Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Jared was so despondent, I hadn’t wanted to leave him, but I had an appointment with Michelle in Inverness and he insisted I go.
Between this unknown threat hanging over our heads and my worry over Aria (who assured me she was fine, and that she and North were talking about their options), I had a lot of energy and emotion buzzing through me. Since I was a kid, I’d funneled that energy into my art. Back then I’d started sketching. The people and things around me. Then I’d begun sketching from my imagination and that’s really when art became a safe place for me and a way to process my feelings. The only time I hadn’t spent that energy through my art I’d ended up drinking, doing drugs, having sex with older men, and ending up in rehab.
These days, I stuck to the art.
Throughout the craziness of the last few weeks, I’d started work on a piece that I was especially proud of. And it wasn’t glass. It was something entirely different for me. Painting with oils on canvas in a more illustrative style than what people were used to seeing from me, I’d painted a figure that looked a lot like me walking up the driveway toward the farmhouse. The day after Jared told me I mattered more to him than anything else, I’d driven up the driveway of the farmhouse and suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of contentment and safety. I’d wanted to capture that emotion.
Even though I’d yet to spend a winter on the farm, the image came to my mind in the cold season—the farmhouse aglow in the dark snow, me in a hat and coat, the house beckoning me home to warmth and security. And love. Because though that word had not been shared, I was pretty certain Jared was just as in love with me as I was with him.
It might take him a while to get his mind and mouth around I love you, but I could wait.
A small smile prodded my lips as I sauntered down Ness Walk and past the buildings that sat along the River Ness that cut through the city. The north end opened out onto the Beauly Firth by the Kessock Bridge, which would take me home to Ardnoch. Following the river south led to Loch Ness.
Michelle’s gallery was across the river from Inverness Castle. The rain that had brought much respite to the farm this past week had drifted off to parts unknown. Sun beamed across the water of the Ness, lighting up the building that housed Michelle’s gallery. It had to be at least a hundred years old. Inside was a smallish gallery, but she’d created a minimalistic aesthetic broken up into different spaces by walls to separate the genres of art and artists. The walls were either black or white, so that nothing detracted the eye from the artwork.
A bell jingled above the door as I let myself in.
Michelle looked up from behind the counter and greeted me with a triumphant smile.
“Someone in London bought two of your pieces last night. I spent the morning packing them to ship!”
Delight blossomed through me as I reached her. It never ceased to amaze me that people wanted to pay money for my artwork. I hoped that feeling of wonder never went away and returned Michelle’s high-five with a laugh.
“That is the kind of news I needed to hear today,” I said truthfully.
“I’m glad to be the bearer. Now, what news do you have for me?”
Nervous but excited to show her the painting I was working on, I’d shown her what I could from the photos I’d taken on my phone. The painting was, of course, unfinished and sitting in my rented studio. It wasn’t quite the same as seeing it in real life, but I’d taken a video too so she could see the textures and the light, and the glimmers of metallic paint I’d added here and there for interest.
Unfortunately, my nervousness turned to anxiety as Michelle took my phone and looked over the images for a second time. Her lips pursed and she looked up at me regretfully as she handed the phone back. “It’s not really what I’m looking for. I already sell an artist that does something similar. I like your glasswork, Allegra. It makes you stand out. You should stay in your lane.”
Irritation zinged through me. Utter disappointment too. Because this painting meant a great deal to me. I wanted people to feel that when they looked at it.
If Michelle didn’t …
Stay in my lane?
I guess that’s what you told an artist once you started making money from their art.
Stay in your lane.
It fucking hurt. And it chafed.
Giving Michelle a tight smile, I nodded and made conversation about what had sold since the art show, what pieces were still left.