Chapter 8

Chelsea was true to her word, but we met, rather spectacularly in my opinion, unexpectedly.

I was at the home of a potential client, intrigued by his request. He wanted me to paint the cover for his latest book. James Joyce Callen was the hottest romance writers of the decade, unusual because he was a man, and because he dressed like a lumberjack and acted like the simple, uncomplicated man he was before he became a writer. He still lived in a modest farmhouse, even though he was worth more millions than most would ever see in a hundred lifetimes.

I had seen him on a news show, once, a pretty lengthy interview by the soundbite standard that ruled television. He smiled with sadness as he talked about his late wife, saying she was the inspiration for his writing and regretting the fact that she passed before he became really successful. There was a comment about his ancestry and he proudly talked about his Irish mother and her love of literature, hence his name. I thought he seemed genuine and charming. His unruly shock of black hair and startling blue eyes, along with a shy smile, certainly got the ladies listening.

I met him at his home. He welcomed me, offered me tea or whiskey, and seemed happy when I said tea would be fine.

“Good lad. I’ve got the kettle on.”

I followed him into his spacious kitchen, impressed with the design and noting it was sparkling clean. He noticed. “Bit of a neat freak, a legacy from my late wife. She was the most ordered person I ever knew, and it made an impression on me. I often wondered how she would have dealt with children, but she got sick before we were ready for them, and by then it was too late. I suspect they would have driven her to distraction at first, but then her will would have taken over and she would have turned them into perfect little ladies and gentlemen. Do you have a wife, Damon? Any children?”

“I’m divorced and we weren’t together long enough to consider parenthood. A few months ago, I was heavily involved with a woman who came with a daughter and we became close. Sadly, it didn’t work out.”

I showed him a picture of Katie and I together. He looked at it closely. “A beautiful child. She looks oddly familiar somehow, a lot like the child of a friend. Speaking of my friend, she’s here, taking a break from her schedule, resting for a couple of days before returning to her daughter. To be honest, she’s hiding from an ex-boyfriend. She’s to meet him soon and is trying to figure a way to let him go. I’ll introduce you later, perhaps over dinner.”

“I don’t think I’ll have time for a dinner, but thank you for your offer. I have another commitment I cannot break. It’s why I asked for an early meeting so you can give me an idea of what you want.”

“Well, the friend who’s staying has impressed me greatly. So much that I’m rewriting the major character of my latest work to look a lot like her. I’ve seen some of your work online, and visited with a Southern couple who sang your praises. They showed me the painting you did for them and I was very impressed. It moved me to the point I wished I could write as well as you could paint. I’ve never seen a portrait more imbued with life and joy.”

I knew he was talking about Anne and Clark. It seemed it really was a small world. I grinned. “I’ve already done a book cover, you know. It was for a collection of children’s stories, and the model was the little girl you saw in the picture. It’s probably why she looks so familiar.”