Chapter 8
Iwake up the next morning with Jake on my mind and the slightest zing of creativity flowing through me. It’s like waking up to the warmth of the sun on your face after a long, dark winter. And even though I don’t have a specific idea of what I want to create, I feel like I want to try.
Try something new.
I’ve never been the outgoing, bubbly person in the crowd. I’m not the most exciting or the flashiest. So, I’m not sure why I’ve been trying to make art that is all those things.
I can’t help thinking about Jake’s perspective of the city during our conversation last night as I quickly jump from bed.
Throwing on the denim overalls and white baby tee I used to consider my studio uniform, I rush down the stairs deep in thought.
I’m so distracted, I nearly trip over my own feet as I charge into the kitchen for coffee and a croissant.
My fear is that I’ll lose this idea, this web of creativity trying to expand and come to life, and I can’t let that happen by moving languidly. Although I am more careful climbing the staircase with a full cup of coffee in my hand.
And when I reach my studio, throwing the door open for the first time in months, it’s like something clicks into place.
I tie my hair into a bun and pick up a sketching pencil, tapping it on the edge of my easel. The soft morning light drifts in the bay windows and across the blank canvas before me. And for some reason, I feel the urge to trace the rays in their grid pattern through the windowpanes.
It’s not the style they expect from me. But it means making a mark on the blank white surface after a long stretch of nothingness.
The first time I stepped into the studio after Whitcombe discovered me, I was still fueled by the rush of it all. I painted for three days straight, only stopping when Claire brought me in food or insisted that I slept. When I was done, I stepped back and looked at my work—and I hated it.
It felt bland and unoriginal. As if I was simply trying to recreate the piece they liked to begin with. I promptly scrapped it and spent another few weeks trying and failing to make anything I felt proud of.
Then I stopped painting altogether.
“Oh my gosh you’re in here,” Claire’s voice chirps from the doorway behind me. “This is so exciting! What are you drawing?”
I set the pencil down and turn towards her. “I’m not sure, actually.”
She shuffles over to the faded green settee across from my easel and sits, waiting for me to share more.
“I’m trying to capture a fleeting feeling,” I decide on.
“Any feeling in particular?”
Dark eyes and untamed hair and a five o’clock shadow dusting a perfectly shaped jaw flash into my mind. A spark of something ignites in my chest.
How unexpected.
“The feeling of life collectively slowing down, I guess. It’s a phenomena Jake mentioned last night, when we were talking about fall arriving and New York City relaxing into the new season.”
Her eyes widen. “Jake inspired this?”
“Inadvertently, maybe,” I mumble. What does it mean that our town’s biggest threat is stirring this in me?
She reaches for my croissant on the end table and tears off a little corner. “What else did you two talk about on your walk home?”
“Actually…” I bite my lip and move over to join her on the sofa. “We talked about the fact that he’s the representative from the hotel chain—he literally is a Carpenter. His dad owns the company.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Oh Lucy, I’m sorry.” She hesitates, her gaze softening. “And yet, here you are. Back in the studio.”
“You think he’s my muse?” I scoff.
“I think I’m glad to see you at the easel again. However you got here.”
“Yeah.” I nod, looking back at the canvas with sketching across it. “I am too.”
I step back and press the paint brush handle to my chin, examining my progress. It’s nothing, really. A study of movement and light.
But it is paint.
On a canvas.
And it’s too early to be certain, but I feel in my core that I’m on the right track.
“Hey, Luce, I’m heading out to dinner with Levi. Want me to bring you something back?”
I look up to find Claire in my doorway, waiting patiently for an answer.
“Did you say dinner? What time is it?”
“Nearly six,” she replies, narrowing her eyes to study me. “Have you eaten today?”
I tip my head to the side and think about the breaks I took today. There were the trips downstairs for the second and third cups of coffee, but that’s it. “I had that croissant for breakfast,” I say sheepishly.
“Lucy.”
“Okay, okay.” I set my brush aside and hold up my hands. “I won’t wait for you to bring food back. I’ll go hit Dagwood’s.”
The sandwich shop just outside of town is fast, easy, and there aren’t even tables for crowds of people to linger at. It’s one of my favorite places.
“Good.” She steps to the side and I shuffle out of my studio. “Although don’t get me wrong, I am still really glad to see you getting back into your art.”
I flash her a weary smile. “It’s something.”
We move down the stairs together as she asks, “Did this help you firm up that fleeting feeling from this morning? Anything you can set as your theme?”
All exhibitions have a theme or style, which is exactly what Whitcombe Gallery is expecting of me. A series of paintings, four minimum, tied together with a uniform message.
“I’m right on the cusp of something pulling together for me, just not there yet.”
We swipe our car keys off the entryway table in unison, and she turns to me with bright eyes. “This is it this time, I can feel it.” The confidence in her voice buoys my heart. If she can have this much faith in me, maybe I can believe in myself as well.
Parting ways, she heads towards her car parked around back in the driveway, and I cross the street to where my Subaru Forester awaits. I climb into my dark red beauty and go to start it when I look down at my clothes. I’m still in my overalls and baby tee—no bra.
For a beat, I debate if I can go out in public like this.
Nobody will be able to see my chest with the way the front of the overalls comes up, though, and I really don’t feel like going back inside to change. “This will be fine,” I reason, throwing my hair up in a claw clip from the cupholder. “It’s just Dagwood’s.”
Decided, I pull away from the curb and drive the few minutes down the road to village limits.
There, sitting at the corner of the last intersection out of town, is a tiny, all brick building nestled amongst mature pines.
The gravel lot out front is completely empty—save for the one car over in the spot labeled for the employee.
It would seem I’ve gotten luckier than usual.
Grabbing my tote from the passenger seat, I climb out and pause to lock my door. But as I do, there is the distinct rumble of another vehicle stopping beside me.
Before I even finish twisting my key, I hear, “I am really starting to like this small-town thing.”