She stared at it for a second before she unfolded it. The top number was $1,245,000.00. Their offer, the second number, was $1,300,000.00.
She lifted her eyes to Jack’s face. “They really want it, don’t they?”
He gave a nod. “According to the Realtor, they’ve been looking for about a year. This house seems to meet their requirements, but it’s the land that tilts the price. Ten acres is a nice spread for a B and B. They’d have room for horses or whatever for guests. If there’s any thinking to do, you should do it in the next day or two.”
“Right,” she said. She stared at the small paper and felt the threat of tears gather. She looked over her shoulder at her garden. She took in the flood of lilacs and hydrangea bordering the backyard.
“Just give me a call, Jill,” he said, standing.
“Sure,” she said. She had bought one piece of property in her entire life—the town house. She paid three hundred thousand.
“I’m pretty surprised by the appraisal, but I shouldn’t be. If times were better, it would’ve been even higher.”
“I know,” she said. She looked up from the paper and smiled weakly. “They must be pretty well fixed, this couple from the Bay Area.”
“They’re older than you, and they retired early. They’re in their fifties, old enough to have amassed some money, still young enough to be able to run the place for a good while.”
And she thought, But I’m thirty-two. If this works out, I’ll be running the place for a long, long time. If it doesn’t work out, I’d have to sell. Maybe in a few years the economy will be better and it would go for more. Or maybe the economy will be worse, interest rates even higher and it’ll be a huge loss.
“Just let me know,” he said.
“Thanks, Jack. Nice of you to drive out here.”
He went to the door.
The problem was, she had had a number in her head—just over a million. She’d gotten used to that number and was seeing it as a hundred thousand an acre with a free house on the land. The thought of herself going back to the corporate world in panty hose and shiny black pumps made her grimace. But the thing that shifted her mind very quickly was the thought of wanting to keep Colin’s easels standing in the sunroom, ready, for whenever he might come back.
“Kelly! Get me a pen!” She jumped up and ran to the back door. She opened it and yelled, “Jack! Jack, come back here!”
She grabbed the pen out of Kelly’s hand and sat back down, scribbling on the paper. She’d refolded it by the time Jack was standing in the kitchen again. She passed it to him.
He was slow to open it and when he did, his eyes rounded in pure shock. He looked at the paper, at Jillian’s eyes, back at the paper.
“You sure?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said, giving a nod.
“This is quite a big move, Jillian. Have you thought about this? Carefully?”
“That’s my sister,” Kelly said, though she didn’t know the financial details. “She likes to charge into things. Impetuous. Impulsive. She moves on things real fast.”
And suddenly Jillian let go a laugh, a big, belly laugh. She’d just realized a few things—important things.
“Sure you can do this?” Jack asked.
“Yes, Jack. I’ll qualify. But this is confidential information, right?”
“Right. Of course. Well, I guess you’ve made a decision about that city job,” he observed.
She laughed. “I guess I have.”
Written on the page was: $1,500,000.00.
“This might be a little crazy,” Jack said. “Shouldn’t you inch up to this number? I mean, give them a chance to push you up to this number?”
“I think it makes sense to be perfectly clear. I’m not screwing around. I’m serious. I’d prefer not to be challenged by a counteroffer.”
He whistled. He stuck out his hand to shake. “Good luck with this. I’ll let you know what the response is.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
He slipped that folded piece of paper into his shirt pocket and left. By the time the sound of the departing truck motor was fading, Kelly was standing behind a kitchen chair across the table from Jillian, holding her own glass of wine.
“Big business?” Kelly asked. “Did you bet it all?”
“Not all, but a nice share. You know what I just realized? When I act on my gut instinct, I do pretty well. I’m seldom wrong. Going with Harry right out of college, many rapid-fire PR decisions, right up to falling for Colin in the space of a few days… It’s when I don’t act fairly quickly, when something I can’t quite identify is cautioning me, that’s when something is wrong. That happened with Kurt—it took me months to give in to him! Months! Somewhere in my gut I knew there was something wrong, I just didn’t know what.
“Once I made up my mind about the garden, I knew right away I wanted to expand and do it on a grand scale, and I knew I wanted to do it here. I don’t want a bidding war on the house and land,” Jill said. “I’d be very surprised if I didn’t just win. I topped the other potential buyer’s offer by a couple of hundred grand.”
Kelly went pale; she sank weakly into the chair. She knew her sister had made lots of money at BSS, but lots to Kelly was far, far less than that! “Are you kidding me?” she asked in a whisper.
“Nope, that’s a fact.” She held up her wineglass for a toast. “Now. What were you going to tell me about Luca?”
“Hmm? Oh,” Kelly said. “Nothing. Nothing. You’ll like him, I’m sure of it.”
“I can’t imagine not liking someone you care about.”
Fourteen
Colin had planned from the beginning to visit Shiloh Tahoma’s Sedona gallery first. It wasn’t quite what he expected—it surpassed his expectations. It was a bit off the beaten tourist track for one thing. The sign posted above the shop said, simply, Art. On the glass door, stenciled in gold, it said, The Navajo. Colin stood on the sidewalk for a long while, just looking in the front window at the paintings displayed—Native American men in traditional costume, braids or flowing hair, Native women alone and with children, natural settings, chiseled faces, exquisite shadows, stunning renditions.
