She glanced past him, but there didn’t seem to be anyone with him. He walked up and gestured. “Is this booth yours?” It took Cassie a moment to remember how to speak.
“Um, yes. Cassie. Pleased to meet you.” She reached out and shook his hand. Did people shake hands at a farmers’ market? It was cool and firm in hers, and she glanced at his other hand. Only a watch, no ring—though she couldn’t say why it mattered. She’d never seen him before and probably wouldn’t again unless he came there regularly.
“Hank. The pleasure’s all mine.” His voice was smooth, low, and resonating.
She blushed and quickly let go of his hand, “So, how can I help you? Or you’re free to look around on your own if you prefer that.” She gave her best smile, for once not having to worry that it was forced.
“Hmm…there’s a lot to look at here.” For a brief moment, he seemed to still be looking her way. Then his gaze shifted to a painting on his left. “Are all these your original paintings?”
“Yes, they’re all my work.”
He nodded as he stepped closer. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone use quite this style.” He tilted his head, lost in thought, and Cassie felt like it was genuine. He wasn’t just trying to come across as a connoisseur or know-it-all. He truly seemed to know something about art. Though, if that were the case, she didn’t know why he’d be interested in hers. The market probably had plenty of other great artists there, as he’d know if he came there often. Maybe his interest was because she was new there. It was probably the novelty, nothing more. Just like what the others thought.
“It’s unique, in a good way. The subject is a classic choice, but the execution is different.” He glanced at her, adding, “Beautiful.”
She had no idea what he was referring to, exactly, but she felt her cheeks grow warm just the same. His words shouldn’t be affecting her the way they were. He must be talking about the paintings.
“Thank you.” As she often found herself recently, she was having a hard time finding her courage. She’d normally come back with a joke about how he didn’t look too bad himself, how he seemed to have a knack for color with how his shirt matched his eyes, or something along those lines, but she found herself strangely tongue-tied. Maybe it was the intellect behind those eyes of his, or because he could actually talk about art. Or because of how much she’d changed over the past year. Whatever it was, he seemed different from the men who chatted her up at the bars—and very different from her ex, which was a welcome relief.
“The brushwork is vibrant. Energetic.” He tilted his head again as he looked at her. “The artist must be very talented to capture what she sees like that, but I’m sure she hears that all the time.”
She laughed, finding her voice at last. “Anyone who heard you would think you have a soft spot for artists.”
“Not all of them.”
She swallowed. She wasn’t used to such a quiet intensity. Most of the time, she only had to navigate bad pickup lines and casual comments, but nothing like this.
“Which ones of these are reserved?”
She wanted so badly to say some of them were. Or even just one. “None of them are, actually. I’m wide open.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Stupid thing to say, Cassie. “What I mean is, all these pieces are currently available.”
“Sorry, I just figured with how nice they look, you’d have sold a few already today. Or maybe that you’d bring some sold pieces to give an example of what other people buy of yours.”
“Ah, no. Not today. Not yet.” She laughed, suddenly embarrassed to admit that, especially to him. It felt like she was saying his attention toward her and her work was unwarranted…and undeserved. She didn’t want to leave it like that, to where he’d think she was just a wannabe artist, trying to measure up, and so it just popped out. “I’m used to selling my artwork through a local gallery, back up north. But I heard so much about this farmers’ market, after I moved here, that I decided to see if I could meet buyers by selling directly.” It wasn’t true, of course—she’d worked at the gallery in her hometown, but they’d never sold her art. They’d never even truly considered it.
But Hank gave a slow nod as if impressed, and sad to say it made the lie feel completely worth it. “And this is your first time here?”
She nodded. “I only moved here recently.” Hopefully, that would account for why her booth was so empty, despite her artistic “success.”
“I thought so. I knew I’d remember someone like you, especially if you lived around here.”
She glanced down at her shoes, hoping he wouldn’t ask too much about her past sales. She was enjoying his compliments, and she still couldn’t help but hope he’d buy one of her works. Getting a sale under her belt would mean that the next time she said she’d sold paintings, it wouldn’t be a lie. That, and paying a bill on time would be nice.
“At one point, I knew all the artists around here,” he continued. “I’m a bit of a collector. Once I find an artist I like, I usually stick with that person.”
She could hardly believe her luck. A collector? She wondered if that meant he’d know her claim was false. Had he ever been to her old gallery? She didn’t remember him, but that didn’t mean he’d never walked through the door. He might even have purchased his artwork online, only showing up at the gallery to claim what he’d already bought. She held her breath, hoping he wasn’t about to say something that would ruin her chance of a sale and brand her a liar at the same time.
He frowned, and for a moment she felt the muscles along her neck tighten. Was he trying to remember seeing it before?
Then he smiled. “It’s hard to decide which one I want.”
She could barely contain her excitement, her worries about her lie evaporating on the spot. She bit her lip, giving herself a moment to calm down. When she finally spoke, though, her words still came out in a rush. “You’re interested in buying one of my paintings?”
