Singled Out

Chapter 4

Two days before the gala in Nashville, my head was threatening to be all kinds of a mess. I was doing whatever it took to ignore it.

I’d finished an early microwave dinner, and now I was alone in the studio, hand cutting glass sheets—a dark plum color—into small pieces to be used for mosaics or whatever else people wanted to use them for.

My hair was up, my safety glasses were in place, and I’d taped my fingers for protection as I used my nipper to break…crack…the hell…crack…out of the glass.

Crack.

It was therapeutic.

Painful, rhythmic, requiring just enough attention to keep my mind from going to difficult places.

I had a steady rhythm going and tears in my eyes.

Damn, I hoped someone, anyone, showed up for open-studio time soon.

I still lived in Naomi’s house, as I had been for the past three years. It wasn’t a long-term plan, but I wasn’t good at long-term plans. I’d temporarily taken on keeping her studio open for all the people who needed a place to do their art. No one knew what would become of this place—or my living arrangements, for that matter—when and if Naomi’s brother surfaced. I mostly tried not to think about it too much.

I’d met Naomi about four years ago. I’d seen an ad for a pottery class on the town’s Tattler app, offered at a private studio on a small farmstead halfway between Dragonfly Lake and Runner. On a whim, the same way I did most things, I’d signed up. I’d come out of the class with my first lopsided, definitely one-of-a-kind mug.

After that, I’d taken Naomi’s oil painting class, then cycled through her other offerings—metalworking, mosaics, watercolors, jewelry, woodworking. If she taught it, I’d taken it.

I approached art the way I approached life, much to my dad’s annoyance—with the firm belief that variety was the spice of everything. I switched between the many mediums, unwilling to commit to just one.

Naomi and I had clicked during that first class in spite of our nine-year age difference. She’d been impossible not to like, exuding warmth and so much life. Her passion for art and her dedication to exposing the multitudes to it were awe-inspiring.

Within weeks, I’d felt as if we’d known each other for years. She’d been part older sister, part friend, part mentor, and then, when I’d been trying to find a way to move out of my dad’s house, she’d invited me to move into hers, charging me less rent than I’d pay anywhere else in Dragonfly Lake.

I put the bucket of plum glass back on its shelf, grabbed the next few sheets of glass, which happened to be a turquoise-and-white swirl, and pulled out the appropriate bucket. Back at the worktable, I flexed my hand—it was going to be sore for days after this—scored the first sheet, then set about crack, crack, cracking away again.

Naomi always said cutting glass was the worst part of mosaics, but I didn’t mind it at times like this, when I needed distraction and couldn’t settle down enough to commit to a particular project.

I sniffled as I remembered my dear red-haired friend bringing me more sheets and corresponding buckets when I got on a glass-breaking kick, saying the more I cut, the less she had to. Cutting glass was one of the only things I’d heard her complain about.

She’d been one of the good ones, for sure. One of the best.

She and her brother, Ian, had inherited this farm when her grandfather died a few years before I’d met her. Her brother, who I’d never met, worked for some international company and had zero interest in any of it, so Naomi had the run of the place. She’d never talked about Ian, and I’d suspected they weren’t close. That had been confirmed with an exclamation point when she died. Even now, nearly two months later, he’d never returned their aunt’s numerous phone calls about Naomi’s death, the funeral, or their shared property.

I found myself in a shaky position, where just about every aspect of my life except my job as a server—my home, the studio where I spent my spare time, my closest friendships—depended on a man to whom it was getting harder and harder to give the benefit of the doubt. What possible reason could he have for not responding to such devastating news?

Since farming wasn’t Naomi’s thing—and the surrounding land had gradually been sold off over the years, leaving her with thirty acres that were no longer worked—she’d created the art mecca of her dreams.

In addition to classes and her frequent projects to bring art to underfunded schools around the state, she’d opened the studio as a shared maker space for anyone who needed one, offering daily rates and monthly memberships. Her mission in life had been to make art available to everyone. She’d managed to expose hundreds of kids to art, maybe thousands. That involvement with schools had earned her the recognition of the Arts in Education Foundation.

The thought had my gut tightening. Saturday would be a tough evening.

When a woman from the foundation had asked me to accept the award for Naomi, I’d said yes without thought, honored to have a part in this final, much-deserved recognition of my dear friend. Now reality was settling in. I’d have to speak on behalf of Naomi and in tribute to her, and that was no small task. The woman had suggested no more than one or two minutes, so I didn’t need to write a long speech, but I definitely had to get my thoughts straight beforehand.

I still believed a date would be helpful so I wouldn’t be flying solo, wouldn’t be driving to and from by myself. Now that I’d had a few days to think about it, though, I wasn’t sure Max had been my best idea. On some level, he rattled me, and I wasn’t in the habit of letting men rattle me.

It was set though. I wasn’t going to chicken out now.

“Hey, Harper.”

