Chapter 4
Chapter Four
After everyone at the table took their opportunity to marvel over Greer’s boots, they were able to settle down enough to order lunch. The jalapeno poppers and grilled chicken salad were probably delicious, but her taste buds barely registered the flavors.
This was it. The day she’d been waiting for.
But it wasn’t like she’d expected. Rather than providing her with answers, the boots she now wore on her feet seemed to fill her with questions.
After dessert—a celebratory peach cobbler Greer barely touched—was served and cleared, Delaney came around the table and squatted down next to her. She said quietly, “I know this is hard for you.”
“Delaney, you’re a damn good bootmaker.” It was true. She’d caught onto the mechanics faster than anyone could’ve imagined. But change, even good change, sometimes still hurts the heart.
“You know your dad wanted to make your boots. If I had to guess, I’d even say he seriously considered doing just that when he knew his hands were failing him.”
“We both know they can only be made at the right time.”
“And that’s the only reason he didn’t.”
Delaney’s words didn’t keep Greer’s chest from aching at the loss, but they were a reminder that mysterious forces were at work here, and even the great Whit Maddox hadn’t been able to dictate the power of prophecy boots.
That truth settling inside her, Greer gave Delaney a hug she hoped said all the things she felt.
Her reverence for the gift she’d once wanted for herself, her appreciation for Delaney’s magic touch as the prophecy bootmaker, and her happiness that Delaney and her brother had found their way back to each other.
Lively chatter and the squeak of chairs being pushed back tugged Greer’s attention back to the table. Ty and Sawyer congratulated her again before leaving.
“I’ll see you at home later.” Cal leaned in to give Delaney a kiss then released her to wrap Greer in a hug. “Congratulations, little sister.”
She hugged him back, held on for a few extra seconds.
After Cal left, Greer said to Delaney, “I need to walk a bit. Do you have to get back to the shop right away?”
“I’ve always got time for you.” They strolled out into the sunshine, and Delaney looked down at Greer’s feet with a frown. “You’re going to tell me you don’t like them. Maybe I should’ve done overlay, but from the sketch, I thought your dad wanted—”
Greer looped her arm through Delaney’s and turned in the direction of the Honeywell Park. “Stop. You’re being ridiculous.”
“Then why do you seem sad?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Spill it.”
“I guess when I put on the boots I just expected the sky to open up, give me some kind of sign.”
“They’re a prophecy, not Santa Claus.” Delaney gave Greer a hip bump. “You can’t expect your destiny to just appear like a present under the tree.”
“Isn’t that what happened for you?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Delaney’s laugh was full of disbelief. “I fought destiny, so no, I wouldn’t say it dropped down my chimney and into my stocking.”
“If I’m being honest, I’ve been restless. Looking for something and I’m not even sure what that something is.”
“It’s gotten worse since your dad died, hasn’t it?”
“You’ve noticed?”
“Just that you seem less settled than normal. A little less Greer-like and more at loose ends.”
“I’m restless, bored.” Her laugh was hollow. “God, I sound like a kid. Whiny. Forget I said anything.”
“No, I want you to talk about it. Because whatever this is you’re feeling, it’s real. Which means you need to work it out. What are you bored with?”
“My glassblowing.” But even that wasn’t the complete truth. “I’m tired of picking up something new, getting pretty good at it, and then abandoning it for something more interesting. Nothing—from photography to blacksmithing—lasts for more than a couple of years.”
“Maybe you weren’t meant to pick one art form and perfect it.”
“But art doesn’t work that way.” A un-sighed breath sat heavy in Greer’s chest, but as they approached the park, the sight of Honeywell Creek soothed her a little.
How many times had she jumped into that flowing water and let it wash away whatever was bothering her?
She longed for a problem a rope swing and a good splash could cure. “Art is all about becoming a master.”
“Maybe you’re supposed to master something besides art.”
“Like what?” Greer laughed to cover up the discomfort Delaney’s easy statement was causing in her midsection. “Art’s always been my thing. But these days, I don’t feel that spark when I walk into my own showroom, into my own studio. Nothing there seems as important as what you do at PBC.”
“Your art co-op helps diversify the economy here. Just like the Sandstone, Bostick’s, and Sweetwater. You should be proud of that.”
“How do you feel when you sketch a baby’s prophecy boots?” Her attention narrowed on Delaney’s face. “When you touch thread and leather?”
