Every Time (Brush of Love 3)

“I help artists who have true, unadulterated talent. Part of that is gauged by the quality of their work, but the other part of that is them being able to communicate that talent to their community. You have this rare ability to do both, Hailey. Most artists you revere isolated their communities by the thousands of people during their lifetime. It wasn’t until most of them died that their artwork became consumable by the masses. A traveling exhibition would set you up to be one of the most

prized artists in this generation, and whenever you pass, your artwork would hang on people’s walls for millions. Your legacy would be cemented.” I couldn’t help but think about the cancer growing within me. How it would consume me and kill me off, which would oddly enough render my art more valuable than ever. No one gave a shit about my art right now. They’d pay decent sums of money for them, but it wouldn’t be until I could no longer flood the market with my artwork that people would suddenly want to pay for it. They didn’t want to make my life comfortable now. They only wanted to talk about my struggles while showing off my artwork to clueless billionaires as I rolled over in my grave. “Well, I can’t honestly say I’m interested in something like that at the moment,” I said. “Oh, Hailey. I would really rethink that decision if I were you,” he said. “I have, and I still decline.” “Every contact I have would be at your disposal. I would work tirelessly to make sure you had everything you could ever want.” “At this present moment, I have everything I could ever want,” I said. Though I wouldn’t once I told Bryan about how I was dying. Maybe I could do the traveling exhibition thing then. Maybe once I broke the news to Bryan and he left me again, I could call up Ramon and whisk myself away to Europe, sell my paintings, live lavishly, and then die with the Italian sunset against my face. “I can see the look of adventure in your eye, Hailey. Please, contact me if you change your mind. An adventurous and independent soul like yours deserves to travel the world doing what she loves. The beauty this world has to offer would be lucky to view yours.” “You’re very kind, Ramon,” I said, grinning. “I have your contact information, and I will keep your proposal in mind.” “Would you still allow me to purchase some paintings?” he asked.

“As long as they don’t line that wall over there, help yourself.” He still made an extravagant offer on my paintings. He took four of my own as well as two of the woman’s whose artwork I was still featuring. He wrote me a check for two hundred thousand dollars and slid it my way, not giving me a chance to protest before he turned his back and headed for the door. “You are drastically underselling your talent, Hailey. I’ll have someone come by to pick up the paintings.” And with that, he was gone. In any other world, I would’ve gawked at the check. I would’ve cashed it right then and there before calling Bryan and telling him the good news. I would’ve closed the gallery early and treated him to a wonderful evening out, paying him back for all the times he treated me to lavish evenings and romantic gifts. But all I did was open my register and slide it in with the rest of the checks. I walked around the gallery and took the artwork he’d purchased off the walls. I slid them all behind the counter before I went back out to the storage shed. Then I pulled out some new paintings to hang up. If there was one thing I hated, it was blank space in a gallery. It was why I kept painting and trying to feature local artists. Blank spaces screamed of failure, in my opinion, and as I hoisted the paintings onto the wall, I could feel my breath coming in short pants. I was weakening, and my body was alerting me to it. As I stood back and looked at the paintings, trying to level them while people came and went, I wondered if I could help Bryan with money. I mean, I guessed he was doing all right for himself, but his sketches and designs were outstanding. I could get him some canvases, and he could sketch and blend. Then I could hang them here and see if they would sell. Maybe I could gather enough artists from the community to keep this gallery stocked with their art, selling it right out of the shop I’d built. It’d be the perfect legacy, using this space as a community gallery

for artists wanting to sell their artwork. Bryan could hang his and con

tinue loaning out John’s paintings. The woman from her home could

run the register and hang up her artwork. Drew could pepper the walls

with his tattoos to push some business his way, and my art therapy class

es could continue even as I was turning cold in the ground. It was worth a shot.

It’s not like I had anything to lose anyway.

Chapter 9

Bryan

I finally got to ordering the electronic system I was going to use for this business to automate all this fucking paperwork. I could set up a system that could hook up each of the main offices on our work sites and filter them into a system on my computer. The foremen could enter the necessary information at the end of their day into the computer system, which meant I didn’t have to carry paperwork around with me to sites. Whenever I stepped foot on a site, I could spend my time working and making sure they had everything they needed instead of jotting down shit on paper that was flying everywhere. It would put more work on the foremen’s shoulders, which meant raises would have to be instilled, but it would make things a lot easier for me since I was now a one-man show.

I finished ordering the system as a light knock came at my door.

“Come on in,” I said.

I looked up and saw a beautiful woman coming into my office. She was elegant and graceful like she was hovering on air instead of walking in the heels she wore. She was obviously wealthy and woefully delicate, with slender fingers and wispy hair that couldn’t be pinned back with the multiple bobby pins she was using. Her body was slim and her stature tall. Her hips sashayed lightly as she walked toward the chair that faced my desk, her eyes connecting with mine as she sat down on the cushions.

