Catherine Lanigan - Family Of His Own

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You think I’m only capable of my water sprites.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with them,” he said. “They’ve brought you a second income, a loyal following and admiration from practically everyone who meets you. And I love them. Why isn’t that enough?”

She shot to her feet. “Because it’s not, Scott. It’s just not.”

Isabelle stormed into the house and slammed the door. He watched through the glass walls as she marched through the kitchen past the den and disappeared down the hall to the wing of bedrooms.

He looked down at his drink. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Scott.”

Going after her would get him nowhere. He was floored. He’d always been there for her. He’d truly believed he was supporting her. But clearly Isabelle didn’t agree.

He’d wanted to kiss her and she pulled away. Her rejection cut deep, and he wasn’t sure how he would heal from it.

It was time for him to reassess things.

He dug in his pocket for his car keys and went inside to say goodbye to Isabelle’s family.

CHAPTER THREE

THE DAY AFTER Christmas was always a good business day for Scott. Kids had Christmas money to spend on the books, games, puzzles and toys he stocked in his children’s section. Parents were always in need of the hot coffee, cocoa and extra whipped cream that he served up while they browsed his extensive classic literature and bestseller sections.

Scott’s espresso bar was not in the same league as Maddie Strong Barzonni’s Cupcakes and Cappuccino, but then he’d never intended it to be. His shop was about the books with hot beverages served on the side for convenience and to get the customers to stay longer and buy more books.

After he’d moved back to Indian Lake and his mother had recovered from her surgery, she’d insisted on loaning him the money to open up his shop. Scott had hired Luke Bosworth, the best carpenter in town, to renovate the historic but demolition-ready building he’d bought for a song. Between having a mortgage and investing in his coffee equipment and inventory, Scott now felt tied to the shop, to Indian Lake.

Throughout his days at Northwestern and then at the Chicago Tribune, he’d dreamed of traveling the world in search of news stories. He’d wanted to meet intriguing people. Heads of state. Visionaries who molded the future. Scientists searching for cures to the most deadly diseases.

His life was different now. Those dreams had morphed into a quieter and yet still fulfilling life, which he now lived...for the most part. A great deal of his new visions for the future had Isabelle at the core.

“Scott!” A familiar voice boomed as the bell over the front door tingled.

Whisking away the cobwebs of his long-ago dreams, Scott smiled at Trent and Cate. He held out his hand to shake theirs. “Great to see you. How was your Christmas?”

“Super,” Trent said with a wink.

“Magical,” Cate added, putting an arm around Trent’s waist. “We’ve been shopping today. Next door, actually,” she said with a brilliant smile.

“Go on,” Trent said. “Show him.”

Cate extended her left hand. “You’re the first to see it.” Cate blushed.

Scott gazed at the pretty solitaire diamond. Then he peered more closely. “What is that? It’s not exactly round.”

“It’s an antique ring,” Trent said. “We bought it at the antique dealer.”

“Mrs. Beabots told us about him,” Cate said. “It’s a rose cut. Doesn’t it look just like a flower? The dealer said it dates back to 1898.”

Scott lifted his eyes. “The art nouveau period. My favorite.”

“I never guessed you to be so romantic, Scott,” Cate said, still admiring her ring.

Scott straightened and put a plucky smile on his face. “Oh, I’m the most romantic guy in town.”

“Hey, now...” Trent said.

Scott raised both his palms. “Sorry. You’re right. Trent has me beat in the romance department—at least this Christmas. So, can I get you anything? Cocoa? Coffee?”

He didn’t want them asking any embarrassing questions about Isabelle. Because the fact was, he hadn’t heard from her since he left her mother’s house. No call on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. He’d kept the shop open until late Christmas Eve and sold quite a few books. Christmas Day he went to church with his mother, Theresa, and they drove into Chicago for their annual Christmas dinner at the Drake Hotel. It was costly and worth every dime, she always said. She loved the harpist. He loved the food. Then they walked up and down Michigan Avenue, window shopping and looking at the lights, before driving home along Lake Shore Drive.

Each year Scott was thankful that his mother was still alive and that she wanted to keep up their Christmas tradition. He wondered if Isabelle would ever want to do things differently, but she’d never invited him for Christmas. As close as Scott and Isabelle were, they were still just friends and this was their family time, she’d always said. He didn’t intrude.

“Not for me,” Trent said. “But Cate wants to get some activity books for Danny. She didn’t have as much time to shop before Christmas, as you can guess.”

Scott’s eyes widened. “I’m so sorry, Cate. I should have picked out some things for Danny and brought them over. After everything you’ve been through...”

Cate chuckled. “It’s okay, Scott. Santa still paid him a visit. But he did mention some pop-up books you showed him, and I didn’t have a chance to swing by earlier.”

Scott snapped his fingers. “I know just the ones. I’ll get them.”

Scott went to the children’s section which was nearly wiped clean. His new shipments wouldn’t be in until after he did inventory next week. Amazingly, he had one Encyclopedia Prehistorica pop-up left.

Scott rang up the sale and put the book in a shopping bag.

“We should talk about New Year’s,” Cate said. “Tell Isabelle to call me.”

“Will do.” Scott saluted Trent as they walked out.

Trent was just closing the door when he stopped and mouthed to Scott, “I’ll call you later.”

Scott knew from the look in Trent’s eyes that his call had nothing to do with champagne or noisemakers. Trent had information.

With the shop empty, Scott went over to his desk where his laptop waited for his return. Scott had been working on an article for the Indian Lake Herald. For months, the mayor had been downstate lobbying for funds to improve the city streets. Scott had covered the progress each week.

Scott edited his article and then sat back in his chair, staring at the words.

Indian Lake’s infrastructure needed work. Some streets were nearly impassible. It was an important issue for the town, but...

He saved the work and flipped off the computer. He dropped his head into his hands and raked his fingers through his hair. “How much lower can you set your bar?” he groaned.

Concrete and asphalt. That’s all his talent was being used for. When he was in Chicago, he’d covered stories about political corruption. Police brutality. Topics he’d thought would make a difference if he brought them to light.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. His articles used to be well-researched and thought-provoking. Or else he wouldn’t write them.

But that was long ago. Lately, he measured his importance by his relationships to his friends and family. Not in how many minds he could sway with his written words. He was a different Scott now.

Or was he?

The door whooshed open, breaking into his thoughts.

“Hello, Scott.” Her voice floated toward him with the magnetic force it always had.

He spun around in his desk chair. “Isabelle.”

She was stunning, dressed in a winter-white wool coat with a collar that rose up under her chin, two huge black buttons off to the side. Her hair, which fell in torrents nearly to her waist, gleamed in the winter’s sun as it broke through the store window. Her dark-lashed green eyes looked, as always, like she’d just risen from the lake.