Colin had looked the artist up online and felt he was somewhat familiar with his work, but up close and personal these paintings were magnificent. Colin didn’t want to go inside. He felt like an imposter, a fraud. This artist was beyond his wildest imaginings.
“May I help you with something?”
In the shop’s doorway stood a beautiful Native woman with traditional long, straight black hair and high cheekbones. “I…ah… I’m here to see Mr. Tahoma.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“I think so. I’m Colin Riordan.”
“Of course,” she said, smiling. “Come in. He’s in the back. I’ll take you.”
Colin had only a moment to glance through the storefront on their way to the rear of the gallery; there were many more items than just the incredible oils—there were trinkets, dream catchers, mobiles, photographs, postcards, books, stacks of prints, painted rocks, turquoise. Lots of turquoise. There was a glass case that appeared to hold silver jewelry.
But he passed all that as he followed the young woman. The storefront was actually small, but they came to a very large back room. It was a workroom, paintings in progress everywhere. There was a kitchenette, table and chairs, bathroom, lots of shelves and cabinets.
“Dad, Mr. Riordan is here.”
Dad? Colin wondered.
A very tall Native man with a long black braid hanging down his back turned from a work in progress, but it wasn’t the usual Native art. It was a wildly colored abstract of a Native mother and child. Colin stared at it openmouthed. He had no experience with abstract art; he had no idea if it would be considered as good, but he loved it. His surprise was complete.
“It’s nice to meet you in person, Colin,” Shiloh said. He wiped off his hands and stretched one toward Colin. “Let’s have coffee and talk.”
“I??
?m interrupting your work,” Colin apologized.
“It’ll keep. I want to hear about your painting. How do you take your coffee.”
“Just a little milk,” he said. But what he thought was—what’s to talk about? After seeing the paintings in the front of the showroom, he was completely intimidated—this man was a master. And forget about Colin’s wildlife art, what he really wanted to know was why this Navajo was painting in two completely different genres.
But Colin held his tongue and accepted a cup of coffee and a chair at the table in the back room. “Your daughter is a lovely young woman.”
“Thank you. She’s twenty-three, an accomplished artist in her own right though she’s still experimenting a great deal. I have three daughters, aged seventeen, twenty and twenty-three. They all help out here from time to time but it’s Samantha’s true passion. She wants her own gallery one day.”
“This painting,” Colin said, indicating the abstract. “I didn’t see anything like this out front. It’s a completely different approach to Native art. Are you experimenting?”
Shiloh shook his head as he stirred a mug of coffee for Colin. “This is something I love and believe myself to be good at, but because I’m Navajo and can produce competent Native renditions, this is what people who know me, who know my store, want from me. I’m not making complaints—I’m good at Native art and it holds a special place in my heart. It’s the first thing I ever sold and I’m marginally famous in some art circles for it. I’m happy to provide it and I do my best. But the abstract is unique and makes my heart beat a little faster.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows why.”
“The paintings on display in the front of the gallery are so good, I didn’t want to come inside. Remarkable work.”
“Thank you. It pays the bills. I ship my other work like this to Los Angeles.” Shiloh sat down across the table from Colin. “When did you first notice that you could draw?”
Colin took a sip of his coffee. “Six?” he answered. “Something like that. You?”
Shiloh smiled. “About six, I think. When I first showed an inclination, my parents had me painting symbols on artifacts to be sold to tourists visiting the reservation. My family were ranchers. They did whatever they could to make a living, but no one ever considered fine art. That would have been out of their realm of experience.
“And where do you like to paint?” Shiloh asked.
“I like to be on the top of a hill in the natural sun, but I have a sunporch that works. It’s in the house of a woman I’m with. Even though it’s good, I still go outside to paint if the conditions are right. And I prowl around with a camera to get shots of wildlife.”
“Some of the pictures you sent by email interest me—they’re very good.”
“I’ve never shown them to a professional before. After seeing your work, I can’t believe I had the nerve. But after all the painting, I find the animals work best for me.” He grinned almost shyly. “If you’re ever in the market for aircraft, I’m not bad at those. I did a wall mural of a Black Hawk once.”
“And where will you go with this personal best of wildlife art?” Shiloh asked.
“First? I’m going to Africa to shoot the Serengeti—big game. Lions, gazelle, tigers, elephants, et cetera. And the landscape they live in. Then all I intend is to get better.”
Shiloh leaned back in his chair and asked, “How did you get from age six to the Serengeti?”
“Thirty-four years?” Colin asked.
He nodded solemnly. “I hope you won’t take thirty-four years to tell it, but don’t leave out the important things.”
“And how will I know which things are the important things?”
Shiloh smiled lazily. “You’ll know.”
So Colin began. He spent fifteen minutes on his high school art, his Army career and part-time drawing and painting. Then he spent forty minutes on his crash, rehab and temporary residence in Virgin River. And finally, Jillian’s insistence that he try to find out if his work was worth anything. And his reluctant agreement that he should know.
