by Elsa Nickle
Ralph stood and shuffled out to grasp her hand. “Delighted! Please, why don’t you set your pieces down over here.” He gestured to a large, plastic folding table in the corner.
She didn’t know how these things worked, but Laurel did as she was told. She placed the pieces flat on the table in a row, with her favorite sunrise painting dangling off the edge. She hoped she wasn’t supposed to lean them on the wall or stack them for viewing one at a time.
The older man took a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket and unfurled them. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
The confidence Laurel felt earlier deflated. He studied the first oil sunrise—the one Ethan had liked so much—then moved on to the acrylic, more impressionist piece. He finished with the peachy-textured cottonwood tree, then he straightened and turned to Laurel. These were her most commercial works, and she had been fairly confident about her choices. She couldn’t interpret his expression, but it seemed pleasant.
“You certainly are young, aren’t you?”
How was she supposed to take that? Was he impressed with her age? He shouldn’t be. Laurel often felt behind, like she should know how to be an artist by now. And was it customary to ask the artist’s age? “I’m twenty-three.”
He glanced back at her work. “That is young compared with the rest of the artists we feature here.” His focus moved back to Laurel. “How would you characterize your painting style?”
Laurel swallowed. Was this a trick question? “I play around with different styles, but I think my work is unified by my focus on light and shadow.”
“I see.” Ralph templed his fingers together. “Well, Miss Mills, you do have a lot of talent …”
Laurel’s heart swelled in anticipation.
“… But you are not what we are looking for at this studio.”
Laurel’s mind went temporarily blank, like the power to her head had been cut. All she could think to say was, “Oh.”
He gave her a grandfatherly smile. “I would normally tell you where to try next, but I’m not sure any of the studios in town would be interested either.”
It was like a heavy spike had been hammered through her heart. Thunk. The power turned back on in her brain just in time for her to feel the pain of it. She reached for the appropriate response, but all she could do was blink and repeat herself. “Oh.”
He suddenly looked concerned for her, as though she were a lost child. “Don’t be discouraged, dear. Maybe if you practice more, you can find a style that isn’t so …” He hemmed and hawed. “Derivative.” The word sent another spike through Laurel’s chest. He continued, “And you are so young. You have all the time in the world to get better.”
Get better? Laurel stood there, mortified and numb. She couldn’t remember how to move, she only knew she needed to get out of there. Her voice came out like a scratch. “Thank you for your time, sir.”
He nodded his pale head. “Of course. If you want to try back in a few years, you’re more than welcome. You do have good technique.”
Her exit was a messy blur. Somehow she collected her things and got back to the old, tan Ford on the street without doing anything to embarrass herself. She managed to drive a couple of blocks before she had to pull over. She couldn’t see through her tears.
Laurel didn’t know which direction was up. She only knew she was somewhere downtown, sobbing her soul away.
That man had called her art derivative. She knew the translation—childish, amateur, without a point of view. Artists used that word as a passive-aggressive dig. And he had told her that nobody in town would be interested. She was suddenly embarrassed that anyone had ever laid eyes on her art. Ollie must have felt sorry for her when he agreed to trade paintings for his ceramics. Molten shame stirred within her.
Mr. Rosa had told her she had all the time in the world to get better. In her case, that wasn’t true—unless she wanted to go into major debt for ECAA, and wait even longer to see if she could ever get good enough to sell paintings.
How had Laurel gotten nearly accepted by a special art school, anyway? Was she some sort of charity case? She wanted to vomit. She’d gone to an expert for his opinion, and he had told her to come back in a few years. That’s how long he thought it would take for her to get good. Ethan had told her to ask someone who knew art, and she had. Now she knew the truth—she sucked. She would never be able to face Ethan after this. How could she tell him that she had failed so spectacularly? He was a successful, polished, beautiful professional—and she would never be on par with him.
Laurel’s phone rang, and out of habit, she grabbed it.
It was her mother.
That woman had the worst timing. Laurel was not in the mood for reconciliation. She knew her mom loved her and was trying to help, but she also knew her mom had tried to protect her from the very thing Laurel had just experienced, so the ringing phone in her hand felt like a big, fat I-told-you-so.
She answered and didn’t give her mom a chance at the first word. “You were right, Mom. I’m terrible.”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the call and then, “Honey, what are you talking about?”
Laurel wiped at her eyes and her nose, self-disgust temporarily steadying her voice. “You always said I couldn’t make it as an artist, and you were right.”
Her mother’s voice was wary. “Sweetheart, what happened? Where are you?”
“I went to a studio that was actively looking for new artists to represent, and some guy named Ralph Rosa told me I was terrible and that nobody in town would want my paintings.”
“Oh, sweetie. That’s awful! Did he really say that?”
“Yes, Mom, he did. And you were right. I wasted our money and dropped out of college just to chase a fantasy that would never come true.”
“Laurel, I never said—”
“You know what? I don’t want to talk to you right now. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Don’t call back.”
She hung up, riding a wave of emotions. Anger—at her mom for being right, at Ethan for telling her to find an expert, at herself for even trying. Pain—emotional and almost physical. And there was so much more. Self-pity, shock, sadness, mortification. How could a person survive all of this? She bit her cheek almost hard enough to draw blood.
