Page 153 of Love Among Vines

“Happens all the time. I’m Chuck. Care to come in?”

She took a moment to memorize him—deep laugh lines surrounding warm brown eyes, NYU sweatshirt, trusty pair of white New Balances. Just in case he ended up trying to imprison and murder her. Couldn’t be too careful.

Chuck walked her through the apartment, explaining amenities and rent procedures.

“So you’re an artist?” he asked. “I sure would love to brag about having an artist-in-residence.”

“I am.” For the first time in forever, the words were true. “The apartment’s beautiful,” she said.

It was almost twice the size of her current place. There was a decent amount of natural light, more than enough space for all of her current belongings plus room for her art supplies. Maybe it didn’t have the shabby chic adorableness of her cottage by thelake, or all the amenities of her neighborhood in Midtown. But she had fared with far less.

“Thank you. We put a lot of work into these. It’s someone’s home, so it should feel like it. I did bring the lease along if you’re interested in signing today. Either way, I’ll need to know by Monday.”

The “yes” was on the tip of Jade’s tongue. It was, theoretically, perfect. A reasonable rate, no roommate, a short train ride to Manhattan and everything it had to offer. So what was holding her back?

In her heart, she knew it was because it wasn’t Hammondsport. Against all odds, she had envisioned a whole life in that sleepy, quirky town. She could practically feel the thrum of an energized home team crowd at future homecoming games. It was easy to imagine her daughter or son’s first art show at the local high school, attending festivals on Rett’s arm. Maybe her own studio and gallery on the town square, a stone’s throw from Margie’s Café. Lazy afternoons spent on the lake, steamy evenings on the rooftop of the winery.

It was like a life she could look at behind glass. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t real. Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to throw it all away just yet.

Jade collected her thoughts and straightened her shoulders. “I have a great feeling about this place. I’ll let you know by Monday,” she said.

“Suit yourself,” Chuck said. “If you need a great lunch spot, Wicked Wolf is about a mile that way.” He gestured into the distance with a slightly crooked index finger.

“Good tip.” She waved goodbye and stepped outside. Almost as if on cue, her stomach growled. Maybe a sampling of the local fare wouldn’t hurt.

She pulled up the address for the restaurant on her phone and aimlessly followed the directions. Could this be hernew neighborhood? It was quiet and unassuming, refreshingly middle-class based on the cars parked all around. The near-constant cacophony of sirens in the city was absent here. In the summer, it might even be charming. A decent place to raise a family, if it ever came to that.

An hour later, she washed her hands in the ladies' room in the pub. Chuck had been right. She could get used to having this warm, eclectic restaurant in her backyard. Her reflection caught her eye in the long, rectangular mirror over the sink. Physically she looked fine, but the bags under her eyes didn’t lie. And something else drew her attention too—the stupid ice skate tattoo under her collarbone.

Images of Nate flashed through her mind. His fake remorse in the kitchen of what should have been their shared apartment. His condescending looks at his rehearsal dinner. Countless trips and adventures and galas.

He had taken so much from her. And lied the entire time. Had she even really taken the time to process that? The person she had thought she would spend the rest of her life with had been screwing around behind her back with her best friend. It should have been obvious from the start. But she was blinded by her love for him.

But no more.

She dried her hands and thrust the door open. It was time to remove this last tie to Nate and that dark time.

She looked up the nearest tattoo parlor that took walk-ins and strode off in that direction.

A few blocks away, she popped open the front door of a parlor. A bell rang above her. She was immediately immersed in the dark, atmospheric space that kind of looked like it had been decorated by Spencer’s. The Rob Zombie poster on the wall stared back at her. The smell of citrus was sharp in the air. A man looked up from behind the counter. He had a septumpiercing, two sleeves full of what appeared to be gothic versions of Disney princesses, and, alarmingly, an orange covered in rose imagery.

“You here for a tat?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Take a seat. There’s a special on lower back tattoos this month,” he said.

“How about coverups?” She showed him the ice skates.

“Easy,” he said nonchalantly.

She could only imagine what Rett would have to say about her latest impulse decision. He’d probably lecture her for forty minutes for not comparing costs between different parlors, let alone checking out reviews for someone who was about to permanently change her appearance. Pre-Rett, she wouldn’t have given such an impulse a second thought. But maybe she should give thissomethought.

“Do you have some examples of previous works?” she asked.

“Book’s over there.” He was a man of few words. He gestured at a black binder on the counter.

She picked it up and flicked through several pages. A sigh of relief slipped between her lips. What he lacked in conversation skills he clearly made up for in artistic ability. His work ranged from phrases written in departed family member’s handwriting to floral works to watercolor, symbols, even cat tattoos. Satisfied, she closed the book.

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