A Season for Painting

By Verity Norton

A Season for Painting: Book #8 in the McCullough Romance Series.

It has been two years since the last McCullough cousin got married, and Kieran McCullough Burnett is starting to feel the pressure. Despite several of his cousins claiming that they would never go near the altar, only to give in once struck down by love, he is determined to remain a bachelor. The best-selling author has no interest in marriage. He is happy living his reclusive live, writing away to his heart's content on his grandmother's estate. Until his heart takes a detour in the direction of one particular spirited Irish artist.

Brynn Sullivan does not believe in marriage. She isn't even certain that she believes in love, at least not for herself. She is still suffering the ramifications of her parents' divorce and her own failed relationships. The one thing she does believe in is her art and the unconditional love of a funny-looking abandoned dog. At least until she meets Kieran McCullough Burnett and his eccentric, world-renowned artist grandmother, both of whom enchant her and bring her into a world of art, acceptance, and love. And remind her of what it means to be part of a family.

Will two people who have fought the concept of love and marriage finally give into them both?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Felicity Nisbet
• Release date: Nov 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463567159

Verity Norton

Verity Norton is a native Californian, but when she moved to an island in the Pacific Northwest she fell in love with rainy days and the island lifestyle of reading and writing by candlelight and depending on a woodstove during power outages. She also writes children’s books, young adult, contemporary fiction, and mysteries under the name Felicity Nisbet. [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter 1

Just as Brynn Sullivan started backing her refurbished Mustang slowly into the parking spot she’d finally found, she slammed on the brakes. What the hell!

She honked at the rude driver in the Volvo station wagon and glared in her rear view mirror. He smiled and waved.

The nerve of the man! She shoved her stick shift into neutral and yanked on her parking brake and climbed out of her car.

Kieran Burnett cringed as the petite brunette strutted towards him as if she were twice his size. He hadn’t meant to steal her parking space. He’d circled the block eight times and was getting desperate.

Sorry about that, he said, the car window creaking as he rolled it down the old-fashioned way—by hand.

Don’t be sorry. Just move!

Damn, she was gorgeous with long brown hair, auburn streaks shining in the breeze. And sexy as hell with that tight-fitting violet sweater. Cashmere? he wondered. He was tempted to touch it and find out, but something told him that would go over about as well as his taking her parking space had.

Brynn increased the intensity o her glare, but it wasn’t easy with those blue eyes staring at her. They were spectacular, as deep blue as the ocean on a dramatic day. She wouldn’t mind painting that face, or that body, at least from what she could see of it. The man had a strong chin and broad shoulders. His chest definitely wasn’t too hard to look at either. She forced the single word from her mouth. Well?

You weren’t signaling, he said. I didn’t know you wanted this spot.

Brynn brought her attention back to the issue at hand. Sure, you didn’t.

I didn’t. Scouts honor. He put up a hand to back up his pledge.

Well, you do now. So are you going to move or what?

How about if you circle the block twice. By then I’ll have taken care of my business here and will move out of your way.

You can take care of your business in two minutes?

Yep. Deal? I promise I’ll sit here and wait until you’re back around so no one else gets the space.

How kind of you. Brynn cringed at the sarcastic edge in her voice. But if anyone was a deserving recipient of her wrath, this jerk was. Are you seriously staring at my breasts?

Kieran’s eyes rose to meet hers. Sorry, but it’s hard not to. They’re at my eye level. And damned nice to look at. But I’d rather be looking at those beautiful brown eyes, he quickly added. He was not a fool. And he had two sisters and several cousins who had taught him well. I’d really like to look at them—your eyes—a lot more. How about over dinner?

When hell freezes over.

Coffee then?

Brynn shook her head in disgust and walked back to her car, putting up two fingers to remind him of his promise. She would have preferred to put up one finger, but considering that she was standing on the street directly adjacent to the art gallery where her work was being exhibited, she decided against it.

Kieran watched those sexy hips sway as she made her way to her car, her hair blowing gently in the breeze. Hmm, she was someone he wouldn’t mind getting to know. And, considering that he’d pretty much been a recluse over the past few years, that was saying a lot. He’d dated briefly now and then, but found that he’d rather be alone than spend time with someone he really wasn’t that attracted to—and he didn’t mean just physically.

