married such a wonderful man, and was stepmother to three equally wonderful children, she always had interesting news and funny stories to recount. And soon, to Cornelia’s delight, Georgie would be adding another baby to Cornelia’s growing list of grandchildren. Life was good.
Cornelia lifted the phone. “Hello, Georgie.”
“Hi, Mom. What’re you up to today?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just doing some flower arranging. Thinking about having a toes-up later.”
They chatted for a while, and then Georgie said, “Mom, I wanted to bounce something off you.”
“What, dear?” Cornelia listened thoughtfully as Georgie explained about her best friend Joanna Spinelli’s dilemma, finishing up with “I just wish I knew the owner of that gallery so I could put in a good word for Joanna. Unfortunately, he’s older than me, and I don’t believe I’ve ever met him. Do you by any chance know him?”
“Well, first of all, what’s his name?”
“Oh, sorry. Marcus Barlow. You might have read about him. He’s the head of Barlow International, that import/export company that’s doing so much business in Asia. Seattle Today did a big feature article on him back in May. I also read somewhere that he was going to appear on 60 Minutes.”
“Actually, Georgie, I’ve met Mr. Barlow. He was seated next to me at the heart association fund-raiser last month. He’s a really charming young man.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then Georgie exclaimed, “Mom! That’s wonderful. I can’t believe you know him.”
“Well, I don’t know him well, of course, but we did have the loveliest conversation that evening. And, in fact, on the drive home, I mentioned to Harry that we ought to invite Mr. Barlow to one of our dinner parties.” She remembered how, even though Marcus Barlow was an attractive, influential, wealthy man, and women had fawned over him all evening, he hadn’t paid them much attention. He’d seemed happier talking to Cornelia, even though she was old enough to be his mother. There was something about him that had really touched her that evening. Afterward, she’d thought perhaps she’d sensed a quality of loneliness in him and she’d responded to it.
“Do you think you could—”
Georgie didn’t have to finish her question. Cornelia knew what her daughter wanted from her. “I wouldn’t mind calling him and mentioning Joanna, if that’s what you’re suggesting. As I said, I wanted to invite him to dinner anyway.”
“Oh, gosh, that would be wonderful. But you could never let Joanna know you’d done so.”
“Why? Do you think she’d be upset?”
“Oh, you know how she is.”
“Well, darling, if what you’ve told me is accurate, if anyone needs a fairy godmother, it’s Joanna.”
Even though thousands of miles separated them, Cornelia knew Georgie was smiling. “And there’s no one better to fulfill that role than you, mother of mine.”
After they’d hung up, Cornelia decided she liked the idea of being Joanna’s fairy godmother. For years Cornelia had had all she could handle just keeping body and soul together and making sure her four daughters didn’t suffer from the sins of their father. She hadn’t the wherewithal to play Lady Bountiful. But now—especially since Harry had, over her objections, settled some sixty million dollars on her the week after their wedding—she had the means to do whatever she wanted to do.
Now, just where had she put that business card of Marcus Barlow’s?
* * *
Marcus had to pass right by the gallery on his way back to his office, and he couldn’t resist stopping in. Up and Coming was an indulgence, and he knew it—it barely paid for itself—but he didn’t care. He’d had to give up his dream of becoming a working artist when his father’s death had redirected his life. Up and Coming was his way of staying a part of the art community.
Granted, owning a gallery was a far cry from living his art, but at least now he felt he was contributing something important. From the day he’d opened its doors, Up and Coming had featured the work of new and struggling artists. Because of the boost he’d given them, Marcus could count half a dozen in the past few years who had gone on to make a success of their chosen careers.
Smiling, thinking how much he enjoyed his role with Up and Coming, he felt all his worries and responsibilities fade away as he entered the gallery.
Brenda, as always, seemed glad to see him. When the gallery had first opened, Marcus had been concerned about stopping by as often as he wanted to. He hadn’t wanted Brenda to think he questioned her abilities as his manager or that he was checking up on her. He needn’t have worried. Those thoughts never seemed to enter her mind.
In fact, sometimes she seemed too glad to see him. As a result, he was careful to maintain a strictly professional relationship. During the few times she had attempted to discuss his or her personal life, he had always steered her back to business.
Today was no exception. “You look tired,” she said.
He shrugged. “I wondered if you’d had a chance to contact Jamison Wells.”
“We talked right after lunch.”
“And?”
“He’s thrilled, of course.”
“Is November a good month for him?”
“He says yes. He guaranteed us forty paintings.”
“Great. When can we see them?”
“I told him you’d call to fix a time.”