Her long red hair was twisted up into a perfect bun while her light brown eyes slowly danced around my face, my own curiosity drawing me in as I watched her take a seat.

She definitely didn’t fit the type of people I usually dealt with. She didn’t look like she owned any city property to be developed nor did she look as if she was seeking a job. She wasn’t coming to me on behalf of any homeless shelter, and she sure as hell wasn’t homeless herself. She wasn’t a vendor or anyone from any of the warehouses I used nor was she a delivery person here to drop off some shipment. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and her leg effortlessly crossed over her knee, showing the smallest inch of thigh that I was sure she intended to flash me.

Everything about her screamed that she wanted my attention, so I decided to satiate my curiosity. I sat back into my chair and took her in, wondering what in the world could’ve brought a woman like this into my office, a woman with wealth and a glimmer of mischief behind her eye. She was a woman with a predatory stare who couldn’t seem to quite pull her eyes away from my arms.

But the moment she opened her mouth, I knew I’d figure it out in a hurry.

“Ellen St. Claire,” she said.

“Bryan McBride. How can I help you, Mrs. St. Claire?

Her voice was light and silken, breathless but not airy. Her tone was light, but her stare was not, and it wasn’t every day I ran across a woman who intimidated me. Of course, I wasn’t going to allow her to see that. Even though she wore her wealth for all to see, it was obvious she was here on some sort of business.

I wasn’t sure how I wrapped up in that business, but I was hell-bent on finding out.

“Miss,” she corrected. “And I am here on business.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I run a philanthropic foundation, and I have become aware of the work you do in our humble community.” “The work I do,” I said. “Your help with the homeless,” she said. “That’s hardly work.” “Well, what you do within this community has garnered a great deal of interest. A man like you should be proud of something like that.” “It’s never about pride or attention. I do it because I want to,” I said. “Which is why I’m here. Men like yourself, with vision and passion and real solutions to things, are heavily needed to help solve problems like the one you’re tackling. You have tactics that work and principles that guide your understanding of the situation. You know how things like this affect families and how it can rip at the very heart of even the strongest individuals. But, people like you might not always have the money needed to do the outreach work they truly want to on a scale that pleases them.” “Like I said, it’s not about pleasing myself. It’s just about helping,” I said. “People like me don’t understand the problem enough, even if we do have the money to fix it. I grew up in wealth. I grew up with the option to not work. Homelessness was never a thing I had to worry about, and even the drug-addled people I was surrounded with were still fairly put together. I never saw anyone spiral on it nor did I ever see anyone lose everything because of it. I have the money but not the knowledge. You have the knowledge but not the money.” “So, we’re some perfect partnership,” I said. “Oh, how flattering,” she said, giggling. “Any woman would be lucky to take you up on that offer.” “Miss St. Claire, this really isn’t something I’m comfortable discussing. If you’re familiar with the article that was written and that’s how you found me, then you know I did it to advertise my brother’s art showcase and not to try and broaden any sort of outreach. I don’t do what I do for attention.” “I’m not here to garner you more attention, Mr. McBride. You’ve done all of that yourself, and quite wonderfully if I do say so. You garnered yourself the attention you needed to institute change and still somehow managed to find a way to funnel it back into the homeless community. It really is astounding, that mind of yours. However, you were sort of right with the quip about a partnership. What I’m here to do is offer you a job.” “I already have one, thank you,” I said. “Please hear me out. You have a wealth of knowledge and personal experience regarding the homeless community and how rampant drug use is among them. You have witnessed first-hand the stronghold drugs can have on a person and how sometimes their own personal efforts to improve their life circumstances simply isn’t enough. And yes, I did read the article. Hasn’t everyone?” she asked, grinning. “So, what is this job you’re offering?” I asked. “Mr. McBride, it would be an honor to have you as an operations director.” “In your foundation,” I said. “Yes. You would be dealing directly with projects regarding the homelessness that runs rampant in San Diego. You would have a job that requires you to do what you enjoy most, dipping into the homeless community and helping pull them to safety.” “You do realize I do that here within my own company, right?” I asked. “But you could do it on a larger, grander scale. With the money we have and the money I personally funnel into the program, you could have more impact than you could’ve ever dreamed of here.” “I’m actually about to ramp up the homeless men I employ. The attention I seemed to have unwantedly garnered has opened up a vast number of prospects for us with regard to clients,” I said.