Damn it! He’d been so busy watching her climb into her car, he’d forgotten his mission and his timeframe for fulfilling it. He shoved open the door of the decrepit Volvo, jumped out, and ran around to the back which he opened to retrieve two new paintings of his grandmother’s. He balanced them cautiously on one knee and closed the trunk, not bothering to lock the vehicle. He quickly crossed the street, and avoiding sporadic rain drops, trotted down the path that led to Barrington and French Art Gallery, the most prestigious art gallery in Winslow.

Kieran! Joyce Barrington greeted him with genuine enthusiasm. Why wouldn’t she? He was carrying his grandmother’s paintings. Those paintings meant money for the gallery. A lot of money. You’re bringing us more of Elsie’s work?

I am.

You’re a gift from heaven. We just sold two and weren’t sure what to hang in their places. We’ve been reluctant to hang anyone else’s work there.

Well, here you are. Where do you want them?

Over here is fine. She pointed to a large table in the center of the room. Do you want to do the honors?

Uh, no, you can.

You don’t want to see them?

I already have.

Really?

Elsie’s been in one of her more affable moods. She actually let me wrap them for her.

Joyce looked at him in surprise. Amazing.

True. I’m in a bit of a hurry, so you go ahead. He made his way toward the door. He put up a hand to wave good-bye and ran back outside, back down the stone path, and crossed the street to his car.

Brynn slowed down when she saw him climb back into the old Volvo station wagon. She really wouldn’t mind painting him, especially with those mysterious blue eyes. And, now that she could see it better, his body was definitely worth painting, she mused as she observed the outline of his thigh muscles through his tight and very worn jeans. Athletic, she thought. She doubted they had much in common. Not that she wasn’t athletic herself, but she was definitely not interested in getting involved with another athlete, despite always seeming to be attracted to them. She would have liked to meet a more serious type of man for a change. A man who actually could handle sitting by the fire and reading a book for several hours on a rainy day. Or at least didn’t object to her doing that.

The faded jeans and beater car only added to his appeal. He was exactly the kind of man she was attracted to, at least physically. If he turned out to be a reader, she was in trouble.

Not that any of that mattered. She wasn’t interested in having a relationship with a man. She’d been there, done that. She was only interested in subjects for her art. Okay, that wasn’t altogether true. She didn’t mind short-term relationships, just as long as the man didn’t expect more from her. She had no desire to get involved with someone who wanted a long-term relationship, or for that matter a relationship of any kind. At least not now. Probably not ever. She didn’t have a whole lot of faith in people’s ability to make commitments, particularly to marriage. She had witnessed the demise of way too many marriages, including her parents’. Why bother? They only caused heartache and logistical and financial nightmares.

Whoa! Why was she even thinking like this? Just because the man was gorgeous? How superficial could she get? He would make a good subject, but that was all. Just because there was a physical attraction there, at least on her part, and judging from the way he had looked at her, his part, didn’t mean she’d act on it. The guy was obviously a conceited jerk. If he’d been at all thoughtful, he would have pulled out and given her the space, even if she hadn’t signaled.

He tapped his horn and waved as he pulled out, signaling that he’d seen her. She slid forward into the space just as he drove away. She wasn’t taking any chances by backing into it. Turning off the engine, she took a couple deep breaths and climbed back out of her car. Why did it have to be so darned hard to park in Winslow anyway? She laughed, answering her own question. Because everyone—residents and tourists alike—loved shopping in this charming seaside town. It was one of the reasons her art work was selling so well. And the fact that it was almost Thanksgiving and people had started their Christmas shopping might have something to do with it.

Brynn walked around to her trunk and pulled out her latest painting, grateful that she had wrapped it, now that there was a drizzle in the air. Carefully, she locked her car and carried the package into the gallery. Maria Kemper waved hello as she finished her phone call. Then she ran across the gallery to greet her newest artist. Brynn! Another?

It’s one I’ve been working on for a while now. She smiled to herself. She had more than a few of those. I guess the upcoming show has inspired me.

Let me see! Maria was beaming like a child on Christmas morning.

Brynn set the painting on a table and carefully unwrapped it and turned it to face Maria. She was very proud of this one. It was not like others she had done. Definitely not like her collection of unfinished work. This one was of a child she had spotted crying on a bench outside the pet store several months ago. It hadn’t taken a child psychologist to recognize what had happened. Her parents had told her she could not have the puppy she so desperately wanted.