I startled as Dakota came through the door behind me. I pushed the googles on top of my head and swiped at my cheeks again before turning around and forcing a smile. “Hey, you. I was wondering if you’d come out tonight.”

“Here’s me. I get to unload the kiln tonight.”

“Ooh, I can’t wait to see your pretties,” I said.

As we walked to the kiln room, she frowned. “You okay?”

I sniffled one more time. “I’m good. You got here just in time to save me from my thoughts.”

Dakota made a face. “Those can be nasty. I can see why you’re breaking glass.”

“Let’s unload your masterpieces,” I said, ecstatic to have a distraction. There was always an element of surprise when we unloaded the kiln. We never knew what the heat would do to each type of glaze and each piece of pottery.

She opened the kiln, which had been cooling for a couple of days now, and began taking the pieces out and setting them on the worktable.

“Beautiful. I love the way the colors bleed into each other,” I said.

“They came out even better than I hoped. Want one?”

“Maybe I’ll wait till you put them on your online store, and I’ll buy one.”

She grinned. “You know how much I suck at getting stuff online.”

“I was trying to give you incentive. People like to pay you for your work. You should quit giving everything as gifts. And yes, I’m saying that as someone lucky enough to get those gifts.”

“And someone who gifts her own art more than sells it.”

“You got me there,” I said, grinning.

“Maybe someday I’ll get better about selling it. It’s a lot.”

“It’s scary,” I acknowledged.

I’d had people say the same to me about my creations. I liked the idea of making money on my artwork, but the reality was harder—the organization required, the business side, the commitment… None of these were my strong points. I was skilled at creating in different mediums, combining colors, adding whimsy.

“Hey, pretty girls.” Shawna Jenkins peeked in from the main room, her dark hair pulled up on her head, her art bag on her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“We’re admiring Dakota’s new pretties.”

“Oooh,” Shawna said as she reached the table. “Those are gorgeous. Put me down for one of these blue-and-white ones. I’ll pay you good money.”

I laughed, and Dakota put on an exasperated act, though she was smiling. “I hear you girls.”

“I was just saying she needed to sell more, gift less,” I explained.

“For real. You’ve got your shop online. Why not use it? And you.” She peered at me. “We can set you up a store.”

I made a sound of overwhelm, shook my head, and said, “Maybe. Eventually. What are you working on tonight?”

My question worked exactly like the distraction I hoped it would. “I took a picture of the lake at sunset the other day. It was spellbinding.”

“So you’re going to paint it,” I said.

“Damn right I am.”

She showed us the photos. The trees and the hills were in silhouette. The sky was a vibrant orange swirled with the dusky purple of the clouds, and it made the water look like lava.

“I can’t wait to see what you do with that,” I said.

“It’s gorgeous,” Dakota said. “I was working at Henry’s that night and caught a glimpse of the colors from the bar.”

After a peek inside the kiln at the rest of Dakota’s work, I went with Shawna to the main room. Shawna set her supplies down next to her favorite easel. I went back to my glass mess as she mixed colors on her palette.

We worked without talking for a while, me making racket with my glass cracking and Shawna deep in concentration. Piper Elliott, who owned Oopsie Daisies, came in to work on the wooden signs she sold in her shop.

There were about thirty studio regulars, all ages, both men and women. Tonight’s group was smaller than usual, but the August weather today was a treat, a little cooler than our usual swelter, so people were probably taking advantage of that. I was just relieved to have company. These girls who’d shown up happened to be the ones I was closest to.

After another hour or so of cracking glass, my hand was screaming, so I put those supplies away and pulled out my sketch pad. There was a piece of polished jade in my stone collection that was begging to be turned into a ring. I sketched some setting ideas.

“You’re a painting machine tonight,” I said to Piper. I’d situated myself between her and Shawna. Dakota had come back in and was unwrapping earlier pieces that had been drying.

“I’m working on my fall inventory,” Piper said. “People will be all about everything fall in another two or three weeks. I want to be ready.”

“You’re so smart,” I said, meaning it.

Piper laughed. “I don’t know about that. I learned the hard way last year when I didn’t have enough fall merchandise ready. I could’ve sold so much more.”

“We were talking earlier about making money off our art,” Dakota said. “How did you get started?”

“I borrowed from a bank. Still paying that off, but I’m making progress. Variety helps. Flowers bring people in initially, but I’m getting traffic for all kinds of decor.”

“Your signs are popular,” Shawna said. “I see them all over.”

“They’re easy enough to make.” Piper pointed her paintbrush at her current project, which read “Sweater weather” in a scripty, swoopy font. “I don’t get to come out here often enough because of all the business stuff, but when I do, I like to crank out a bunch.”

“I’d noticed we hadn’t seen you for a while. Not since Naomi died.”

“Yeah.” Piper looked thoughtful for a second. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Without her here? Maybe you’re more used to it though.”

