3. Marigold
Three
Marigold
I ’m less alive when I’m not at Flint’s bar. Less substantial, somehow. Like a strong gust of wind might blow me away, atom by atom, until I fade like an old picture in the sun.
Everything else is a blur. Running errands, cooking meals on the hot plate in my tiny rented room, drawing commissions to keep some money trickling in—nothing holds my full attention. Not anymore. Not since him. I stumble through my days in a trance, mind elsewhere, until night falls and I can finally slip through the doorway at Flint’s.
Then: noises are full and rich again, pressing against my ear drums. The heat and humidity tickles my skin, and the taste of whiskey mists the air.
I’m here at last, rooted in my body, fully alive once more as I slip through the crowds of drinkers to find a good spot to sketch. When I glance at Flint’s closed office door, a knot in my chest loosens.
Because—it’s okay. The boss here didn’t see my sketches last night; my cover isn’t blown. I haven’t ruined everything with one cowardly trip to the bathroom. I can keep coming here, keep sketching this bar and its patrons, keep stealing glances at him.
Thank god. I need this routine like air.
“There she is!”
“Hey, Picasso.”
“Draw me next, okay?”
The locals know me on sight, greeting me with sloppy grins and waving arms, drinks sloshed over their wrists. I smile and nod back and edge around the rowdiest groups.
It’s busier tonight. Loud and hectic. There’ll be no spreading my stuff out on the bar, that’s for sure—not unless I want a beer-soaked sketchbook and constant elbows knocking my sides. Even now, a man stumbles into my back, plastering me briefly against the scratched wood. I wince, face scrunching up as I wait for him to step away again, but the nearest bartender is less patient than me.
“Hey!” Tess yells, leaning over the bar to smack at the guy’s shoulder. “Jimmy! Give poor Marigold some space.”
I smile at her as the weight lifts away from my back, a slurred apology thrown over the man’s shoulder.
“Thank you.” My words are swallowed up by the din, but Tess sees my lips move. She grins at me, wide and and crooked, and nods at Jana where she’s serving at lighting speed at the other end of the bar.
“No worries. We’re both here tonight, right until closing, so you give us a shout if you get in any trouble. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“And feel free to draw us.” Tess places my glass in front of me with a wink, ice cubes clinking together in a cold, sweet lemonade. Beads of condensation are already forming on the sides of the glass, sweating and sliding. “If you get tired of your muse.”
I manage another wobbly smile. There’s no hiding my crush on their boss from Tess and Jana; they’ve both stolen too many glances over my shoulder while I’m sketching. And yes, it’s embarrassing to have them know exactly what I’m up to when I come here to draw every night, it’s squirmy as hell, but I still can’t keep myself away.
It’s like there’s an invisible rubber band tied onto my rib cage, and the other end stretches all the way through Starlight Ridge town to Flint’s office door. Any time I’m away from here, there’s a dull ache in my chest: a constant pull to come back, to get closer, to find him.
The second I step through the bar door each night, that ache eases. So… yeah. A little embarrassment is not gonna keep me away, not when too much time away from Flint gives me indigestion.
“There’s a quiet spot at the back,” Tess shouts over the hubbub, jerking her chin over my shoulder. “In that corner. I tucked a stool under the table for you.”
“Thanks,” I call again, scooping up my drink and turning to nudge a path through the crowd.
Already, my fingers are itching to grip my pencil.
* * *
Sitting in this corner, perched on a tall stool with my sketchbook and lemonade crammed together on a small table, I have a perfect view of Flint’s office door. Sounds good, right?
Nope.
It’s distracting as hell. Every time there’s a flash of movement in the corner of my eye, every time the volume of chatter dips, even for a split second, my chin jerks up and I stare at that door, my sketchbook forgotten.
That squirmy, restless feeling churns in my stomach. I shift on my stool, my lilac t-shirt dress sticking to my back from sweat, and stare at that closed door with dry eyes, desperate for a single glimpse.
It’s never him. Flint may not even be here tonight, but I’m on high alert anyways, struggling to sink into my drawing like I normally do. Guess I’m still on edge after yesterday’s close call.
Flipping to a new page, I gaze down at the snowy blank sheet of paper and try to picture something new to draw; try to imagine the angles, the layout, the style. And I’m surrounded by interesting people who have lived their whole lives in these mountains, all scarred and weather-beaten with a thousand stories to tell, but there’s only one face I can bring myself to draw.
“Tragic,” I murmur to myself, sketching out the profile that is so familiar to me by now. The strong forehead, the slope of his nose, the surprisingly soft mouth above a firm, angular jawline—I see this face every night in my dreams. Every time I close my eyes, there he is.
A glutton for punishment . That’s what my Grandma would call me for this nightly obsessive behavior—and she’d be right. I’m a glutton for punishment, perching on a bar stool each night to draw a man who barely even knows I’m alive.
A wave of homesickness crashes over me, full of fierce longing for a woman who’s been at rest for over a year now, a woman who would talk some sense into me and coax me home. Back to her old-fashioned carpets and weird collection of china figurines, and the scent of baking flapjacks on a Saturday morning.
I squeeze my pencil and box-breathe through the grief.
