11. Della #2
Besides, I always justified it by telling myself that everything shifted when she died, so there was no time.
As it stood, my entire school path changed.
Initially, I planned to become a physical therapist, but after her death, becoming a physical therapy assistant became realistic in the immediate aftermath.
I still pursued a degree in kinesiology, and that allowed me to jump right into assisting rather than spending additional years in school.
It was fine; I figured I’d go back for it eventually.
But after I agreed to date and then marry Tripp, my father would chastise me for that thought and tell me the Worthingtons could take care of both of us financially, as if my biggest life goal was to rely on someone else.
“I’m not saying full set-up here,” she continues, “but what if you just got a few materials and… I don’t know… painted the sunrise tomorrow morning.”
My eyes lift to look out the window of my cabin towards the mountains. The heart cliff is out of view, but the Grand Tetons are stunning, too. Maybe she’s right. If we’re going to enter my reclaiming era, we should go all in on it. Maybe I’ll even sign up for volleyball too.
“Don’t you think that’s crazy?” I say.
“Rediscovering old passions? God no. And, let’s be brutally honest, aren’t paintings and shit more impressive when the artist is emotionally tortured? Strike while the iron’s hot, friend.”
I laugh at the joke, but know she’s serious.
“And Della, use that credit card I sent with you if you need to. Scott and I love you. We could afford to move to Mars right now; spend what you have to. And it goes without saying, the car can stay with you indefinitely.”
“Quinny, that’s not…”
“Stop. I won’t accept any other answer besides okay.”
Quinn’s boyfriend made it big with some tech thing. I still don’t know exactly what he did, but she probably isn’t joking about affording a residence in outer space. I realize the car I am driving is their fourth, and although I feel guilty, I’m not arguing.
“Quinn, what did I ever do to deserve you?”
“Well, taught my na?ve ass about how to survive in a metropolis like Denver, introduced me to my boyfriend who will hopefully soon be my husband, have supported me since the moment we met… should I go on?”
When we get off the phone, I don’t even put it down before I hop online to see if there’s a place I can buy paint supplies in Amberheart.
I’m looking for the kind of general store you see in movies, but to my surprise, there’s something more.
There’s a full-on craft store with cute gifts that boasts an art gallery on the top floor, and I’m in my car before I can talk myself out of it.
Still living and dying by my GPS, I make my way to town, taking it in with non-desperate eyes.
It is a small main street, yes, but Millstone Avenue is small-town living at its best. I can’t quite figure out the place because when I think of the Wild West, a certain mental picture that includes tumbleweeds comes to mind, but this is anything but that.
This appears to be a mix of all walks of life, with luxury SUVs parked next to trucks that look like they’ve been through it.
As I drive through town, I pass a coffee shop, bookstore, vet, general store, restaurants, and taverns before I end up on the far side of the strip in front of the art store and freeze in my car.
I had gusto when Quinn suggested it, but sitting here, I’m having some second thoughts.
Do I really want to open that chapter back up?
I’m sure I’ve lost so much of my skill, and I don’t know if I can take that confidence hit right now.
But while I’m sitting here going over my predicament, the two littles that I just met last night come out of the store with huge grins, and that’s what pulls me out of my car.
“Hi Mazie, hi Luke!” I say, not believing I’ve run into Cayson’s kids.
“Miss Della!” Mazie exclaims, her grin widening when she says my name.
I introduce myself to the woman they’re with, who I find out is their nanny, Maria, and turn back to the kids. She seems like the sweetest woman ever.
“What are you guys doing here?”
“Got paints!” Mazie boasts.
“Do you guys like painting?” I ask.
Mazie gives a resounding yes, and Lukey smiles shyly and nods his head before hiding behind Maria.
“I like painting too,” I say.
“He’s good, Miss Della,” Mazie brags before leaning in. “He doesn’t talk much. Maria says it’s because I do all the talking for us both.” Her laugh rings out, and it makes me chuckle along. How old did Jaxon say they were? Her vocabulary is insane. “Do you have to get paints too?”
“Yes! That’s why I’m here,” I smile at my admission.
“We’ll paint together soon,” she says with the unmistakable confidence of a soccer mom arranging a playdate.
“Alright, kiddos,” Maria says, gesturing to the black car that’s parked. “Let’s get home so we can open our things!”
I find myself walking to the car with them, and while Maria takes Luke to his car seat, Mazie lifts her arms to me so I can put her in.
“How long are you staying Miss Della?” she asks as I clip her in.
“Well, it wasn’t safe for me to go through the mountain yesterday, so I think I’ll stay until it’s all clear up there.”
“Good choice. Dad always says that we have to make good choices.”
“Say goodbye, kids,” Maria chuckles.
Both of them wave, and I shut the door.
“Nice to meet you, Maria,” I say before turning and staring at the storefront.
I’m already out of my car, so I can probably just pop in to see what they have.
Accessing a mental inventory of what I need with ease tells me not all is lost. Maybe I will rediscover this passion after all…
or maybe I’ll just go down in flames and have a fiery and colorful demise.
But as soon as I push into the store, I know Quinn is right. There’s a feeling that, as a creative, you just can’t describe; it’s stepping into a place where ideas come to life.
“Hello and welcome to Painted Heart. How can I help you today?”
The woman who rounds the corner looks like she was made to live in an art shop. She’s got the eclectic hippie vibe about her, and she’s smiling the kind of smile that makes you feel like you’re home.
“I’m Rose. How can I help you today?”
“Hi Rose, I’m Della, and I’m here on the order of my best friend. I’m trying to get my groove back.” It is meant to be a joke, but it hits in quite a different way when she tilts her head to me.
“Well, lucky me, you’ve come to the right place.”
Over the next forty minutes, I shop, of course, but we also talk art, and she shows me the gallery upstairs when I ask for the tour.
This place has been here for five decades, and they added the local artists’ gallery upstairs fifteen years ago.
As I wander through it, I’m blown away by the very non-small-town feel this has.
You’d find something like this in a kitschy neighborhood in Chicago.
By the time I leave, I have all the basics I need to dip my toe back in.
Though I’ve painted with both acrylic and oil, I decided to go with a heavy acrylic because it’s less messy, and I also grab a few small canvases because I won’t fit giant ones in my car when I take off.
Making a stop at the grocery store, I promise myself I’ll be back to explore the rest of town, but I’m excited about my paint and want to capitalize.
I know that everything is going to hit me soon: the wedding, the lies, the fact I’m doing art without my mother, but right now, I am going to try to get that brush on the canvas.