Chapter 46
Iexpected the ache of Claire moving out to blossom into a tender bruise by the next morning. After the night gave reality the chance to truly settle in.
But instead, I wake up with a sense of purpose. Because today, I’m mailing the photos of my completed series to Whitcombe Gallery. I’ve done it, I’ve completed paintings that I truly love. Something I spent countless hours believing could never happen.
Rolling over in bed, I check the alarm clock on my nightstand. Bold red lines making up rectangular numbers glare back at me, alerting me to the fact that the post office opens in little over an hour. I’ll have just enough time to get the film developed and be the first in line.
I throw back the covers and spring from bed.
Heading for my dresser, I snag my cable-knit turtleneck from the top drawer and pull it on, replacing the threadbare Ski Ellicottville tee I slept in.
The soft knit falls over my body, the hem reaching just past my hips, and I wiggle on my brown denim beneath.
My camera is already out, loaded with fresh film, in preparation for the crisp morning light that I knew would be highlighting my studio right about now.
I quickly snap a whole roll’s worth of photographs, making sure I have every angle and detail the gallery might want to see, then I head downstairs to grab my bag.
I tuck the film canister into a pocket and withdraw my Walkman. This is a Gin Blossoms moment. The band provides the perfect backdrop to my journey down the salt-covered sidewalks.
I’ve heard jokes over the years about why a band of tortured artists would be my favorite as a tortured artist myself. But the truth is, I’ve always considered them the soundtrack to smiling through it.
And that’s just what I’ve done until at some point it wasn’t really about needing to get through it anymore.
Now they’re just my soundtrack to having done it.
I’m bursting with new levels of hope and a swirl of ideas for my next work as I round the gazebo and close the final distance to Greene’s Corner Drugstore, which is ironically not on a corner at all.
Wedged between the café and one of our cutest boutiques, Greene’s always develops photos faster than an hour, and the owner, Howard Greene, always makes sure to toss a handful of Werther’s Originals in my bag. He’s a family friend; my grandfather was his little league coach.
The front door chime drifts through the air as I step inside, and I’m immediately greeted by the smell of the sugary sweet bulk candy display and a hint of lemon cleaning products.
From behind the drug counter, in his white pharmacist coat, Howard raises a hand to wave to me. I quickly pull off my headphones.
“Good morning, Mr. Greene.”
“Morning, Lucy. How are you doing, dear?”
My smile stretches triumphantly. “I am wonderful.” I pull out the film canister and set it on the counter between us. “How are you?”
“Oh, getting by for now.”
I tip my head to the side. Howard isn’t typically the pessimist. “Everything okay?”
“Just this blasted threat of Carpenter Hotels coming in and wiping out my business.”
Of course. The Greene family owns a strip of rental cottages up near the ski resort.
My smile wobbles a fraction. “There’s a second bid now, so who knows.”
“Right you are.” He nods decidedly. “Who do you think it is?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Odd that it’s a mystery though, isn’t it?”
“Very odd. If we’re lucky, it’s the village trustees and this is just their way out of the Carpenter deal.”
“Is that a thing?”
“I’ve heard of it.” He shrugs, clearly done speculating. “What can I do for you today? Just the film?”
“Just the film. And a rush order if possible?”
He collects the canister from the counter and tucks it in the pocket of his white lab coat. Then he taps his nose twice. “You got it. Go grab a coffee next door and I’ll have it done in a flash.”
“Thank you!” I adjust my bag on my shoulder and head for the door. Just another example of why small-town life is superior.
I just never thought a part of me would be rooting against it now.
Stepping outside, I make a quick turn into Jitters and come face to face with the reason for my turncoat heart. “Jake,” I gasp, nearly walking right into him.
“I hope we never stop meeting like this,” he quips with that charming little twitch to his mouth. “But I’m surprised to see you out of the studio this early in the day.”
“That’s because I’m done.”
We step to the side when the door opens behind me, and more café patrons enter. Jake’s eyes shift into something warm, bright, and potent enough to make my heart flutter.
“You’re done with the whole series?”
“I am.” I beam. “Mr. Greene is developing the photos for the gallery as we speak and then it’s off to the post office.”
He starts to reach for me then hesitates, shifting to hold his coffee cup in both hands instead. I hoped maybe we were past this since the town meeting. I hoped he knew where I stood.
I take the paper travel cup and set it on the empty table we’ve backed ourselves against. I don’t need to say anything, he understands. One arm slides around my waist. The other lifts, his hand cradling my cheek.
“I am so proud of you,” he murmurs, his face tipped close enough that our noses nearly touch.
“Thanks for the jump start,” I whisper back.
“So, what you’re saying is that I’m the wind beneath your wings?”
I roll my eyes.
“The oxygen to your spark?”
“Exactly,” I concede on a giggle.
But it’s true, isn’t it? Jake was the unexpected source of my inspiration just when I needed it most. I know what he would call that.
Serendipity.
He flicks his finger under my chin and picks his coffee back up. “How about some company on this final leg of the journey?”
“Don’t you have work to do? Now that someone is threatening to pull the property out from under you?”
“It can wait.” He shrugs. “We need to celebrate.”
“We have dinner plans already.”
With the arm still around my waist, he guides me towards the coffee counter. “We’re not waiting all day to celebrate.”
“Well, aren’t you a pushy wind,” I tease.
“Gotta keep those wings soaring, sweetheart.”
A flutter erupts in my chest. He certainly does.