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)
He shakes his head. And sends off a text.
I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “Really, you don’t need to worry. I know just about everyone in this town. You don’t have anything to be concerned about.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “You really love this place, don’t you?”
I smile. “Why wouldn’t I?” I glance across at Riley. “Got my sweet girl here and Galaxy Grill makes the best eggs in America.”
Star Falls has everything I need.
Well, almost everything.
TWENTY-ONE
Juniper
I’m wearing my best jeans and a blue sweater I got on sale last winter but haven’t worn. The sleeves are a little long, and suddenly I’m wondering whether I should have worn a dress or something. Grace Astor sounds like the name of a princess. She’ll definitely be wearing a dress. I don’t want her to think I’m being disrespectful.
I’ve agreed to meet Grace down here at the candy store. Fisher’s bringing her. She wanted to come to the studio. When I explained that most of my finished work has been bought by the Colorado Club, she said she wants me to give her a tour so I can walk her through the pieces up there. Apparently, Fisher’s squared that with the manager at the Club.
The door to my studio creaks, and I spin around to see a blonde woman in jeans and a white shirt enter. She’s wearing an ear-to-ear smile. Fisher follows her in, and we exchange a smile.
“Hi,” I say, stepping forward and offering her my hand. “My name’s Juniper French.” I glance at Fisher, and he smiles encouragingly.
“Grace Astor. How do you do?” She glances around the old candy store. “What a great idea to set up a studio in a store that’s closed.”
“I’ll have to move out if Mrs. Peters ever rents it. But it works.”
“I see that. The light is perfect here.”
“The skylights make a real difference.”
“It’s really good to meet you,” Grace says. “I’m thrilled that I’m going to get to see more of your work. If I’m not mistaken, the lodge I’m staying in has a piece of yours in the dining room.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I’m not sure where Rosalind decided to put them all.”
“They bought a lot, right?” Grace asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Byron’s a friend and—”
“But Byron didn’t decide to buy them,” Fisher interrupts. “His designer did.”
“They work perfectly in the space from an aesthetic perspective. Though they’re not just decorative. You have a very painterly style. But you didn’t go to art school, did you?”
I shake my head. “No. No art school.”
“But you got accepted at art school,” Fisher interrupts, like he’s my full-time PR person.
“I had personal things that kept me from accepting,” I explain.
Grace nods and steps toward the work I have set up on the easel.
“I’ve just finished this piece.”
“I love the way you use the light. Who would you say influences your work? I see lots of Turner. Or am I imagining that?”
My body flushes cold and then hot. I feel like I’m under the spotlight. No one’s ever seen the Turner influence in my work apart from my old art teacher, who was obsessed with the British romantic painter from the end of the eighteenth century. “He’s my favorite painter,” I confess. “I’ve always wanted to see something of his, like for real, but you know…”
“Bizarrely, you know that Indianapolis is the best place to go to see Turner’s work in the US?” Grace asks.
I nod. “At the Museum of Art, or the Yale Center for British Art in Connecticut.” I switch my weight from foot to foot. “I actually got the book from the Yale Center for Christmas when I was in my early twenties. It has a lot of the paintings in there. I have a couple of other books too…” I take a breath. “But seeing it? I’d just love to see the texture. That’s something that’s important to me in my work. The texture, and I’m experimenting on ways of using multimedia to build on that textural feel. I don’t want to stray too far into that, but I like the way some fabrics look when I incorporate them into a piece.”
“Do you have anything you can show me?” Grace asks.
I hesitate. I don’t show many people my unfinished work. Of course, Riley sees all my stuff. My mom has lost interest in my painting. And my friends have their own lives. No one comes into this studio apart from me and Riley.
“Okay,” I say. “I have a few pieces that the Club didn’t want because they were too dark. Then I did a few portraits but abandoned them. I’m not good at people. And I have a couple of pieces I’m working on, but they’re not finished.” Fisher’s voice is in my head, telling me I’m great, but all I can see is some girl who didn’t go to art school, who paints around her job and life as a mother. I’m not an artist. Not really. “Oh, and I have a few pieces at home hanging up, but I didn’t think to bring them.”