“It’s definitely weird,” I said.

“You’re doing awesome with everything, Harper,” Shawna said, “but I hate that she’s not here.”

I blew out a breath. “Me too, sister.”

Dakota wiped her eyes. “Dammit, y’all.”

We all laughed, which helped to lighten the moment.

“Have you heard anything lately? From the brother or the aunt?” Shawna asked, also swiping at her eyes with her arm.

“Not a word,” I said. “Last time I spoke to Sharon was two or three weeks ago. Her advice was to keep on keeping on here. She said if I didn’t want to ‘mess with’ the studio, I didn’t have to. But I told her again I love it as much as Naomi did, and so many people rely on it. I’m fine opening it whenever I can.”

Sharon Finley was Naomi and Ian’s only living relative. When Naomi had died, Sharon had flown in from Oregon and taken care of funeral arrangements.

“I can’t even with her brother,” Dakota said. “He has to be a real shithead.”

“That’s all I can guess.”

I didn’t expect him to reach out to me—he likely wasn’t aware Naomi had a roommate—but the old house did have a landline because reception out here in the country was crappy on a good day. Naomi had insisted on keeping it in case of an emergency in the maker space—with the various saws and the kiln and other dangerous equipment, anything could happen. It was ironic that a non-life-threatening injury had been what had ultimately taken Naomi’s life.

“Are you still living here in the house?” Shawna asked.

“Yeah. I know I should try harder to find something.”

“You should. You don’t want to be caught by surprise if this guy suddenly puts the house on the market from afar,” Shawna said.

“I’ve had that thought,” I said. “I know you’re right. It’ll be tough to find something in my budget. Naomi’s house is paid for, so she didn’t charge me a lot.”

“Roommates,” Piper said.

If I was honest, I hadn’t put very much thought into moving yet. I’d let myself slip into denial because of the unknown factor of Naomi’s brother, but that was being stupid. All it took was for someone to say it out loud.

“Dakota, are you tired of living at home?” I said, keeping my voice light, noncommittal.

“Every single day,” she said, her gaze focused on her work. She looked up at me. “How much would rent be?”

“It depends. If you’re interested, I could look for a place.” The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. I could totally live with Dakota. I’d never considered it before because I’d not needed a roommate or a place to live for three years.

“I’m open to it. My mom leaves me alone, and I have the whole basement to myself, but it’s probably past time to get a place of my own.”

“You think?” Shawna teased.

“She hasn’t given me any reason to get out,” Dakota said. “I think she likes having me there. But I’m twenty-seven.”

“Time to jump, my friend,” Piper said.

“I know you’re right.” Dakota became animated. “This could be fun.”

“I’ll start looking on Monday, once I get this gala out of the way.”

“The gala,” Piper said. “Where Naomi’s being recognized? Are the rumors true? Are you taking Coach Dawson?”

“All true,” I said.

“And you’re okay with that?” Shawna asked Dakota. “Ooh, your future roommate and your brother. If that’s not a romance trope, I don’t know what is.”

Dakota laughed. “I’m fine with it. As far as I know, there’s no romance.” She eyed me hard, and I shook my head.

“No romance. Dakota made me do it,” I insisted.

“I did dare her,” Dakota admitted.

Shawna tilted her head. “What’s the story there?”

Dakota shrugged. “My brother needs to get out for a night, away from town, a break from Danny.”

“He’s out every Friday night at games, isn’t he?” Shawna asked.

“I mean not for work. A date.”

“But no romance?” Piper asked.

“I don’t think he’s in the right place for that,” Dakota said. “But he hasn’t been on a date since our cousin died and Danny became his responsibility. Harper’s safe. She doesn’t want anything from him, unlike all the women who are itching to go out with him. None of them even try to get to know him. They just want to land Max Dawson, former-NFL player.”

I could see how that might be true. I wondered if it bothered Max or if he even noticed it. I couldn’t remember ever hearing about him being in a relationship. Maybe he was like me and didn’t want one.

“You don’t want to land Max Dawson?” Shawna asked me, grinning.

“I don’t,” I said. “I don’t want to land anybody. I was going to bid on someone to take to this gala anyway, just so I don’t have to go alone because…”

“It might be hard,” Piper said with an empathetic look.

“It might be hard,” I repeated. Understatement.

“Sounds like a good arrangement then,” Shawna said. “He gets out of the house. You don’t have to go to the gala alone. And it’s no big deal to either one of you.”

“Exactly.”

I didn’t confess that I was nervous, and it wasn’t just about speaking in front of a large group on behalf of Naomi.

Max was incredibly good-looking and had this engaging, likeable quality about him that made it easy to forget he wasn’t still a star athlete. There were good reasons women went all a-flutter about him.

I wasn’t blind, and when I thought too hard about Saturday night, I got butterflies in my gut. That alone told me it might be a bigger deal than I was admitting to anyone, including myself.