Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“I suppose I pride myself on reading people. I don’t often get people wrong. And…”
“And you got me wrong,” she says.
It’s not a question, and I get a dull prod in my heart at the timbre of her voice.
I think about it. When I met her, I saw Juniper as a big-hearted country girl who never got out of the small town she had been born in, but if she had, she could have done anything she wanted. She’s talented and likeable, and listening to her talk about art is captivating.
The fact is, I don’t know if I got her wrong. But I didn’t expect her to have a kid.
“I don’t know anything anymore.” I sigh and sit back on the bench, pushing my hands through my hair.
“I’m not a monster,” she says.
“I know. And you’re no pool hustler, either.”
She laughs. It’s light and breezy, and I can’t help but smile at her.
“Can we start again?” she asks.
That’s an easy question to answer. I’d give her the same answer whether I believed she was a liar or not. The thing is, I don’t think she is. I think she’s been living in a small town a long time, and she’s not used to speaking to people who don’t know her story. Or at least the part of her story where she has a kid.
“We can definitely do that.”
“My name’s Juniper, and I’m a thirty-two-year-old single mom of an eight-year-old girl named Riley, who has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met.”
Her love for her daughter shines from her like the sun. And it warms me.
“Good to meet you, Juniper, mom of Riley with the big heart.”
She grins at me like I just hung the moon, and it tugs at my heart.
I pull out my phone from my pocket. “Let me give you Grace’s details. What’s your number? And I’ll send them over.”
“Are you coming to me with excuses about why you need my number?”
I chuckle. “Maybe I am.”
We exchange numbers, the old fashioned way, without a QR code, and I send Grace’s details to her.
“She owns Grace Astor Fine Art in New York, LA, and Miami. She’s very well known in art circles, and she’s got a big network of clients. I sent her the link to your website, and she seemed enthusiastic. She said she’d welcome a conversation.”
“Fisher!” Juniper says. “That’s so incredibly sweet of you, but you can’t be forcing ladies like this to take my calls.”
“Juniper, I’m not forcing anyone. Grace is part of the New York establishment. She doesn’t do things she doesn’t want to.”
“But you called in a favor,” she says. “And you didn’t need to.”
“No, I called a friend and said that I knew of an artist and asked if I could send her the website. She was excited. Grace isn’t about to pretend she’s excited about an artist when she isn’t. She’s not made that way.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t being ungrateful. I just… people like that usually like art from twenty-two-year-olds who went to some fancy college, not some hick from nowhere Colorado, who paints in an empty candy store, for goodness’ sake.”
“Juniper, your paintings are good. I don’t know much about art, but they’re fresh and atmospheric, and there’s something… big about them. I feel something when I look at them.”
I turn to her to see if I’ve offended her. Her cheeks are pink and her lips pouted. She’s fucking beautiful.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my art.”
“Really?” I ask. “You’re so talented. Grace isn’t doing me a favor. I’m doing her a favor. She’s lucky I introduced her.”
“Staap, I can’t take all these compliments. It’s too much.”
I’m not lavishing her with praise. I’m telling her the truth. She’s clearly not used to people appreciating her art.
“You need to call her,” I say. “You promise?”
She winces slightly. “Maybe.”
“I think you could be a big deal, Juniper.”
She sighs. “But really, I’m a mom. I can’t go chasing off to New York City to meet some fancy gallery owner. And anyway, say she likes my work, she’s going to want more of it. Byron bought a lot of the stuff I had. And it’s not like I have loads of time to make more. I have a job. I get to paint once a week, if I’m lucky. And I’ve usually got an eight-year-old tagging along who wants regular snack breaks, so those Saturdays are not particularly productive.”
“You’re counting yourself out,” I say to her.
“I’m being realistic, is what I’m doing.”
“Or maybe you just don’t believe in yourself.”
She laughs. “Oh, well, that’s probably true. I can’t deny it. Why would I possibly do that? I’m a teaching assistant who likes to paint. I’m not the next Van Gogh.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Maybe not, but all I’m saying is, make the call. Maybe Grace says that unless you get on a flight to New York, she’s not going to speak to you. But maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Grace comes to the Colorado Club. For all I know, she and her husband are already members. And maybe she does want more art from you. Isn’t school vacation coming up? But maybe you’re inspired and you paint more. I don’t know. I just think it’s a bloody shame if you give up when you don’t even know what’s possible.”