Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Well, if you hired me as a cigar girl or something at your swanky club, then maybe I could buy a vehicle. Not my fault you won’t let me work there.”
I knew by bringing up The Vault again, he would drop the subject of buying a car since clearly the thought of me walking through his establishment’s doors was a no go. I was playing dirty, but it would change the subject quickly.
He took hold of my hand briefly and squeezed it. A casual goodbye. “Remember. The fifth. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Uh-huh. You’re too busy for that. You’ll have something else to do that night. Like smoking cigars and drinking expensive bourbon.”
Locke frowned. “Seven,” he growled. “Text me when you get home.”
That was it. He’d ordered, and I knew from past experiences with him that I’d better obey.
Or else.
Would he spank me again if I said no to dinner at Ghost Pines?
And what would he say if he knew I had agreed to The Hunt?
I shivered at the thought, then walked down the trail home and tried to forget about Locke Hartwell. I did have something else to focus on…
Getting ready for the Harvest Moon.
Chapter 8
Storee
Damn, I hated the hints that winter was near—snow was uncommon for my town, but the beginning of this fall had been unusually wetter and colder than normal for Heathens Hollow, and there was talk that the winter might bring harsher weather.
I slung my purse over my shoulder, then climbed the three steps to the only home—a cottage in Heathens Hollow—that I not only adored, but one that I, the brilliant starving artist, could afford. At this point, I was much more starving than brilliant. I’d already realized the cold hard truth about being an artist was that you had to die in order to be appreciated, and despite the fact that I was largely alone in this world with only a handful of friends, I wasn’t in any particular hurry to leave it.
I plunked my keys and purse on the countertop of my galley kitchen, then flipped on the ceiling light that illuminated my small cottage, and all of my ‘children.’
That was how I thought of my paintings—all of them. They were like the children I’d never had. Probably never would have. I stuck to those things I loved—the town of Heathens Hollow, the buildings, the people—as much as possible, but occasionally indulged in a portrait or two. The canvases were lined up around the perimeter of the cramped bungalow spilling color all around.
I couldn’t have picked a favorite amongst the non-portraits if I had to. I loved them all equally. The daily life of the town and I were partners, always had been. My visions of the energy that flowed on the streets played out in the incredibly detailed canvases before me, and every time I looked at them, they magically transported me to the streets of the town I loved but also hated at times.
I never felt as much at peace as I did when I was painting by the harbor. Everything else—every worry, every daunting phone call, every pang of loss or regret—escaped my soul, and I was left open and vulnerable but safe and sound in the arms of an island I would forever call home.
I always added more to the paintings than just what I saw. Red flowers, or roses in particular—they were a testament to my father who’d worked hard to keep the family fed, but on those rare days off, he’d spent his time growing roses in the back yard in memory of my mother. I never could get over their stark beauty, so I strived to reproduce it, never quite managing to match the images in my mind.
I sat down on the beat-up old couch that also served as my bed many a night since it seemed to make me feel less lonely than sleeping alone in my bed, and flipped on the TV, but my eye was already caught by the canvases that were in front of me. Two portraits—one of my father and one of Locke. They were bigger than any of the others. One was still on the easel because I couldn’t resist tinkering with it, although it had been finished long ago. They were both done from memory, one a tribute and the other… the other a sad testimonial to what might have been—to what still lived inside me, and always would.
A sick obsession.
A silly girl’s dream of what she could never have.
They were my best works, and could never, would never be seen by anyone.
The portrait of my father was perfection itself—just as he had often been in my eyes. Familiar tears welled as I stared into my father’s clear blue eyes.
I’d painted it six months after my father died, painting for nearly a week straight, barely stopping for food or sleep. When it was done, I had collapsed into a heap on the couch, much as I had this evening, just staring at him as if it held the key to my salvation.