Brynn had painted the girl’s face from memory. It hadn’t hurt that the girl had reminded her of herself when she was eight and her parents had not only told her about their divorce, but they’d given away her dog. They were selling the house and moving into apartments. Neither one wanted to take Mollie.

Even now, tears welled up in her eyes at the memory. No wonder it had taken her so long to finish the painting.

Brynn, it’s spectacular. I mean it. I think maybe it’s your best work so far.

That meant a lot coming from Maria. Thank you, I appreciate that. Do you want me to put it in the back with the others?

Not yet. I want to enjoy it for a while. We’ll want to choose the perfect frame. This one deserves attention. I think I’ll put it in the center of your exhibit.

When are you putting my paintings up?

Maria laughed. Anxious?

I am, but I’m glad you’re waiting until right before the opening. This is really special, Maria. I can’t thank you enough.

Hey, I’m the one who should be thanking you. And you deserve this showing.

Finally. Brynn exhaled slowly. Her work was finally getting the attention and appreciation she had always dreamed of.

Most of your paintings are framed. I’ll probably start fiddling with the display on Thursday.

But Thursday is Thanksgiving.

One of the few days we’re not open. I’ll probably decide where everything will go on Thursday and then set up the display on Friday afternoon so I’ll be able to focus on the food and champagne and flowers and music on Saturday.

Sounds good. But everything about this sounded good to Brynn. Her first official opening. She’d had her work on display before and had sold several of her paintings, but never in a gallery like this, and never with a real opening that featured her work.

And in case you’re worried that someone will come in on Friday and see your work and buy it, I’ll insist they leave it until after the opening before they can take it home.

It hadn’t been a concern until that moment. She gazed over at the painting that she loved so much. Someone could buy this. This weekend. And she might never see it again. She was glad she had taken several photographs of it. It was a difficult one to part with.

Still struggling to catch his breath, Kieran stood behind the trellis, peering into The Kemper Art Gallery. He had watched her go inside, a package that looked suspiciously like a painting under her arm. He had quickly driven off, found a parking space a half mile away, and run all the way back to the gallery. He couldn’t make out the painting she’d brought in, but she and the gallery owner appeared to be studying it. Damn. She was an artist. Unless she was delivering art work for her grandmother too. But he didn’t think so. Not the way she was blushing at what he assumed were compliments from Maria Kemper.

How could a blush turn him on like that? What was wrong with him? Okay, it had been a while since he’d been with a woman, but that was his own doing. He really did need to get out more. Still, there was something about, and like he’d said, it wasn’t just a physical attraction. There was something different, especially with that self-conscious blush crawling up her cheeks, and her endearing shy smile, and of course, her uninhibited outrage over his stealing her parking spot.

As tempted as he was to go inside, he decided it would be better if he didn’t let her know he’d been watching her, or following her. Instead he walked back over to her car and leaned against it, his arms crossed as he waited for her return. Fifteen minutes later, he was reconsidering this as the rain had increased and he’d left his jacket in the car. All he was wearing was a T-shirt with a plaid flannel shirt on top of it. Not enough in November. Definitely not enough if you were standing on a street corner for fifteen minutes in the wind and drizzle.

So, what was the plan? Ask her for coffee? His preference was dinner. He hadn’t brought a change of clothes with him. He could head to Canden Valley. Most likely some of his clothes were still at his parents’ house. Or if necessary, he could buy something at the family-owned general store. He glanced down at his jeans. Anything would be better than this pair that was worn and torn. Or he could hit up his Cousin Matt who lived here in Winslow for a shower and change of clothes. That way he wouldn’t have to go over to Canden Valley at all.

What? You’re stalking me now?

Damn. He’d turned around for one minute and had missed her walking out of the gallery.

Just wanted to apologize again.

You’re forgiven.

Am I?

No, but if I say you are, will you go away?

Testy, aren’t you?

You’re sitting on my car.

Leaning, he corrected.

She rolled her eyes and looked at the man who was firmly planted on the trunk of her Mustang, his arms crossed smugly in front of his chest.

He quickly stood up. Sorry. Seems like I’m apologizing to you a lot and we’ve only just met.