Time passed. Ethan texted, and she ignored it. He called, and she ignored it. She didn’t want to tell him how wrong he was about her—didn’t want to experience that shame. She didn’t want to hear false, placating words, because nothing true could make this okay. She wasn’t in the mood for soothing, she was in the mood for burning.
It was almost dark when she drove to the abandoned store where she had been playing house with her stupid dreams. She got out of the car and lugged her derivative art behind her.
Instead of going to the door, Laurel turned aside to the alleyway. She walked straight up to the oversized plastic bins and threw her paintings directly in the trash. She had no more tears to shed, but her rib cage tightened when she turned her back and walked toward the store to get the rest of her stuff.
Stupid. She was so stupid to think she could do this, that anyone would find value in her work. The art school that accepted her had probably only wanted her money.
Laurel paced in darkness in her studio and moved mechanically. She grabbed the charcoal studies she’d begun of the old mine, and ripped them in half. Yesterday she had thought she would try a Rocky Mountain horse in charcoal, but that was never going to happen now. If she couldn’t paint still life, there was no way she could paint animals and portraits. What’d you know? Her first art teacher had been right.
Into the trash they went.
The stacks of watercolors, the other oil canvases, trash.
The drawings of old Bisbee, the acrylic of her mom’s favorite flowers, the abandoned building in the field.
Trash, trash, trash.
If she would have had her stupid sketchbook with her, she would have thrown that away too.
Not eve
rything would fit, but she knew if she put some canvases next to the bins, the garbage collectors would take them. Nothing was even worth saving to paint over. Laurel never wanted to paint again.
Last of all, she placed the painting of the Wyle boys in the bin. It seemed fitting, since Ethan’s suggestion had been the reason her eyes were opened to what a terrible artist she was, that his painted, smiling face was the last thing she saw before she got in the car and drove away.
She was so ashamed. She couldn’t tell him about this. She couldn’t let him know what a failure she was. She would have to avoid him until the end of time, just like paints and pencils and charcoals.
Her biggest love had been art, and now she was breaking up with it. Art had hurt her too badly today, and she couldn’t take another blow.
And she realized losing Ethan was going to knock her flat too. Yes, he said he didn’t want to leave her, but there was no way around it. He was going back to Santa Barbara. He had one more family wedding in a couple weeks, and then he would be gone. That was going to hurt too. And she couldn’t take another heartbreak right now. Her dreams had been torn to shreds, and the man who might just be able to sooth her wasn’t going to be around much longer.
Riding off into the sunset with that cowboy seemed less likely now that Laurel could see that the sunset wasn’t so perfectly painted.
Chapter Sixteen
Why wouldn’t Laurel call him back?
Being calving season, Ethan hadn’t had a chance to rest since the day he agreed to be the official Wyle Away vet. There were livestock to examine, health certificates to write, and a few more births he had to help with. He managed to send Laurel a quick text here and there, but she hadn’t responded.
Jason had been much faster to get back to Ethan, calling within minutes. Ethan could tell he was trying to play it cool, but the relief in his friend’s voice was clear. Finally, Jason would be free to run his business as he pleased.
But Laurel remained a mystery. At first he thought that maybe she hadn’t received the texts. After all, the ranch didn’t have the best cell phone reception, but that hadn’t been a problem for them before. Now he lay awake, wishing he had found time to sneak away to see her, to make sure everything was all right.
Had she regretted kissing him? Maybe he was moving too fast. Or maybe it was something her mother had done or said. Or maybe she was hurt. She rode her bike everywhere, even on the highway. The thought of her injured made him sit up in his bed, worry clutching his chest and making his stomach twist.
Laurel? Is everything okay? Please text me back.
Nothing. His leg bounced up and down as he rubbed his chin. He checked the time on his phone. 1:30 a.m. It was too early to call. She was probably just asleep. Maybe her phone had died and she couldn’t find her cord. He scrolled through his earlier texts.
Hey! I have some good news. Can’t wait to see you and tell you all about it.
The ranch has been pretty busy. I’ll try to call tonight.
Laurel?
Had he said something wrong? After a few more minutes of waiting for a response, he lay back against his pillow and tried not to worry about it. When that didn’t work, he went over to his bookshelf and pulled out his tattered copy of Old Yeller. He went back to the bed and read until his eyes started to cross and he drifted off to sleep.
Ethan’s rest was fitful at best. Finally, at 6:30 a.m., he showered, brushed his teeth, and got dressed. If she wouldn’t answer his texts, he would have to go and find her to make sure she was okay.
Once he got to the freeway, he paused. Should he go to her house or her studio? The clock on the dashboard shined a neon blue 6:50. If he went to her house, how would he even know she was there? No one appreciates a knock on the door at sunrise. Besides, he could stop by her studio on the way to her house.
