By the time she got back in with the last of the paintings, she was soaked to the skin and squishing in her shoes.
"Is the boss in?" She set the paintings down, then took off the cap to run her fingers through her damp hair. "He might want to take a look before I hang these."
"He's with a client." Sissy flashed a smile. "But I'm dying to take a look.'' She snatched scissors off her desk. "Okay?"
"Sure. You've got to live with them, too."
"I can't believe how fast all this has moved." Quickly she cut the twine on the top bundle. "Once the boss makes up his mind, he moves. No fiddle, no faddle, no— I love this!" She ended on a high tone of enthusiasm as she pulled back the heavy paper.
It was a street scene, and the people in it were splashes of vivid color and movement. The buildings were jumbled, giving it a carelessly cheerful theme, and they were awash with lacy balconies, alive with trailing and spreading flowers. On closer inspection, Sissy picked out a toe-tapping fiddler, an enormous black woman in a flowing red caftan, three small boys racing after a yellow dog. She could almost hear the shouts and the music.
"It's wonderful. Tell me this one's going out here."
"That was the idea." Surprised and flattered by the reaction, Savannah dragged a hand through her hair again. "It's New Orleans. The French Quarter. I thought it would liven things up a bit in the waiting area.''
"I can't tell you how tired I was of looking at pale pink flowers in a gray vase. I kept hoping I'd come in one morning and they'd have died during the night." Sissy chuckled to herself. "Now this I could look at forever. Did you take art in college?"
The innocent question had Savannah's smile freezing. "No. No, I didn't go to college."
"I had one semester of art," Sissy went on cheerfully, holding up the painting. "And was told I had absolutely no sense of perspective. Squeaked by with a C."
When the phone rang, she huffed a bit, then tilted the painting against the table and went back to her desk to answer it.
Foolish, foolish, Savannah told herself, to feel inadequate. No, she hadn't gone to college, but she knew how to paint. Hadn't Sissy's reaction just proven it?
Odd, Savannah thought, that she should still be nervous after her work had been viewed and appreciated. For most of her life she'd had to convince herself that painting was—could be—nothing more than a hobby. A personal indulgence, those times when she'd had to choose between buying paints and having lunch.
Paints had usually won.
Those days were over. Long over. She'd been incredibly lucky with her illustrations, and enjoyed doing them, intended to continue. But the paintings were her.
Selling bayou scenes and charcoal sketches to tourists was a far cry from selling something that had meant something to her when she saw it, when she painted it.
Smiling and damp-palmed, she dug through the tote she'd brought along for her hammer and measuring tape. She'd already measured the wall on an earlier trip, and now she found the center, marked her spot lightly with a pencil. And waited for Sissy to hang up the phone.
"Should I wait, or can I pound this in there now?" She held up a hanger.
"Now. I'm dying to see it up."
With brisk efficiency, Savannah hammered in the support. The frame was a simple natural cherry—Regan's choice. Savannah had to admit, as she adjusted the painting on the wall, that it had been a good one.
"Bring the left corner up just a tad... Yeah, good." Hands on hips, Sissy nodded. "Good. Perfect. It's about time this place started looking more like the boss and less like..."
"His ex-wife?" Savannah finished, with a glance over her shoulder.
Sissy wrinkled her nose. "Let's just say she was very low-key. The kind of woman who never has a hair out of place, never raises her voice, never chips a nail."
"She must have had something to have attracted Jared."
Cautious, Sissy cast a look up the steps. "She was beautiful, in that don't-touch-me-I've-just-been-polished sort of way. Very classic, sort of Grace Kelly without the warmth and humor. And she was brilliant. Really. Not only in her profession, but she spoke perfect French, and played the piano beautifully. She read Kafka."
"Oh." Savannah struggled not to frown. She wasn't entirely sure she knew who or what Kafka was, but she was sure she'd never read it.
"In her way, she was admirable. But about as entertaining as a dead frog in a millpond." Sissy beamed at Savannah. "No one can accuse you of that," she said, and, with a quick laugh, picked up the ringing phone.
No, Savannah mused. No one could accuse her of that. Not of being polished or brilliant, or of reading Kafka. She could speak a little French—if you counted the Cajun variety.
Refusing to be intimidated by the image of the woman Jared had once chosen for his wife, she unwrapped the next painting.