We haven’t met, and you keep doing things that require apologizing. She swallowed hard. She wasn’t usually this hard on people, but she knew better than to play nice with this guy. He’d only wreak havoc in her life that was starting to settle into a place of normalcy. No matter how gorgeous he was, it wasn’t worth asking him if she could paint his portrait. Nothing was worth the risk of becoming involved with him in any way. Even if, when she looked into those astonishing blue eyes, she felt as if she’d known them and the man behind them all of her life.

Well, we can change that. He reached out his hand. I’m Kieran. And I’d really like to take you to dinner to make up for my bad behavior.

She ignored his hand and walked around her car to the driver’s door. Good-bye, Kieran. With a little luck, she wouldn’t have to see the man again.

The woman was not just in a hurry. She was determined to avoid him. If he wasn’t mistaken, despite the frigid look in her eyes and the cold shoulder, she was running from him like a scared rabbit. Interesting reaction. Especially since normally women were throwing themselves in his path instead of avoiding him. That only added to the attraction . . . and mystery. Instead of walking the five blocks back to his car, he turned and headed into the gallery she’d just left.

Kieran Burnett! Maria greeted him with a hug. What are you doing here? Please tell me your grandmother is looking for a new gallery to handle her art.

’Fraid not, he said. How are you, Maria? he said as he released her.

Well. What brings you into my little gallery?

Oh, I was just in town, dropping off some of Elsie’s work, and thought I’d check out a couple of the other galleries to see what’s going on.

Well, here, take one of these. She turned around and grabbed a brochure off her desk. We’re having an opening this Saturday. Why don’t you come? And bring your grandmother if you can get her out. We’re having a harpist, her favorite music.

Not an easy task.

No, I’m sure it isn’t, being the recluse that she is. And if I can be honest, I’ve beginning to think her grandson is following in her footsteps. It’s been what, well over a year since I’ve seen you?

I don’t get into town much, just to drop off her artwork on occasion.

Buried in your own work, I suppose?

Fraid so. He opened the brochure and smiled at the photograph of the gallery’s new artist. Brynn Sullivan. But I’ve just finished my fourth book and I’m taking a few weeks off before starting a new one so I’ll be around a little more.

Good to hear. So what did you just finish? Another mystery or a novel like your first book?

You know my work?

Hard not to, considering how popular you are, especially around here.

Not sure what will be next. I do have a lot of fans asking for my next Jack Harding mystery, but I feel the stirrings of a novel as well. That’s why I’m spending time while I can with family. I have a feeling once inspiration strikes, I’ll be preoccupied for a while.

I’m sure the McCullough side of your family will be glad to see you for a change.

They see me, he insisted. I usually make it over to Canden Valley when I come to town. I’ve even been known to spend the night on occasion.

She laughed at that. Nice of you.

Hey, someone has to look after my grandmother.

As if she needs looking after, Maria challenged.

You sound like my family. But I haven’t missed a wedding or Christmas yet. Well, one wedding and one Christmas, but I had a good excuse. His grandmother had fallen and he felt he needed to stay with her.

And while you were in Paris?

That doesn’t count.

Okay, but it’s been a while since any of your—how many McCullough cousins are there?—got married.

There are fourteen of us. And it’s been almost two years. My sister Kelly got married two years ago last June, and my cousin Megan got married two years ago last August. I made it to both of those weddings, I might add.

I should hope so. Now, let me see, that makes seven married McCullough cousins and seven more to go?

Right.

Who’s next?

No idea. And don’t really care. Just so it isn’t me.

Ah, that much against marriage, are you?

I’ve nothing against marriage . . . for other people. It’s just not for me.

Maria chuckled. You sound just like Brynn.

Brynn? He feigned ignorance.

My new artist. No faith in marriage, but then she has good reason.

And what would that be?

Let’s just say, she doesn’t come from a family like yours.

Like the McCulloughs?

Right. Hers is about as opposite as you can get. No siblings or cousins, and a whole lot of divorce. You, on the other hand have no excuse. You have a whole lot of happy and healthy marriages being modeled for you, including your wonderful grandparents and parents.

That was true. Still, he was different from the other McCulloughs. He didn’t have any interest whatsoever in settling down with one person and getting married. Hell, he didn’t even like spending that much time around other people. Except his grandmother, but they were both artists and understood how important it was to give each other space. They could easily go all day and evening without seeing each other until dinner. How many other people understood that? No, he and marriage were definitely not compatible.