There is no home, not without my Grandma. So I’ve been cut adrift, free to roam through the mountains for months on end, taking on random art projects like this one on a whim. Safe in the knowledge that no one misses me. No one worries about me being eaten by a bear.
Yikes. Pity party for one, please!
Snatching up my lemonade, I take a big gulp through the paper straw, focusing all my jagged thoughts on the sweetness, the fizzy bubbles, the cool liquid on my tongue. The clink of melting ice cubes against the glass. No room for thoughts; only sensations. This trick sounds cliched, but it works—and after a moment, I’m safely anchored in my body once more, flexing my fingers around my pencil and ready to keep sketching.
Then Flint’s office door opens.
My spine goes rigid. My left leg jiggles on the stool as the boss moves easily through the crowd toward the bar. Drinkers part for him like the red sea, a few old timers clapping Flint on the shoulder as he passes, then close up behind him and go back to their jokes and gossip.
He’s in a charcoal shirt tonight, the color faded by many wears, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top two buttons undone at his throat. Plus his usual uniform of leather work boots and old jeans that look loose at first glance, but that hug his strong thighs and toned ass as he moves.
Hoo, boy.
Flint leans across the bar to say something to Tess. She nods and says something back, her chin jerking toward my secret spot at the back of the room. I wrench myself back to my sketchbook, heart hammering in my chest, and I swear to god—I feel Flint’s eyes on me. Feel the heavy warmth of his gaze brushing my cheek, my throat, my arm.
Be cool. Be cool.
Gah! Oh my god.
With clumsy fingers, I flick my sketchbook to an innocent page: the regulars sharing a smoke in the doorway. And just in time, because less than a minute later, a deep voice rumbles by my side.
“What are you working on tonight, Marigold?”
See, I spend so much time staring at this man, but when he comes close to me and strikes up a conversation, I can’t bring myself to look directly at him. It would be like staring at the sun.
“The same drawing as yesterday,” I tell the collar of Flint’s shirt, privately marveling at the sturdy shape of his collarbone. This man is an architectural wonder. “The smokers.”
Flint grunts, and with just that rough sound—it’s like he’s calling me out. Like he doesn’t believe me. My panicked heart slams against my rib cage, gathering speed.
“May I?” he says. A strong, callused hand reaches out, spinning the sketchbook to face him. Shit! I let out the tiniest squeak and grab his wrist.
And— there.
Steady hazel eyes bore into mine, not scowling for once. They’re searching. Curious. All while the heat of his skin seeps into my palm, and his heartbeat taps against my thumb.
Tap, tap, tap.
“They’re no good,” I rush to say. “Those sketches aren’t ready yet. Please don’t look at them.”
Oh god, I’ll die if Flint looks at them. If he sees the evidence of my tragic crush, then looks at me with revulsion, or worse—pity. I’d die.
His jaw works. Flint watches me steadily, considering, but he makes no move to flip through my incriminating sketchbook. There’s that, at least, even as my knees tremble beneath the table.
Instead, he flips the whole thing closed and taps the cover. I melt with relief, sagging on my stool—until he speaks.
“You ever draw me, Marigold?”
His tone is strangely gentle. It makes me feel even more like a bug when I lie, crossing my fingers out of sight.
“Nope.”
One heartbeat. Two. Then Flint tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. Lord, have I ever seen this man crack a smile? Have I ever heard him laugh in all these months? I don’t think so.
“You want to?” he says.
I squint like he just spoke double Dutch. “Huh?”
“Do you want to draw me?” Flint says it again, slow and clear, his mouth tugging up at one corner. It’s almost a smile, but not quite. More like the promise of one in the near future. “I could model for you. That’s what it’s called, right? Modeling.”
“Um… yeah. I mean, yes, that’s what it’s called.”
What. Is. Happening ?
“I’ve never modeled for anyone before.” Flint leans close, like he’s telling me a secret in that gruff voice of his, and an answering shiver cascades down my spine. This bar is hot and loud, the lights hazy on the walls. “Hell, I’m in barely any photos, even. Not since I was a boy. Starting to think I might not exist at all. There’s no paper trail of me, that’s for sure.”
I snatch up my lemonade again, sucking down a desperate mouthful. Think. I need to think.
“I can draw you like this,” I say at last, nodding at the crowd in the bar. “No one else has really modeled for me. I just sketch them as they’re going about their business.”
“And is that better?” Flint presses.
I frown at my closed sketchbook. Is it pathetic that it never occurred to me to ask someone to sit for me? Not even Tess or Jana or any of the regulars I’ve gotten to know over the last few months? I just went ahead and assumed the answer would be…
“No.”
Flint makes a low noise. He sounds pleased.
“Then draw me, Marigold,” the bar boss says again, his voice lowered. “Draw me when I know it’s happening.”
I glance up, startled, but Flint’s already stepping away from my table, backing up into the crowd. “Stay late tonight,” he calls. “After closing.”
Dazed, I nod.
There’s a flash of triumph, then Flint turns away.
And I sit with my chewed pencil, my closed sketchbook, and the soggy paper straw collapsing into my lemonade, wondering what the hell I’ve just agreed to.