Gen sighed. “You know, I really do.”
Rose’s comment about the hot artist didn’t solve the issue of Gen’s nonexistent love life, but it did spark an idea.
Gen needed to rebuild a reputation in the art world if she were ever going to return to New York and become a player there. She needed to generate some buzz, gain some credibility. That was hard to do in an out-of-the-way town like Cambria, because the kinds of artists who had major influence didn’t live here. She could call them on the phone, e-mail them, deal with them via Skype, but it wasn’t the same as being able to schmooze with them over lunch or cocktails.
You need a hot artist to come to Cambria, Rose had said.
That was just what she needed—a hot artist. But not sexy hot. She needed an artist who was my-career-is-about-to-take-off hot.
An artist whose career had already gotten traction would not bother with Gen and Cambria. But one who was likely to emerge soon—but hadn’t yet—just might. If she could somehow spot an artist like that and bring him here, maybe create an artist-in-residence program through her gallery, she could have her name associated with his—or hers—when they eventually did get showered with fame and recognition.
It was a gamble, of course. If she bet on the wrong horse, she’d have invested time and money for little return. But if it worked, she could make a name for herself nationwide before she ever left town.
Gen thought about it as she drove home from the gym, still sweaty and hot from her workout. She thought about it some more in the shower, as the hot water soothed her aching muscles. Afterward, warm and comfy in her bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a towel, she opened her laptop and Googled artist-in-residence programs to learn what she could about what would be involved.
She was still researching when Kate knocked on her door half an hour later.
“Come in!” Gen called, not looking up from the computer screen.
“Hey.” Kate leaned in the doorway. “You want to come up? Jackson’s working. It’s lonely up there.”
“Mm, sure,” Gen said.
When she had moved to Cambria about a year and a half earlier, Gen had considered herself lucky to be able to rent Kate’s downstairs space for such a reasonable price. True, the apartment was tiny, with a galley kitchen that allowed for only miniature appliances, and a single living space that had to double as bedroom and living room. But that presented no problem, as Gen was used to apartment living in Manhattan. Compared to her place there, this was positively cavernous.
Gen had considered herself fortunate even before getting to know Kate. Afterward, she considered herself positively blessed. She and Kate had become close immediately.
Kate, who owned Swept Away, a bookstore on Main Street, was in her after-work relaxed mode. She was wearing Levi’s torn at the knees and an oversized T-shirt that said Book Nerd, with a pair of glasses as the two Os. Her feet were bare, and her short, spiky, dark hair was askew.
“You eat yet?” Gen asked her. “I just came from the gym. I’m starved. All those burned calories.”
“I did,” Kate said, still leaning in from the door frame, “but we have some great leftovers. Jackson cooked last night.”
“Ooh. I’m in.” There were definite benefits to having a chef living upstairs.
Tonight’s leftovers consisted of herb-crusted leg of lamb and zucchini soup with crème fraiche and cilantro.
“Jeez,” Gen said as she settled in at Kate’s dining room table and dug in. “This is what he cooks at home?”
“I wish. No, not usually. He wanted to try some things out before doing them at the restaurant. What do you think?”
“I’d order it.”
Kate didn’t cook, and before Jackson’s arrival, the offerings upstairs had consisted mostly of Pop-Tarts and frozen pizzas. When Kate had offered Gen the so-called foods that made up Kate’s own diet, it usually resulted in a lecture on health and nutrition. Gen had to admit, this was better.
“So, what were you working on so intently when I popped in?” Kate sat across from Gen at the dining table, sipping a glass of white wine.
“An idea.” Gen took a drink from her own wineglass, then had another bite of the lamb. “Yum.”
“An idea for the gallery?”
“Could be.” She told Kate about her idea for an artist-in-residence program, but she didn’t tell her that she was considering it as a way to get back to New York. She rarely held anything back from Kate—they were like sisters—but this, she sensed, would cause some difficult feelings. How could she tell Kate that she wanted to leave? How could she explain that if all went well, the two of them might be separated not only by thousands of miles, but also by the giant cultural chasm that separated Cambria from Manhattan?
“Huh,” Kate said, thinking about Gen’s plan. “How would that work? Where would this artist live? How would you pay for it?”
Kate echoed the questions that were crowding around in Gen’s head. “I don’t know.”
“It’s an interesting idea, though,” Kate said.
“Yeah. It could be. It really could be.”
“You could solve all of those problems. I mean, it’s doable,” Kate said. “There are a million rental houses around here, and if you could get one of your wealthy collectors to sponsor the program, you’d be all set. The rest would be … details.”
“I think I even know the artist I want.” Gen munched on another bite of lamb and thought. “But the place. That’s the first step. I have to find a place.”
Chapter Four
It was time for Ryan to stop thinking about the run-down buildings on the ranch property, and time for him to start doing something about them. The main house wasn’t bad; no one would claim it was an architectural gem, with its 1950s exterior that was long past needing a new coat of paint, but structurally, it was in good repair, solid and warm and sheltering for the family within. The new barn had been built recently enough that it was in very good condition, but the older barn—the one built back in the fifties—needed some refurbishing. Or they needed to just tear it down.
The guest house, though—that was the worst. The little one-bedroom cottage had plumbing problems, wiring problems, roof problems. Nobody had stayed in it for as long as Ryan could remember. Shame, too. The location was prime, with shade trees, rolling, grassy hills, and a creek close enough that you could just hear the rushing water—during the seasons when the water was high enough, anyway.
There was no excuse for letting it go. The Delaney family had simply had other priorities over the years.
But Ryan had ideas.