He chuckled to himself as he recalled how his cousins Matt, Skye, and Anne had been determined to stay single as well. And look how that had turned out. All three were happily married. Matt now had three children, two from his first marriage, a toddler from his second. Skye and Anne were wisely waiting, but about as happily married as you could get.

Still, he was different. More determined than they were. He had a good reason to avoid marriage. He was a writer. A reclusive writer. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the company of a woman now and then. One woman in particular.

Any new work? he asked, knowing perfectly well there was a new painting somewhere in this gallery that he was very anxious to see.

Actually, yes. Several. They’re in the back though. All by my new artist. But she did just bring in another painting for the opening. It’s over here.

He walked slowly toward the art work that artist and gallery owner been discussing for so long. His breath caught as he took in the powerful painting of a child in mourning. Not only was she a gifted artist, but she had a deep understanding of people and the pain they had suffered. He had to wonder how much of her own pain had gone into this painting.

He was definitely going to find a way to spend a little time with Brynn Sullivan, whether she liked it or not.

Chapter 2

It’s superb. Elsie stared at the painting that her grandson was holding up. The artist really captured the deep sorrow this child was suffering. She glanced up at Kieran. Assuming it was a real child and not one the artist imagined. But something told her that the artist herself was in the painting as well. Who is this artist? A woman, I assume.

How did you know?

She shrugged. Where did you find it? At Barrington and French?

Across the street at Maria Kemper’s gallery.

Oh, you stopped in to see Maria. How is she?

She’s doing well. This is a new artist of hers. He set the painting on top of a bookshelf and stood back to admire it. Once it was framed, he would hang it in his study where he spent most of his time in this mansion of his grandmother’s.

You know, at one time, I did consider going with her gallery instead of Barrington and French but it seemed disloyal since they were old friends.

I understand. So does she.

But I’m glad to hear she’s doing well. Elsie studied her grandson for a moment. That was all it took. Despite his being the most mysterious one of her grandchildren, she could read him well. Of course, he’d been living with her for the past two years. But she always had been able to understand him, even as a quiet child and a sulky teen and a pensive adult. Most likely because he took after her. He too was an artist, after all. He had chosen a pen and paper while she had selected a canvas and paintbrush, but it was very much the same thing. They needed to express themselves in a quiet way. Through their art.

So, why do I get the feeling there is more to your bringing home this painting. And why is it not framed and why have you not already hung it in the library where I know you will?

He kissed his grey-haired grandmother lightly on her cheek. I snapped it up before Maria had a chance to frame it. But I am beginning to think it’s time to move out, Grandmother. You know me too well. Not a good thing.

Hush, boy, and answer the rest of my question.

Difficult to hush and answer a question at the same time.

She rolled her eyes and placed her hands on her hips, awaiting his response.

Okay, I bought this painting because it touched me. A lot. I met the artist outside the gallery and was drawn to her for some reason.

Elsie’s single eyebrow rose slowly in understanding. Continue.

And I wanted to know more about her, so after she left the gallery, I went in and talked to Maria.

You couldn’t just invite her out for a cup of tea like a normal young man would do?

Kieran laughed. More at the fact that he had attempted to do exactly that, than at the suggestion of tea. I tried, but she turned me down.

Elsie’s smile came slowly. You did something to anger the young lady, am I right?

Kieran ignored the question and continued. I couldn’t resist buying her painting, and I insisted on bringing it home, but I have to take it back on Saturday in time to be framed and displayed for the opening.

Why is that? You only borrowed it? Rented it for a few days?

The Kemper Art Gallery is having an opening on Saturday afternoon, featuring this artist. It’s her first formal showing. He handed his grandmother the brochure. A big affair. You know, cheese, wine, live music, a harp. Your favorite.

When Elsie looked down at the artist’s photograph, it became clear exactly what her grandson was up to. But it might not be such a bad thing. The boy had hardly been out with a woman in months, and he was turning into a recluse much like his grandmother was. He rarely left their property, except to go for bike rides and hikes. Maybe this lovely young artist was just the person he needed in his life.

What are you trying to ask me, Kieran? As if she didn’t know.

What makes you think I’m asking you something?

I know you, boy. Her glare was explicit. Now, get on with it.

I just thought perhaps you’d like to get out for a change and go to a gallery showing that wasn’t your own.

You want me to go to this opening on Saturday?

It might be nice, don’t you think?

She sighed and relaxed her shoulders in a dramatic gesture. So, you’ve already pissed off the girl, and now you expect me to save your butt?