Once he got there, he parked in front and got out of the car. The windows were dark. She wasn’t there. The worry in his chest deepened, and he silently cursed himself for not trying her house first. Should he check the hospital? No. He was being ridiculous. Just because a girl didn’t answer his texts, didn’t mean she was lying in a hospital bed on the verge of death. She was fine. There was a reasonable explanation, he was sure of it.
Maybe it was the sound of the garbage truck that broke through his thoughts, but he looked into the alley beside her studio. He noticed the garbage can was full. But the colorful trash wasn’t trash at all. It was Laurel’s paintings, and from where he stood, it looked as though it was all of her paintings. Some were piled in the green can while others rested beside it. The garbage truck rumbled louder as it drew closer, nearly to where he stood. What on earth had possessed her to throw away all of her artwork? Her very soul, bright and complex, stood piled high.
Beep beep beep. The garbage truck pulled up behind him, waiting for him to move.
He didn’t budge.
Even though he knew she probably had a reason to throw out her paintings, he couldn’t let her art be destroyed.
He ran to the trash, pulling out canvas after canvas, stacking them in his arms. Precariously balanced artwork toppled in his grasp. He managed to hold up a finger to the driver who just rolled his eyes and began to back up, leaving Ethan to go back for the rest after he had dropped the first load off in the trunk of his car.
He placed the rest of her work in his car, careful not to dent the canvases, and then sat in the front seat. What in the world had made her throw her art away? Had her mother finally convinced her to go back to college? Or threatened to throw Laurel out if she didn’t stop painting? Another thought hit him then, one that was like a punch to the gut. Had the art dealer said something? A raw anger filled Ethan. He would go and he would find this guy and he would make him see what talent really was. He shook his head. That couldn’t possibly be it. She was too good. Her art spoke for itself. He took out his phone and dialed her number. Nothing. He tried again. Still no answer. Something was definitely wrong.
Driving down Main Street, he spotted a tan Ford parked in front of the Bisbee Coffee Shop, and he swerved, parking haphazardly in front of it. He swung his car door open and jumped out, rushing inside.
“Ethan?” he heard a woman say, and he turned to see Laurel’s mother. “I was just headed home. Got my baby girl some of those sugar pastries she likes so much before my shift starts.” She gave a half-smile, her eyes full of pity. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, to be honest, ma’am, I’m worried about your daughter.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “Oh, honey, me too.”
“What happened?” he asked, rushing the rest of the way to her. “Is she hurt? She liked to ride her bike on the freeway.”
“Oh, no, dear. She took her paintings to Ralph over there on, wait a minute, what street is he on? Never mind. The point is, it didn’t go so well.” She grimaced.
Ethan felt sick as a wave of crushing guilt swept over him. “What did he say?” was all he could manage.
“Well.” She shrugged. “Art is subjective.”
Ethan clenched his fists and willed himself to calm down before he marched over to this Ralph guy and knocked some sense into him until he could finally see talent.
But the damage was already done. The one thing Laurel cared about, the thing she found joy in and had worked so hard for, was now ruined because some jerk was blind. There had to be a way he could show Laurel her worth. To let her see that she really was talented, no matter what the bitter old man had told her. If only she could have people with a genuine eye for talent see her artwork.
He looked at Ms. Mills. “I might have an idea, but I’ll need some help. What time do you get off work?”
“Two o’clock.” Her eyes were wide with curiosity.
Ethan didn’t have time to explain everything right now. “All right, then. Let’s get your girl to finally see what the rest of us already know.” With that, Ethan got her number and headed back out to his car. He had plans to make and not much time to make them
in.
He pulled out his phone and called Jaxon.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, Jax, it’s Ethan. Is Malia there?”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Why?”
“Well, it turns out that I need a specialist.”
Chapter Seventeen
The ceiling in Laurel’s bedroom looked as it always did—cracked and yellowing—but somehow she no longer trusted it. Nothing in Laurel’s life was stable anymore, so why would she trust the structure of this old house? The walls could cave in at any moment. Everything could implode. That is, after all, what had happened to her goal of being an artist. Getting buried in actual rubble couldn’t be more painful than lying down in shattered dreams.
She’d slept in—it hadn’t helped. She’d taken a hot shower—it hadn’t helped. Now she was lying on her worn-out comforter in holey sweats and an old T-shirt, staring straight up, and that wasn’t helping either.
Her mother had quietly left for work before Laurel had woken up. It was after noon now, but Laurel still hadn’t eaten the beignets her mom had gotten for her. She couldn’t.
The thought ran on a loop in her head: Laurel’s three best paintings had been rejected. And not by some famous studio that had amazing artists knocking down their door, but by a local gallery that had room for an artist like her, that was actively searching for new work to represent. She’d been rejected by a nice old man named Ralph.
And if Laurel wasn’t good enough for a nice old man named Ralph, she obviously had to quit trying.
Laurel’s eyes were hot.
She squirmed on her bed.
Her mind filled with the numbing memory of all of her paintings in the trash. At least she wouldn’t have to pay for the empty store anymore. She would have to give the key back.
For some reason, that was the thing that finally cracked something inside her. When she envisioned herself handing the little silver key back to her mom’s real estate friend, she broke. Warm tears streamed toward her ears. Giving up the key felt final.
