Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Harper
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.