“Very interested. I think any one of these three would look great next to another I purchased a few months ago. It’s hard to decide between these three, though.” His brown eyes returned to rest on her. “You’re the artist, and a successful one, you said. Maybe I’m the first fan you’ve met in person, but you have to have a good eye for what sells to make it into a gallery.”
She knew. That was why her old boss had never let her display her paintings, claiming she needed some experience before she deserved a spot.
He added, “You must have a favorite, one that you think stands out or is extra special. Which would you pick?”
Cassie stared at him. She’d never been asked to pick a painting for anyone before. At least, not someone she didn’t know. Hanna had asked her to paint something especially for her before they’d gone off to Hawaii, back when she was just dabbling with her art, but that was different. “I’m sure you have great taste when it comes to art. And I don’t know what would work with your house, or what size you’re looking for…what other kinds of art you have, the lighting, the mood…”
She felt like she was babbling. She should’ve just told him the truth to begin with. He might’ve bought a painting anyway.
“You’re the artist. I trust your judgment,” he said. She felt a flutter in her chest. No matter what she’d said to reach this point, he was her first sale. After this, she could officially say she was a professional artist.
She glanced at Hank, taking in the details of his appearance once again. Dark hair, and it was brown, as she’d thought. She wondered if his eyes looked more greenish-brown, depending on what he wore. A classic look, but in his own comfortable way. There was a focus to him, yet he was relaxed and loose. He made decisions quickly, but he wasn’t exactly impulsive. He just seemed to know what he wanted, taking life in stride while pursuing whatever he was interested in, whatever drew him in and caught his eye. And he was clearly successful if he could afford an art collection.
So, judging by his looks and the fla
shes of personality she’d already encountered—and the cool palate of his clothes—he probably favored a neutral, classic home, probably something streamlined but elegant. There was no ring on his finger, and while that didn’t mean he wasn’t in a relationship, there was a chance his home was more masculine. Vibrant yet cool.
She scanned her work and decided he was probably not someone who sought out the ordinary. That might be part of why he’d been drawn to her booth, as she liked to paint things a little differently than others—brighter colors, narrower or broader focuses, and playing around with light. Like her, he might like things just a touch exotic. So she picked out a medium-sized painting, a palette of blues mixed with light-colored hues, with a flash of red and yellow in the foliage. It was a landscape she’d done after returning home from Hawaii, something that focused on the beauty of the island she’d visited, the sweeping water and the seemingly endless sky. It was a classic beach scene, but there were exotic touches here and there if you looked at it long enough.
It reminded her of Hawaii and the trip that had ended up being the adventure of a lifetime—for Hanna, at least. As she stared at the painting, she remembered the awe she’d felt when they had stepped out of the airport. Cassie had been greeted by a world of people living in a thriving infrastructure, surrounded by the beauty of nature, vast and magnificent and just out of reach. She had taken in a deep breath, feeling the heat rush up to meet her. The air itself had been humid, humid and hot. It would’ve been stifling if not for the breeze.
When she’d returned to North Carolina, she couldn’t find the words to talk about the beautiful state she’d visited. It had been stunning. The whole island had stretched out in front of her, showing off its lush curves against the sparkling ocean. It was just like the pictures, only better. There was more to it, and she’d loved every moment of her visit.
So, when she’d arrived back home, she’d done the only thing she could. She’d painted it. And now, as she was staring at it, she realized it would probably speak to Hank. At least, she hoped it would. She leaned over and grabbed it, turning around and presenting it to him. “Here. This one is my favorite, and it’s the one I’d pick.”
He took it from her gently, examining it as he held it out at arm’s-length, his eyes thoughtful. “I like it. It seems you’re not bad at reading people, Cassie. You make a good art dealer.”
He glanced her way, his smile growing. “So what made you think of me with this painting? Do I seem like the beach type?”
She shook her head, laughing. “It’s not like that. I don’t read people.”
“But you read me.” He gently set the painting down and pulled out his wallet.
He handed over the listed price, and she took it, feeling the cool bills in her hand and knowing she ought to be overjoyed with her first sale. She turned them over in her hand, hardly believing she’d turned her passion into income. He hadn’t even haggled over the price, like she’d been led to expect from other farmers’ market comments she’d read. Yet somehow, for some reason, it felt wrong to take money from him. Maybe because she felt like it was still a lie. He thought he was buying something from a successful artist, not turning her into one.
She shook off the feeling and smiled, forcing herself to focus. This was her first sale, her very first sale. It should power her smile for the rest of the day, no matter what else happened.
“Fantastic. Thanks so much. I’m glad you stopped by today.” She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say when someone bought her paintings, but she couldn’t help the words that tumbled from her mouth. She wasn’t one to stay quiet, after all.