After Brenda brought him up-to-date about two more new artists they were considering for future shows, she excused herself and headed toward the restroom. A moment later, the telephone rang, and Marcus walked behind the counter to answer it. After giving the caller directions to the gallery, he disconnected the call and was about to walk away when he noticed a business card on the floor next to the waste basket. He picked it up and glanced at it.
J S Designs
When you want to feel like a princess
There was a name in small type at the bottom—Joanna Spinelli—a phone number and a website address, but nothing else. The message on the card intrigued him. What kind of designs was the woman talking about? He was just about to take the card back to the office and look up the website when Brenda returned.
Seeing the card in his hand, she frowned. “I thought I threw that away.”
“You missed the basket. I found this on the floor.” When she said nothing further, he added, “What kind of designer is she?”
Brenda made a face. “She designs clothes. I told her I doubted we’d ever be interested in anything like that.”
He nodded. Normally he would have agreed with Brenda. Fashion had never interested him, especially couture fashion. But for some reason, he was curious about this woman’s designs. He guessed the statement about feeling like a princess was what had intrigued him.
Casually, he put the card in his jacket pocket. Brenda noticed, though. He saw her lips tighten. Deciding he owed her no explanation, he said he had to be going and would drop by again later in the week.
Back at his office, he pulled out the business card and looked up the woman’s website. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t what he found.
The dresses and gowns featured on the website were exactly the kinds of clothes he would like to see his sister wear, exactly the kinds of clothes he would want a wife of his to wear. They were stunning—beautiful and elegant. The Spinelli woman hadn’t exaggerated. Her clothes were fit for a princess.
He wished there were more of them on the website instead of the half dozen featured. He also wondered about the designer herself. There was no picture, no bio. Just contact information.
He was about to do a search of the designer’s name when his secretary buzzed him to say Cornelia Hunt was on the line. He smiled and picked up the phone. “Hello, Cornelia. What a nice surprise.”
“Is it? I’ve been meaning to call you ever since the night we met. And today I had the perfect excuse. Harrison and I are having a small dinner party next month on the eighth, and I was hoping you could come.”
“The eighth...” Marcus checked his calendar, saw that the evening was free and said, “That sounds good.”
After she gave him the particulars, she said, “If you’ve got a few more minutes, there’s one other thing I wanted to ask you about.”
“I have as many minutes as you need.”
“I know you own an art gallery in Belltown.”
“Yes. Up and Coming.”
“And you sometimes feature artists and designers who work with unusual materials. I believe my daughter mentioned a jewelry designer whose work will be shown in October?”
“That’s right.”
“Have you ever considered showing the work of a fashion designer?”
Taken aback, Marcus wondered if Cornelia Hunt was a mind reader. It was almost as if she’d known he was thinking about Joanna Spinelli. “I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” he said, “but yes, I have considered it.”
“In that case, I wanted to recommend someone. This young woman is very talented. In fact, she designed the bridesmaids’ dresses for my wedding and she also designed the bridal gown my oldest daughter wore when she was recently married. Her name is Joanna Spinelli, and she’s currently working on finishing her first collection and I’d really like to be able to help her out a bit. So I thought if you were interested I could introduce you.”
“It’s odd you should mention Ms. Spinelli, because she visited the gallery today and left her card. In fact, when you called, I had just finished looking at her designs on her website.”
“And what did you think of her work?”
“I was favorably impressed.”
“Lovely,” Cornelia Hunt said.
“In fact,” he said, thinking aloud, “it’s possible we could combine her designs and my sister’s jewelry into one show.” That would give Vanessa a boost, too, plus make for a more interesting evening for possible buyers. “I forgot to mention that the jewelry designer we’re featuring this fall is my sister, Vanessa.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
The more Marcus thought about it, the more logical his idea seemed. Of course, everything would depend on whether Vanessa liked the Spinelli woman and her designs and vice versa and whether the clothing and jewelry would be complementary, but it was certainly worth exploring.
“So, would you like me to arrange a meeting?” Cornelia asked.
“It’s not really necessary. I have Ms. Spinelli’s card. I’ll give her a call.”
“That’s even better, because the truth is, I was hoping Joanna didn’t have to know that I’d talked to you about her. She’s...rather proud, you see.”
“I understand. I’m rather proud myself.”
Cornelia laughed softly. “There’s nothing wrong with a little pride. It makes one work harder, don’t you think?”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
* * *
Joanna didn’t call Georgie after the fiasco at Up and Coming. Normally she would have. But right now she was too bummed to talk to anyone, even Georgie. It was all very well to tell herself she wasn’t a quitter, but she really had exhausted every possibility she or Georgie could think of.
What if she called Phoebe Lancaster? Maybe Joanna could talk the reporter into doing a feature spread on her and her designs, kind of a follow-up to the story about Cornelia’s wedding.