“And I congratulate you on that, Mr. McBride. I really do. But I get the feeling construction isn’t really where your heart is.” “So now you’re an expert on how I feel?” I asked. “Are you a psychologist on the side?” “No, but I am well-versed in reading others, and the fact that you’re bristling at my words only confirms the statement I made prior to the bristling. Mr. McBride, can I callyou Bryan?” “No,” I said. I was dubious of the idea, but she wasn’t wrong. This conversation was reminiscent of the one I’d just had with Drew, and I couldn’t help the question that flew out of my mouth. “Do you know a man by the name of Drew Carmichael?” I asked. “Who?” “Drew Carmichael?” “Any relation to Carmichael Vineyards?” she asked. “Not even close. Okay. I appreciate you coming all this way to offer me this position, but I can’t say I’m interested right now.” “Mr. McBride, let me tell you a little bit about myself before I go.” “All right,” I said. “Shoot.” “About a year ago, I was married to a technological executive who had the same heart I do for philanthropy. It’s what I’ve done my entire life. My parents started an overall philanthropic foundation, and after I graduated from Yale, I started an offshoot that deals specifically with the poverty and homelessness on the West Coast. I married a man who had the same heart I did for this issue, and we started our foundation shortly after we married. But last year, he died of a heart attack.” “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “He was our main operations director, and for a time, I attempted to fill his shoes. I sat on the board, I helped fundraise. I went to all the dinners and charity balls and garnered money from those who simply want to toss their millions around without ever educating themselves on the issue at hand.”

“I’m familiar with their kind,” I said. “But I can’t run this thing by myself anymore. I need an overall operations director. I need someone who has a heart for this like I do, someone who enjoys getting out there and being hands-on with the projects we take on. My late husband not only had a heart for it, but he was an incredible multitasker. I have a feeling your construction business has helped you gain the same talent,” she said. “It has,” I said, nodding. “If you aren’t interested now, then all I ask is you keep me in mind. I know you would be the right fit for the position I can no longer fill. A foundation is only as successful as the heart of the people you entrust it to. I hope you’ll keep us in mind?” she asked. I had to admit, her story tugged at my heart. I would obviously have to do some digging into her and figure out if the story she was feeding me was true. Usually, I took women at their word, but there was something in her eye and the way she first approached me that had me on the dubious side. “I will, Miss St. Claire.” I saw her eyes dancing along my arms, and when I looked down, I realized she was taking in my tattoos. Her face reminded me of the way Hailey first looked when her eyes had taken them in up close. I settled my arms onto my work chair and clear

ed my throat, which ripped the woman's eyes from my skin to my face. “I’m so sorry. Tattoos are simply fascinating to me,” she said, smiling. “Do you have any?” I asked. “Oh, no. I’m far too squeamish with needles.” “It really isn’t as bad as people think. They equate getting a tattoo to getting a shot, but it’s not at all like that.” “It just gives me goosebumps thinking about it is all,” she said. “Are those the only ones you have?” “Nope. I’ve got one on my back and one across my chest,” I said.

“Could I see them?” What the hell did this woman expect me to do? Just stand up and take my shirt off for her to see? She was pretentious, I’d give her that. I bet she expected me to just drop to my knees and give her whatever she wanted. She was probably very used to younger men falling at her feet. Even with the Botox she obviously had done and the painstaking lengths she went to in order to do her makeup, the lines in her hand gave her age away. She was easily in her mid-forties, and there was something lustfully predatory about the way she was staring at me. “No, ma’am, you can’t see,” I said. “Oh, you don’t have to call me ma’am. That’s a term used for older women.” Igrinned at her comment but kept my racing jokes to myself. “Well, they really are appealing to the eye. I’m sure they fit as nicely along your skin as the ones on your arms do,” she said. “They do. I promise,” I said. “Well, here’s my card,” she said as she dug through her purse. “Should you ever change your mind or need someone to talk to, please don’t hesitate to call me.” “Uh-huh. Will do,” I said as I slid her card into my desk. She eyed me carefully one last time, no longer concealing the fact that she was studying my body. I shook my head and chuckled before she got up and left, turning to look back at me one last time. She reached her hand out and closed my door behind her, sauntering down the hallway while she flickered her gaze through the window at me one last time. The woman was relentless. But even so, I couldn't help wondering if Drew might’ve been right. I had to say, the idea of working at a foundation doing nothing but work for the homeless sounded wonderful. I wondered if I should’ve

been working alongside someone like Ellen. Someone who had the money to make some serious change and who would listen to someone who had serious knowledge about the problem. I could affect more people than those I employed. In the grand scheme of things, I helped maybe fifteen homeless people a year. And even with the new funding coming in and the prospect of new projects, that number would probably only rise to twenty. By the way Miss St. Claire made it sound, I’d be helping that many people in one project, with multiple projects in a year going at the same time. I’d have more of an impact, and I could reach more people than I ever thought possible. I could clean them up and get them off the streets, maybe even pair the foundation with this company and start a partnership that way. I started wondering if she would consider taking me on part-time, so I had the time to try and work something like that. I started daydreaming about what that would be like to partner with a foundation like the one Miss St. Claire said she had. Having her money and the manpower she probably used would give me the ability to expand further into new cities without having to exhaust myself so much. Foreman Duke could take over the corporate operations like I was doing right now, which would free up more time for me to work alongside the foundation as well as on the jobsites. I found myself getting excited about it before I realized that I’d turned that woman down for now. But my excitement at the mere idea of it told me more than I was willing to admit to myself at the time. Maybe Drew was right. Maybe I wasn’t meant to do construction for the rest of my life.