“I assume you have supplies with you?”
“Like painting supplies?” Colin asked.
Shiloh gave a nod. “So you could stop along the way if you found the perfect spot or if something interested you.”
“Yes.”
Shiloh Tahoma stood. “Then let me take you to a favorite place.”
“Do you want to see my work before you waste a lot of time?” Colin asked.
“It won’t be a waste of my time,” he said. “You’re parked on the street?” When Colin nodded, Shiloh said, “I’m in a white SUV. I’ll come around from the back and you can follow me.”
Colin was left standing in the studio while Shiloh Tahoma left by the rear door. A little confused as to what purpose this would serve, he found himself slowly leaving through the front. Samantha was standing in the gallery talking to a man who might be a customer, a neighbor or a friend. She paused in conversation to look at Colin; she tilted her head and smiled. “Your father,” Colin said. “He wants to show me a place. To paint, I think.”
Samantha smiled and let her chin fall in an accepting manner. Then she went back to her conversation.
By the time Colin got behind the wheel of his Jeep, Shiloh was beside him in his SUV, waiting. Colin followed the Navajo for about thirty minutes out of town, into the desert, into the red rocks of Sedona, up a mountain road and finally the artist pulled over. For the entire time he was driving Colin wondered what this was all about. Would there be a test of some kind? Did the man want to see what he could do? What were the Native’s expectations of him?
But when the SUV stopped right along a deserted cliff with an amazing view, Shiloh got out and lifted up his hatch. When Colin got out, as well, Shiloh said, “We have a couple of hours of good light at best. Get out your gear and let’s just slap some paint around.”
“So you can see what I can do?”
“I imagine I’ll see what you can do when I look at your work later. I just hate to waste good light.”
Seriously? Colin thought. We just sip some coffee, drive into the desert, slap around some paint?
But he had looked up Shiloh Tacoma on Google and knew he was a respected Native American artist who also sometimes taught at the university. He might be a bit weird, but still—he was at the top of his game. So Colin went along. He pulled out an easel, his paints, a palette, a collection of brushes, some turpentine, some rags. He set up and with charcoal, outlined his brand-new, completely unplanned and uninspired painting. And he decided he’d just throw it all out there and pretend. He outlined the monstrous red rocks, but he didn’t fill them in. Instead, he left the charcoal outline and drew a very large mountain lion lying on a lower shelf of rock. And that was what he went after with paint a half hour after starting.
“I usually paint alone, but I think we have a few things in common.”
“Like what?” Colin asked.
The Navajo shrugged. “We’ve had our hard times and we both used art to help us get stable again. Mine weren’t like yours. I never crashed anything. But the mother of my daughters died. It was very difficult.”
Colin looked over at him; the man continued to paint and didn’t gaze back. “I’m sorry,” Colin said.
“Thank you. I have a good woman in my life now. My daughters like her very much. It takes away the sting. I’m not very wise about these things, but I think if you paint and draw when life gets hard, it means you’re an artist in your soul.” He shrugged. “Maybe I just made that up. What’s your goal for your art?” he asked.
Colin chuckled. “To get decent at it.”
“I see. To make money?”
“I have a pension from the Army. Not much, but enough. I just would like to be good. What’s the point in giving it so much time if you’re not good at it?”
“Are you accustomed to being very good at everything you do?” Shiloh asked.
“Generally. I suppose.”
; “You must think you’re good or you wouldn’t have called me.”
“I wondered how far from good I was, but it was the woman in my life who insisted I find out if there’s any worth in my paintings. She thinks they’re brilliant, but she’s biased.” He laughed and shook his head. “She’s gardening on a large scale—special fruits and vegetables, the rare kind that fancy restaurants buy in limited quantities for garnish—odd peppers, heirloom tomatoes, white asparagus, beets the size of cherry tomatoes…. I guess she’s an artist, too.”
Shiloh looked at him, lifted his chin and smiled. “You believe in each other. That’s nice.”
Then they were silent for a long time, painting. It was by far the strangest time Colin had ever spent. Then, almost two hours into the exercise, Shiloh put down his brush, looked at Colin’s painting and said, “Nice. I’ll see your other work now. I assume it’s in the Jeep?”
“It is,” Colin said. “Crated and covered. I’d prefer to set it up in your studio with decent lighting.”
“We’ll get to that,” he said. “Open up a couple for me. Your favorites.”
For a moment Colin felt the enormous pressure of finding his best, but he dismissed that immediately. He thought this whole audition could be a waste of time. He might get some encouragement, but it was doubtful he’d get anything more. “Three,” Colin said. “Here? Now?”
“Here,” he said. “Now.”
Colin’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. He was a bit confused.
“Quickly,” Shiloh said. “Before we lose the light. Need help?”
“Please. Open this one,” he said, passing a large canvas draped in protective cloth. Colin used a box cutter to remove a cardboard crate from another. He intended to show Shiloh the buck, the herd and the eagle.
When all three were open, two large canvases leaned against the rear bumper while one stood up in the back of the Jeep.