He slumped down on the sofa, and Gen placed a mug of coffee on the table in front of him. She’d considered asking him about his cream and sugar preference, then decided that he could damn well drink it black.
When he’d had a bit of the coffee, Gen sat on the edge of the sofa, crossed her legs carefully, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Mr. Kendrick …” she began.
“Gordon,” he corrected.
“Of course. Gordon. It seems to me that you’re …” She searched for a tactful way to say it. “…You’re getting off on the wrong foot here in Cambria. Let’s talk about what we can do to get things back on track.”
He looked at her miserably, and for a moment she really did feel sorry for him. While she mostly thought of the suffering artist archetype as self-indulgent bullshit, she supposed there might be something to it for some people. Maybe Gordon Kendrick really was a tormented genius.
She really hoped the genius part was in there somewhere.
“Well …” he began.
She leaned forward expectantly.
“I’m simply going to need a skylight in the barn.”
The following day, Ryan perched his hands on his hips and tipped his head back, looking up at the roof of the barn. Gen stood off to the side, looking out of place in the sleeveless black sheath dress and high heels she’d worn when she’d come here straight from the gallery. She also looked embarrassed.
Kendrick—who’d obviously been drinking, Ryan could smell it on him—was going on about the gray color of the light and the angle at which it came in through the barn’s few windows.
“Can’t you just open the doors?” Ryan asked, not unreasonably. The barn doors were huge, and it seemed to him they’d let in enough light to perform surgery, let alone splatter a little paint on a canvas.
Kendrick was shaking his head sadly. “I need light from above. Light coming from the side just won’t create the same effect.”
“Huh,” Ryan said. “What if I add some track lighting right over your work space? Would that do it?”
Kendrick winced. “It has to be natural light. Artificial light …” The expression on his face indicated his lack of regard for all manufactured sources of illumination. “I need to create the illusion that I’m painting outdoors.”
Ryan looked out the barn doors, which were standing wide open. “Move your set-up twenty feet to the left, and you are painting outdoors.”
“There’s a breeze,” Kendrick said.
“A breeze.”
“Yes. Part of what I do involves literally throwing pigment at the canvas. With a breeze …” He shook his head to indicate the hopelessness of such a situation.
“So, a skylight,” Ryan said.
“Please,” Kendrick answered.
Ryan rubbed at the stubble on his chin.
“Of course, I’ll pay for the work,” Gen offered. Something in the tone of her voice suggested it was money she couldn’t afford to spend.
He considered his options. Installing a skylight in the barn would be much easier than installing one in a house. The barn was a simple structure, and it didn’t have a ceiling; he’d only have to cut through the roof and then redo the shingles around the skylight. He figured he could get it done in one day, once he had the supplies he needed. On the other hand, it was an asinine request. Why the hell did the barn need a skylight? With the myriad other options Kendrick had for lighting, ranging from artificial to the abundance of sunlight gushing through the doors, it seemed ridiculous that the one source of light he didn’t have was the only one he wanted. Ryan got the uncomfortable feeling that he and Gen were being asked to jump through hoops just to see if they’d do it. Kind of like circus dogs.
“Ryan? Could I talk to you privately for a moment?” Gen looked at him pleadingly. “Please?”
He nodded and stepped outside, where they stood under the shade of an old oak tree, out of Kendrick’s earshot.
“A skylight?” he said, perching his hands on his hips and peering down at her with skepticism.
“Look,” she said. “I know this is stupid. This is really, really stupid. But he’s not painting. He won’t paint.” She looked over her shoulder toward where Kendrick stood inside the barn, bathed in the miserable grey light he was so worked up about.
“I don’t see how that’s your problem,” Ryan said, squinting at her.
“But it is,” she insisted. “It really is. I spent a lot of money to bring him out here, Ryan. And if he doesn’t paint, I can’t … I can’t give the McCabes the painting I promised them. And I can’t have a gallery show at the end of the residency. And I won’t get the art that I was promised as part of the contract. And then I won’t make any money, or build any prestige, and if I don’t have money or prestige, I can’t move back to New York. So, if a skylight is the thing that’s going to make him get off his ass and throw some paint on a canvas—which, I’ve got to tell you, doesn’t sound like the hardest job in the world to me—then I have to stand here and ask you to put in a skylight even though it’s such an idiotic thing to ask for that I can’t even believe I’m asking.” She paused and took a breath.
Ryan looked down at her and couldn’t help grinning. Her pale cheeks were flushed with emotion, and her wild red hair—worn loose today—was in a glorious cascade over her shoulders. He had a lot to do. Spring was a busy time on the ranch, and he couldn’t afford to waste a day sawing a hole in the roof of the goddamned barn so this pain-in-the-ass painter, whom he would never see again after the guy left here in a few months, could have the illusion of painting outdoors. Especially when the real outdoors was available in abundance.
But looking at her, the way her eyes pleaded with him, the way her curls fluttered in the breeze, the way the dress she was wearing hugged her curvy little body, he didn’t quite see how he could say no.
He looked away from her, out to where a pale strip of ocean outlined the horizon, and sighed.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“Oh, God. Thank you!”
Before he knew what was happening, she leaped forward and threw her arms around his shoulders. He blinked, then laughed a little and hugged her back. “You’re welcome.”
He should have let go right away—he knew he should have. But the surprise of her, the solid warmth of her body pressed against his, stirred him up in a way he hadn’t expected. He held on and found himself closing his eyes and smelling the clean shampoo scent of her hair.
“Well.” She put her hands against his shoulders and pushed back from him. She was blushing in a way he found magical, enchanting. “I’d better …” She pointed wordlessly toward Kendrick, then turned and picked her way through the grass on her pointy high heels.
Watching her go was both a loss and a pleasure.
Chapter Thirteen
“A skylight?” Sandra demanded in disbelief.
“That’s what he wants,” Ryan confirmed. He’d gone back to the house at the end of the day to wash up for dinner, and had apprised his mother of the situation. Her shocked outrage didn’t surprise him; it nicely mirrored what he’d felt when he’d first heard.
“Well, that’s just stupid,” she announced with her usual diplomacy.