Maryellen had agonized over that decision, but in the end she knew she couldn’t. Not with a newborn and a toddler. Her primary concern had to be her own family. When she told Jon, she saw the relief in his eyes—but if she’d wanted to go back to work, her husband would have honored her decision. Thankfully, Jon desired the same things she did. Family came before anything else, even if that meant sacrifices.
The first call was from Will Jefferson, the brother of her mother’s best friend. Will said he was interested in buying the Harbor Street Gallery and asked if he could stop by later that afternoon to discuss it. Maryellen felt slightly uncomfortable about this; Will, after all, was the man who’d come between Cliff and her mother. But if he bought the gallery, he’d make a real difference to Cedar Cove, a positive difference, and she was grateful for that possibility. So naturally, she’d agreed to the meeting, although she’d made it plain that she wouldn’t be able to work for him.
The second exciting call followed within the hour. During a ten-minute conversation with artists’ agent Marc Albright, Jon’s financial future had changed. Marc wanted to represent Jon’s work. The opportunities, he said, were endless. Maryellen had researched artists’ representatives and e-mailed a number of the most reputable, then sent them samples of Jon’s photographs. It had paid off.
Now Jon would be able to devote all his working time to photography. While she was pregnant with Drake, he’d found employment taking school pictures. Maryellen knew how much he hated that, although he’d never complained. He was doing what he had to in order to pay the bills.
Her biggest fear was that the job would kill Jon’s love for photography. Until the fire that burned down The Lighthouse, he’d supplemented their income by working as a chef. With that fire had gone his employment. The restaurant had provided a steady—and reasonably good—salary, so they felt the financial loss immediately.
And yet, in unexpected ways, the fire had actually been a blessing.
If not for the arson, the rift between her husband and his parents might never have been settled. If not for the fire, Jon might’ve been content to work as a chef and keep his photography as a sideline business.
Behind a camera, Jon came alive. His photographs of the rainforest were so vivid, viewers felt that if they reached out and touched the print, their fingers would come away moist.
Until they’d started seeing each other, he didn’t often take photos of people. But after Katie’s birth and then Drake’s, he’d taken thousands of family pictures. Maryellen had to admit she was self-conscious about the photographs he’d done of her but when she looked at them objectively, she could see what other people did. A man’s love for a woman. A mother’s love for a child. Still, her favorite was a picture of his father gazing down at the infant in his arms. Joseph’s craggy face, juxtaposed against the smooth, soft lines of the infant’s, was so moving it could bring her to tears.
But Jon’s scenic work was where he truly excelled. One of his best-known was of an eagle in flight, wings in a graceful arc, poised above the blue-green waters of Puget Sound. Another was of a ferry crossing with Mt.Rainier in the background. An art gallery in Seattle routinely sold his work, as did the Harbor Street Gallery; unfortunately, the money he made as a photographer hadn’t been enough to support their family. That, however, was about to change.
Shortly after Drake was born, Jon had begun another job as a chef, working at Anthony’s HomePort in GigHarbor. It meant he could quit his job with the photo studio, which was a plus, but the hours were a problem. Because he had the evening shift, Maryellen was alone with the children most nights. The benefit was that her husband could spend the mornings with Katie and Drake. Maryellen loved him all the more for the way he treasured their children.
She heard a car door slam and eased a sleeping Drake onto her shoulder as she went to the door. When she didn’t recognize the man who stepped out of the car, she assumed it must be Will Jefferson. As quickly as she could, she straightened the living room, collecting toys, cups, books and magazines, and rushing them to the kitchen. Katie attempted to help, but her efforts only added to the general chaos.
There was a knock at the door. She opened it, slightly out of breath.
“Maryellen Bowman?” the man asked.
She nodded and nearly tripped over her daughter, who grabbed hold of her leg. “Katie,” she chastised, moving the little girl out of her way. “Watch where you are.” Her reprimand had no effect. Katie wrapped her arm around Maryellen’s thigh and clung to her mother.
“You must be Will Jefferson,” she said, choosing to ignore the child hanging from her leg.
“I am.” Will smiled at Katie, who finally stepped aside. He came into the house.
Looking at the living room through his eyes, Maryellen felt compelled to apologize. “Please excuse the mess, but as you can see I’ve got my hands full here.”
“I understand. Don’t worry about it.”
They sat down on the sofa and when she offered him refreshments, Will declined. Just as well, because all she had was apple juice and graham crackers.
After some casual conversation, Will produced a pad and pen and asked a series of detailed, intelligent questions. Maryellen answered them to the best of her ability. Judging by the things he wanted to know about the gallery, the local artists and the sales when she was manager, Will Jefferson would do an excellent job—if he bought the place. The fact that he lavishly praised Jon’s work endeared him even more.
