“I tried, but I felt so beaten down and alone.”
Carlos lowered his head. “I never wished to cause you such pain. You are the daughter of my heart.” He shrugged in regret. “I am terribly sorry, mi niña. I do not deserve it, but can you forgive me?”
She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand, her smile tremulous. “Of course I can. I love you very much, but I am not a niña anymore. That’s the problem. It’s been so easy to let you take care of me, but it’s not healthy for either of us. If you hadn’t threatened the one thing I can’t live without, I never would have realized that.”
“I was trying to protect you.” Carlos shook his head. “You are fragile.”
“No, I’m not.” She sat up straight in her chair and thought of fighting through her panic on the back of Paul’s motorcycle, of facing down Darkside when he tried to intimidate her with a thousand pounds of out-of-control horse. “I’ve learned that about myself.”
Her uncle shook his head again. “You have not had to watch the child you love crash to the ground, her body convulsing, her limbs flailing, and know you cannot do anything to help her in her torment.”
“No, I haven’t,” Julia said, seeing his genuine anguish in the tic of a muscle in his cheek. “But neither have you for seven years.”
“It is hard to banish those images from my mind.”
“For my sake, will you try?”
He made a restless gesture with his hand. “I will do my best.”
“Good,” Julia said, giving a decisive nod. She’d walloped Carlos with some pretty emotional stuff and he seemed to have heard her. Now came the hardest part. She spilled it out in one long rush. “This situation has shown me the necessity of putting my career on a more businesslike footing. I appreciate everything you have done to build my reputation as an artist, but I need to look outside the family now. Claire Arbuckle has agreed to be my agent.”
She waited, her hands clenched around the wadded-up napkin in her lap.
Carlos rocked back in his chair. “I see. This is my punishment.”
“No, it’s business. Nothing more or less.”
She expected an explosion, but he merely picked up his fork and calmly took a bite of trout. “If you hire Mrs. Arbuckle, you must tell her about your condition,” he said, after he swallowed.
She stabbed a crab cake and shredded a piece from it. “I see no reason why it’s necessary.”
“She must keep you out of situations like Friday night.”
Julia put down her fork. “You’re missing the point. I want to be in situations like the reception.” She took a deep breath and reminded herself to make this a business discussion. “I’ve reached a point in my career where I need to broaden my customer base. As you pointed out, my current work might not appeal to previous buyers. Claire Arbuckle has contacts in New York City so she can put my paintings in front of an audience more accustomed to edgier art.”
“I thought I was protecting your reputation, not limiting your customers,” her uncle said. Her plan to distract him from her epilepsy had worked. “Mrs. Arbuckle simply wants to make money from what you have given her now. It will sell because of the popularity of your older work, but she does not care about the long-term view of your career as I do.”
His implication that her Night Mares were not good enough still stung. Then she remembered Paul’s reaction the first time he’d seen her painting; it had given him a good wallop. He’d wanted it and he claimed never to have wanted a work of art before. Her chin angled higher. “Mrs. Arbuckle understands I have to move forward in my work.”
“Then perhaps it is best I don’t represent you.” He flaked off another bite of trout.
Her mouth nearly fell open. That was it? He was taking his dismissal that calmly?
“Fortunately, I have invested your earnings carefully so you will never be without resources.”
He must be desperate if he was invoking the gods of financial ruin. She spoke softly, trying to project the love she felt for him across the table and into his heart. “Let’s go back to being family, not partners.”
“We have been both for years.”
“I love you, Tío. Don’t let business drive a wedge between us.”
Carlos put his fork down and raised his napkin to his lips. When he looked at her again, she saw hurt in his eyes. “You mean this, mi querida?”
She nodded, tears welling. She hated to cause him pain, but it was better to make a clean break now than to let it fester.
“Your paintings hang in the homes and offices of governors and movie stars and CEOs,” he said, drawing himself up in his chair. “Why you feel that is not good enough I don’t understand.”