Page 60 of Just Let Go

She glanced down and saw boring, safe, uninspired designs. Embarrassed, she tucked the page in her sketchpad, itching for a new sheet to mark on. It was as if something had been unlocked within and she needed to record it before it all oozed out of her, washing away like a paper sailboat in an angry river.

“You can get started here, right?” she asked, not wanting to admit to him that it was what he’d said that had finally—finally—triggered the creative spark she’d been missing.

“Sure. Paint the walls and the ceiling. I think even I can handle that.”

“I’ll be in my office.” And with that, she disappeared. Off to the small office in the back, where she could be alone with her thoughts—and the ideas that spiraled so quickly through her mind that she could hardly get her notebook open fast enough.

Why hadn’t she thought of that? Wild, untamed—flowers that grew with reckless abandon? She could wrap them in a seemingly arbitrary fashion around the snow and ice sculptures, tying the two elements together perfectly. It was brilliant, really. But she’d never admit out loud that it was Grady who’d given her the idea.

She sat down and opened her sketchpad. She was no artist—not on paper, anyway. Her tools were always flowers, never graphite or paint. But she needed a plan if she had any hope of accomplishing what was necessary in the next three weeks. Deciding which blooms to order would be her first task; finding a supplier that would come through would be her second.

As she flipped through catalogs, she noted which flowers seemed to have a mind of their own, which ones were whimsical and almostovergrown. She began to envision large antique mirrors and white lights strewn throughout the pavilion. She’d find a way to rig vintage chandeliers along the walkways and turn the entire area into a garden that almost seemed to have invaded an old English mansion.

Finally she had the perfect plan, and the excitement that bubbled up inside her would propel her past any overwhelmed feelings. She put in a few calls to her committee, who all agreed to meet her at the flower shop later that evening.

She spent the entire morning working, and probably would’ve kept going if it weren’t for the loud crash. She shot out of her office and found Grady standing near the wall that once held all the picture frames, most of them now on the ground in many, many pieces. He held a paint roller attached to an extender and had paint all over his shirt and jeans. An overturned ladder lay at his feet.

“What happened?” She scanned the mess before finally meeting his eyes.

He held up a hand as if to calm her down. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

She came around to the other side of the counter and saw the tipped-over bucket of paint, which was now all over her wood floor. “Nothing to worry about? You ruined the floor.”

“I’m sure there’s a way to clean it up.”

“Yeah, paint the whole thing gray.” She frowned. “Wait. Why is this gray? I ordered creamy white.” She picked up the lid to the paint can, which readMoonlight Gray. “What is this?”

Grady shrugged. “It’s what the guy gave me.”

Quinn groaned. She didn’t have time to check up on every little detail, but if Grady couldn’t get one thing right, what choice did she have? “Can you go get some rags from the back room?”

He started toward the door.

“Stop!”

“What?”

“You have paint on your shoes. Did you even put down a tarp?” She glanced at the supplies he’d spread out on the counter and sawthe two large canvas tarps she’d purchased still wrapped up in their packaging.

“I didn’t know I needed a tarp.”

Another groan. “You made a huge mess.”

“I know. I’m trying to clean it up. Can I get the rags?”

“Don’t. Move.” She practically growled the words. He may have unlocked her creativity, but he’d single-handedly set her way back in the flower shop renovation.

“What can I do?” He did look sorry, at least.

“You can start taking some of this stuff seriously,” she said, a little angrier than she’d intended. “It’s all just some awful punishment for you, but this is my life. I’m not in the habit of slopping stuff together and calling it good.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Maybe you should just go.”

“No, let me clean it up,” Grady said.

“No, just go. You’ve done enough.” Broken glass crunched underfoot. She glanced down and saw the image of her happy smile, standing next to Carly and holding on to her mother’s hand.

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