Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Please tell me that sentence was supposed to finish with the word ‘painting,’ because that’s the only answer acceptable in my mind.”
I inspect the project I’ve been working on for hours, my inspiration coming from an unexpected place.
“Faith?” he presses.
“Yes. I’ve been painting.”
“Thank you, Lord,” he says, his voice exaggerated relief. “I have to see whatever it is before I leave Sunday.”
“No,” I say quickly. “This is nothing like the black-and-white landscapes I’m known for. This is just for me.”
“Now I’m really intrigued. And after tonight, you’ll be a hot mama in the art circuit. Maybe this new project is the one where we make big money together.”
“You know that doesn’t matter to me,” I say. “I just needed to pay my outrageous L.A. rent, and selling my work helped.”
“You mean you downplayed your dream of quitting the art museum and painting full-time every chance you got. I’ve told you before many times. There is nothing wrong with dreaming big and getting paid big for your work. I need new work to keep that dream alive. You’ve given me nothing in a year.”
“I don’t have anything to give you,” I say despite the dozen covered easels around the room that say otherwise.
“Liar,” he accuses. “We both know you can’t live without that brush in your hand. I want to see what you did before I leave.”
“No,” I say. “No, this one is for me.”
He’s silent a beat. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear you say you were painting for you again?”
I inhale and release a shaky breath. “Josh—”
“Don’t tell me the reasons why you can’t paint, because I know it’s in your blood. It’s like breathing to you, and I also know that you’ve been secretly painting. But tonight isn’t about me pressuring you to paint. It’s about celebrating the success of the work that you’ve already given me and the art lovers of the world. This night is my birthday gift to you. So. Happy birthday, Faith.”
“Thank you,” I say, always amazed at how he remembers this day when others who should remember have often forgotten. “How are you so bad with women and so good with your clients?”
“Being single is not about failure. It’s about choice. I want what I want, and I won’t settle—something we both know you understand.”
The man knows far more about me than most of the people who I called friends back in L.A., but then, he lives in the art world, as I once did. “I walked right into that one,” I say.
“Yes, you did. Meet me at my hotel at six thirty. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.” He hangs up, and my lashes lower, a hotspot in my chest and belly where emotions I don’t want to feel have formed. Emotions I swore I wanted to feel when I moved into my mother’s bedroom. I was wrong. Emotions weaken me. They make me feel instead of think. They change my judgment calls. Yes. I was definitely wrong about welcoming them back into my world. Just like I was wrong two years ago when I bought this place, thinking I could paint and help at the winery and give up nothing. I can’t do both, and when I dip a toe back into the art world, that’s what I want to do full-time. I wish tonight wasn’t happening. I wish I had said no. And yet, I need to go change and dress.
Still holding my phone to my ear, I shake myself out of my reverie and stick my cell inside my jeans pocket. I have to shower and get dressed. Tearing away the smock, I toss it on the wooden stool beside the table. I exit the studio and rush down the stairs and back to my bedroom, then finally reach my closet. Flipping on the light, I walk into the giant box-shaped space and stop at the far wall, where my party dresses hang. I remove two choices, both still with tags, both splurges meant for shows I was to attend just before my father’s death. One is a deep royal blue, made of lace with a V-neck and gorgeous sheer long sleeves. I love those sleeves, but my favorite part of the dress is that it’s ankle length with a classic front slit. I like classic. I like the way it makes me feel like the woman I forgot I was until I met Nick Rogers. I’m not sure why he woke me up. I’m pretty sure I will wish he didn’t later, but tonight, I need to feel like me, like Faith Winter, not an employee of the winery.
I refocus on the second dress, which is… Well, it’s a black dress. That’s the problem. No matter what it asserts otherwise, its color is my deterrent; it says death to me, a reminder of all loss. Of the people I love. Of hope. Of dreams. Of so many things. I don’t know if I can survive this night while being reminded of all those reasons I can’t allow my past to be my present. But tonight is about that past and about my art, though I really don’t know what that means to me anymore. It’s a hobby and nothing more. It can’t be. It’s… Wait. My spine straightens. Josh said tonight could set me up for a good payday, and I already know a second mortgage on a new mortgage won’t do for me. But do I dare believe my art, my past, could help me get out of this hole that I’m in with the winery? Or at least buy me some time to find the money my mother has to have somewhere? I hope.