An expression of joy and purpose lit Delaney from deep inside. “Powerful, grateful, passionate.”
Did glassblowing make Greer feel anything close to that? Realization hit her, a sharp jab right in the heart. “That’s it,” she breathed. “I want something that fills me with passion.”
Delaney’s eyes went wide, and she stopped so suddenly Greer was reeled back with her. “What about the festival?”
“What about it? It did what we needed it to. Raised a little cash, reestablished Prophecy Boot Company, and brought a trickle of tourism back to town.”
“And who organized that whole thing?”
“Well, we all pitched in—”
“Don’t try to do that good Southern girl thing and spread the credit around. You made that festival a success. No one else could’ve pulled it off. You have what it takes to make a huge impact on Prophecy’s economic recovery.”
Oh, God. But PBC was Prophecy. Wasn’t it? How could she create something that would be as important as Prophecy Boot Company?
An idea bloomed in her mind. One that knocked the breath out of her like the time one of Mr. McCormick’s goats butted her in the chest.
The whole point behind that festival had been to show the rest of the world that Prophecy had something to offer besides the boots. But most of those vendors had come from other places around the state. What if…
“Okay, so the festival was a success overall, but some booths, those where the artisans were demonstrating their techniques, got way more traffic than the others.”
“I noticed that too.”
A bubbly feeling rose through Greer’s body and words rushed out of her. “Which means festival attendees were interested in the artists’ process. Those vendors sold more too.”
“Hmm…I’ll have to remember that for the boot shop. Maybe move the counter so customers have a better view into the workshop area.”
“Better yet, invite them into the workshop.” Grabbing Delaney’s hands, she danced in a circle, pulling her along.
“The artists who’re willing to let people look over their shoulders, who’re willing to share and talk and teach, they’re creating a personal connection with their buyers.
And that connection will bring people back again and again. ”
“You might be onto something.”
“My place wouldn’t be big enough even if I sold off all my glass-blowing equipment.”
“Big enough for what?”
“Have you ever heard of Campbell or Penland?”
“The folk art and crafts schools?”
“Two of the best in the US. Both in North Carolina, but there are none like them in Texas.” She dropped Delaney’s hands and let the vision take over. Classes, demonstrations, busy artists, happy visitors. “If I could create something like that…”
“It would be amazing.”
Yeah, but there was a reason it wasn’t realistic for her to even contemplate. Those effervescent bubbles popped, leaving Greer feeling flat. “Those places are huge, with acreage and multiple studios.”
“I bet both of those folk schools started out much smaller than they are now.” Delaney’s smile was sincere and totally supportive. “Remember, good things are built one brick at a time.”
Once Delaney headed back to the boot shop, Greer meandered from the park toward Guadalupe Street, still pondering the expanded festival concept. Last she’d heard, one of her photography professors from UT was doing a sabbatical and spending his time at Penland. Wouldn’t hurt to give him a holler.
She was almost to her small studio when she spotted a man perched on one of the benches her brother had carved for the downtown area.
This was Greer’s personal favorite, the back intricately styled to look like a field of bluebonnets.
And the guy—well, she had a feeling he was pretty complex too.
Which might not bode well for PBC, since Delaney was already in love with Alex’s work.
Complex or not, he was talented. Damn talented.
And sexy. Damn sexy.
Standing far enough behind him to remain out of sight, Greer watched him.
He was wearing the same clothes from earlier, and one of the tiny hoops in his ear flashed.
Even though full sunshine was beating down on him, he hadn’t rolled up his sleeves.
Why would he be so deliberate about keeping his ink covered?
That made no sense in a day and age where so many people had tattoos.
His head was bent over the sketchpad in his lap, his brow scrunched in concentration, and he was making long, sinuous strokes with his left hand.
Heat kindled in Greer’s chest and traveled down to warm up places that had no business getting hot over a man’s drawing ability. But oh, Lord. She’d had a thing for southpaw guys since her crush on Cooper Crowe, the star Little League pitcher in fifth grade.
Some women were ass gals. Others shoulders. Or abs.
But Greer loved the angles of a man’s wrist and the bulge of his forearms. She’d bet Alex had fantastic forearms.
Seeing as she wasn’t half bad with a pad and a charcoal pencil herself, maybe she could talk him into posing for her. Buck naked, if at all possible. In the name of art only, of course.