Kieran laughed. No wonder he adored his grandmother. He rarely had to guess what she was thinking.

You have, haven’t you?

Maybe.

Jimmy! she called out to her cook. Can you bring my foolhardy grandson and me some tea and maybe some of those lovely scones you baked this morning?

Sure thing, Elsie! Jimmy called back.

Elsie pointed to the sitting room couch as she took her favorite chair closest to the fireplace. Now sit down and tell me what you did to mess up.

Kieran groaned but sat down and confessed the story in all its embarrassing detail. The worst part was having to endure the shake of his grandmother’s head and her groans throughout the story.

I thought my son would have taught you better, she said at the end of it. Your father had excellent manners. He was quite the ladies’ man, you know.

So, I’ve heard. At least his mother had certainly been charmed by him. He’d heard that story on numerous occasions. Still was, as far as he could tell. He was lucky that way. His parents still adored each other. They even worked together. Well, not exactly together, just in the same building. They owned the only pub in Canden Valley, the pub where he and his siblings and half of his cousins had worked at one time or another. While his father ran the bar, his mother made magic in the kitchen. The only time they fought was when his mother invaded the bar and attempted to whip up some unusual concoction that left their customers flat on the floor or cost the pub a lot of money. Or both.

He smiled as he recalled a few of those moments. His father had taken to barring Emily McCullough Burnett from going behind the bar. He didn’t blame him. And the truth was, his mother didn’t mind a bit. She only sneaked back there and wreaked havoc to have a bit of fun with her husband.

So, what’s your excuse for stealing a young lady’s parking space right out from under her?

She wasn’t signaling, Grandmother! I honestly didn’t realize she wanted it until she started to back up.

At which point the chivalrous thing to do would have been to pull out and give her the space.

I might have, had I not been worried about it starting to rain and the fact that I had two precious paintings to deliver . . . for my beloved grandmother.

Elsie rolled her eyes. So, what do you want me to do to save your butt?

Just then Jimmy appeared with a tray of tea and scones. He set them down on the table in front of Elsie and chuckled. That cute butt needs saving? he asked flirtatiously. Can I help?

Jimmy! You’re already taken. I don’t want to lose my gardener so stop flirting with my grandson.

Sorry, couldn’t resist. Not my fault he has a sexy ass. And Boyd would agree, I’m sure.

Kieran laughed. He only hoped someone else agreed. I just want you to go with me to the opening on Saturday, Grandmother.

As your chaperone? she teased as she handed him the cup of tea she had poured.

As my foil? My wingman? He chuckled at the concept. Let’s just say I’ll stand a better chance with her if she knows you’re my grandmother.

In other words, you want to use me. My fame as a world-renowned artist.

Exactly.

You know you’re asking a lot of me, don’t you?

He knew. It would have been a lot to ask of anyone, but of his reclusive grandmother who was leaving her home less and less, it was asking a great deal more.

I know, Grandmother. He set down his cup and reached for a scone. He was reconciled to her saying no. It was not something she did easily or often, leaving home, particularly to make the hour trip into Winslow. She didn’t even show up for all of her own showings, let alone that of a complete stranger at a different gallery.

But, maybe it will do me some good to get out. We could make a weekend of it, stay with your sister and that cute Irish-Italian husband of hers, to say nothing of his adorable daughter.

You’re serious? He almost dropped the scone he was holding.

Of course, I am. If it meant helping him with a young lady who was actually someone he might stand a chance of having a long-term relationship with, she could force herself out of her house. Besides which, she was becoming tired of her own company. Too much of a good thing and all that. It would be nice to see my oldest granddaughter. And maybe your parents can come have dinner with us. Is your little sister home now too?

Uh, maybe, Kieran stuttered. Was this really his grandmother talking? The one who insisted that she enjoyed her own company more than anyone else’s so why subject herself to tedious conversations? I’m pretty sure she is.

And they’ve been urging you to go to Canden Valley Thursday to join them for their McCullough Thanksgiving feast?

Of course.

But you refused because you didn’t want to leave me on my own?

I have my writing to think about too, he lied.

Do I look like an old fool? I know perfectly well you haven’t begun to write your next book. You probably don’t even know what it’s going to be about yet.

True, but—

So it’s settled, she interrupted, growing intolerant of his need to lie about not wanting to leave her alone for