“I do hope you give this serious consideration,” Maryellen told him when he’d finished. “The gallery’s been part of this community for a long time. Everyone is upset that it’s going to close.”
Will glanced over his notes. “After I talk to a couple more people, including my accountant, I’m going to contact the owners and see if we can come to an agreement. This sounds like exactly the kind of opportunity I was hoping to find.”
“It would be wonderful to see the gallery back the way it used to be,” she said wistfully.
Just as Will was getting ready to leave, Maryellen heard another car door close. She hadn’t had company in several days and two guests in the same afternoon was certainly unexpected.
“I’d better be going,” Will said, coming to his feet. He smiled at Katie again and the little girl shrieked and buried her face in the sofa.
Shaking her head, Maryellen saw him to the door and noticed Cliff Harding, her stepfather, climbing out of his truck. They stared at each other, and Maryellen remembered again what she’d heard about Will Jefferson—and her mother. Now the two men were meeting face to face. In her front yard.
Not sure what to do, Maryellen shut the door and stepped over to the window to watch. At first, both men maintained a respectable distance from each other. From the set of Cliff’s shoulders, Maryellen could tell he was tense. But gradually his shoulders relaxed and after a few minutes, the two men approached each other and shook hands. Maryellen saw, to her astonishment, that they were smiling.
Will left first, and then Cliff came up to the house with a box of clothes Kelly had asked him to drop off for Drake. He couldn’t stay. She didn’t ask about his exchange with Will Jefferson; the way Maryellen figured it, whatever had taken place was their business.
That evening she received several other phone calls, including one from her mother, but she managed not to even hint at any of her exciting news. It just didn’t seem right to tell anyone else before she spoke to Jon. She had to wait until Jon got home, though. Maryellen decided not to call him; he was too busy at the restaurant, and she wanted to see his face when she told him about Marc Albright. By the time the children were both asleep, she was pacing the floor, eager to talk to him.
When Jon finally walked in, it was after eleven. Generally she was in bed by then, and he seemed surprised to find her up. He looked tired; still, he smiled when he saw her.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he murmured.
Without hesitation, Maryellen hurried toward him, slipping into his embrace and hugging him fiercely. “Oh, Jon! I have so much good news. I just couldn’t go to bed.”
“I heard a rumor that the Harbor Street Gallery might have a buyer. Is that it?”
She nodded. “Will Jefferson is probably going to buy it. He stopped by to talk to me about my views on the current problems and how to resolve them. He seems very knowledgeable.”
“That’s great.”
“I have other news, too.”
Jon regarded her with a mildly puzzled expression.
“This has to do with you.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” She led the way to the living room. He sat down between a laundry basket piled with folded baby clothes and a stack of freshly washed towels. She remained standing. “Do you remember all those weeks I spent living on this sofa?” Although she asked the question, it was unlikely either of them would forget the long months of forced rest she’d had to endure.
“This is a trick question, right?”
“No, it’s rhetorical. I spent the first few weeks worrying because there was so little I could do, and you were run ragged.”
“Maryellen,” he said, reaching for her hands. “That’s all in the past.”
“Yes, I know, and I promise I’ll get to the point in a minute. Just bear with me, okay?”
“Of course.”
He looked puzzled but Maryellen needed to tell the whole story and tell it her way.
“Then,” she continued, “despite your own preferences, you asked your parents for help.”
“Yes, but—”
“Please, let me finish.” She didn’t mean to cut him off, but she was nearly bursting with what she had to tell him. “I understand how hard that was for you, Jon.” He’d done it for her and Katie and the baby, and Maryellen would never forget that or what it had cost him.
“Just a minute,” Jon said, “before you go any further with this. I don’t want you seeing me as some wonderful hero. In case you’ve forgotten, I wasn’t happy about it.”
“I know, and that makes what you did even more admirable.” She smiled at him, tears gathering in her eyes. “Anyway, while your family was here, I occupied my time trying to get you an agent.”
Jon stared up at her. “How did we move from my parents being here to you finding me an agent?”
“That’s how it happened,” she said, speaking quickly. “If it hadn’t been for your father and Ellen, I wouldn’t have been able to spend all those hours on the computer or making all those phones calls.”
“Are you saying an agent’s interested in me?”
She nodded. “More than interested.”
“Who?”
“His name is Marc Albright and he’s already made two tentative sales of your photographs.”
“Already? What about the terms?”
“It’s limited use and Jon, oh, Jon, the money is fabulous.” When she told him the figure, his eyebrows shot up in disbelief.