He laughed. “Don’t thank me. You’re the one who picked it out.” He let her wrap the painting in thick paper for him, then said, “You’re coming back to do this again, right?”
He almost sounded worried, like the thought that she’d disappear after that day bothered him. But he’d said he liked collecting artists’ work, once he found someone whose artwork he liked. He probably just wanted another chance to add to his collection.
“At a farmers’ market, you mean? Oh, you’ll definitely see me here again. If you come, I mean.” She didn’t want to sound presumptuous. He could get the painting home and decide he didn’t really like her style after all. “I’m giving this farmers’ market thing a run.”
“Is that a promise?” His brown eyes sought out her gaze, and she felt that fluttering in her chest again.
“It is if you want it to be.”
“I do. I’d like to see you and your art again.”
She handed the wrapped painting over, and their hands touched, just for a moment. She felt she was giving her painting to a good home. The perfect owner, in fact.
“I’ll see you around then. It was nice meeting you, Cassie.”
“You too.” She wished she could think of something more interesting to say, but she felt tongue-tied all over again. She wasn’t sure if she should hope to see him again or not. What if he found out just how much of a newbie she really was?
But before she could say anything else, he was off, his painting carefully held next to his body as he picked his way through the crowd. She watched until he was out of sight, telling herself she just wanted to see her painting off…but knowing better deep down.
* * *
Cassie returned home feeling elated. The day had been a huge success, and she’d pushed past how her conversation with Hank had started and focused on the positives. He’d liked her work enough to buy it, and he’d turned her into a success. Down the line, when she actually was a big success, she imagined meeting him and telling him the truth. Maybe they’d be able to laugh about it then, and he wouldn’t be mad. She’d have sold lots of paintings by then, to where it wouldn’t matter that she’d lied to him to begin with. She’d still be a desirable artist, with lots of sales under her belt, and his painting would be more valuable than it was when he’d bought it. He’d have no reason to get upset then.
She pulled up next to the house she was renting and turned off the car. The drive home had been quick and pleasant, her thoughts full of Hank. She knew she might be building castles in the sky, as he might only come to the farmers’ market for the next few weeks and then disappear, but she didn’t think there was any harm in it, so long as she kept the differences between her hopes and reality firmly in mind. Now, she had to lug all her gear and her unsold paintings back inside. She’d hoped to have fewer to carry, but at least one was gone.
The house she rented had ants. Nothing too worrying—at least, she’d told herself as much as she set out trap after trap—but they were always underfoot, creeping out from cracks in the trim or under cupboards when she wasn’t expecting them. It could be worse. They could be spiders or roaches, something truly horrible. Instead, it was just an inconvenience, probably left over from the last renter, who’d probably left food out on the counter or something.
She brought each of the paintings in carefully, humming beneath her breath and avoiding the few ants she spotted. Her artwork had to be stored in sprawling waves across the house, due to how little room she had. They were tucked behind furniture and stuffed in the corners. It was an artist’s house and most people would’ve said it was cluttered, but that was the price she had to pay to pursue her passion. Besides, she’d brought almost nothing to this town, aside from her artwork and a few essentials. She didn’t need the house to hold anything else.
She finished unpacking the car, then headed toward the end of the driveway and walked to the mailbox, where she picked up her mail. She sifted through the letters. Most of them looked like junk mail, nothing worth lingering over.
But then there was one that had her name printed on the front, from the moving company. Once inside, she shut the door, mulling over the envelope even though she knew the outside wouldn’t tell her very much. Finally, she opened it up and scanned the contents for anything important.
And right then and there, her heart dropped. It was a bill. A bill she’d forgotten a
bout, when she was only just keeping herself afloat as it was. She thought she’d paid everything for the movers up-front, but it seemed there was a balance still due after moving all her stuff here. She bit her lip. The total was a sum she didn’t have, but even if she worked out a payment plan with the company, she’d still have to budget carefully to make everything work.
She’d probably jumped into the farmers’ market too quickly, and while she couldn’t back out now—it might even help her pay for this—her monthly payment for her place at the market made everything that much more stressful. But paying the movers was necessary, financially as well as emotionally. It had connections with her old life, a life she wanted nothing to do with—something she wanted to distance herself from completely.
She swallowed and ran a few mental calculations in her head. She’d have to sit and really think about exactly how she could make this work, how she could get her income to cover everything. She swallowed and tried to ignore the mounting sense of dread. She needed to think this through logically and ignore the panic that was threatening the corners of her mind. She needed to succeed at this, at her new life, her big break. She needed to make this work, and she couldn’t have an unexpected bill throw a wrench into everything. She swallowed hard.
“It’s okay…” She took a deep breath. “I’ll work it out.”
After all, she’d already sold her first painting, so maybe something else would come up. The bill wasn’t due immediately. She had a few weeks. Maybe, just maybe, she’d manage to find enough money to make it work. If she could, it would be the end of the shadows that still clung to her.
Color My World Page 2
