Page 91 of Nesting With My Three Alphas
Then came young Jake with his portraits, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else but unable to hide his pride when people stopped to stare at his work.
And families. So many families. Mr. Wilson's wife and children, Abigail's mate and their toddler, Tom's grown daughter who'd driven down from Seattle, Jake's parents looking shocked and proud in equal measure.
Charlie appointed herself as official tour guide, leading small groups around the barn displays with the gravity of a museumdocent and the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved every piece on display.
"This is Mr. Wilson's watercolor of the old mill," she was explaining to a cluster of neighbors gathered near the back wall. "Did you know that watercolor is actually harder than oil painting because you can't paint over mistakes? Mr. Wilson is basically a watercolor wizard."
Mr. Wilson turned bright red at this description, but he was beaming.
Micah had outdone himself with the outdoor feast, setting up a buffet system that flowed from the barn out into the yard. Three different grills were running, manned by volunteers from town, while tables under the oak tree groaned under the weight of side dishes and desserts that people had brought to share. String lights woven between the trees and around the barn created a magical atmosphere as the afternoon light began to fade.
And Kit moved through the space like she was born to this. Encouraging nervous artists inside the gallery, welcoming visitors, facilitating conversations between potential buyers and creators, then flowing seamlessly outside to make sure everyone felt included in the celebration. She'd found her element, and watching her in action was like seeing a plant finally get the right amount of sunlight.
"She's something else, isn't she?" Jonah's voice came from beside me as we watched Kit help Tom explain his technique to an interested collector.
"Yeah, she is." I didn't try to hide the pride in my voice. "Remember when she first got here? How she flinched if anyone looked at her too directly?"
"And now she's teaching half the town that creativity doesn't have age limits or designation requirements." Jonah's own pride was evident. "Charlie's been begging to join the next beginner's session."
"What did you tell her?"
"That Kit's the one to ask." Jonah smiled. "Though something tells me the answer's going to be yes."
The official opening was at two o'clock, but people had been trickling in since noon. By the time Sheriff Rowe arrived with the mayor and what looked like half the town council, the barn was alive with animated discussions, while the yard buzzed with the kind of energy that came from a community celebrating its own. Kids were running around the property while adults moved between the gallery and the outdoor party space, creating exactly the kind of inclusive celebration Kit had envisioned.
"Reed!" Mrs. Carrington waved me over to where she was examining one of Abigail's larger pottery pieces. "This young lady tells me she made this herself. Is that true?"
"Every bit of it," I confirmed. "Abigail's discovered she has a real gift."
"I'd like to buy it. For my front garden." Mrs. Carrington's announcement carried enough to reach Abigail, who turned bright red and looked like she might faint from shock.
"Really?" Abigail squeaked.
"Really. It's exactly what my roses need."
And that was when the real magic started happening. Mrs. Carrington's purchase opened the floodgates, and suddenly everyone wanted to know about commissioning pieces, buying existing work, or just learning more about the artists.
Jake sold two portrait commissions before three o'clock. Tom had people asking about painting lessons. Mr. Wilson couldn't keep up with requests for custom landscapes of people's properties.
"This is incredible," Kit whispered to me during a brief lull as we stood in the barn doorway looking out at the illuminated yard full of celebrating neighbors. Her cheeks were flushed withexcitement, her scent practically sparkling with joy. "Look at them. Look how proud they are."
I looked. Really looked. At Mr. Wilson holding court near his watercolors in the barn, no longer the shy hardware store owner but explaining his technique with quiet confidence. At Abigail beaming as she discussed glaze options with a potential customer out by the dessert table. At Tom, who'd started the class claiming he had "no artistic bone in his body," now sketching quick samples for interested buyers while sitting under the glowing lights.
Even Jake, despite his teenage desire to appear unimpressed by adult approval, was glowing as people praised his portraits displayed along the barn's main wall.
"You did this," I said to Kit. "All of this confidence, all this courage. You taught them that."
"They already had it. I just gave them permission to show it."
Permission. Such a simple word for something so revolutionary. Permission to create, to take up space, to believe their work had value.
The same permission Kit was still learning to give herself.
"Kit!" Charlie's voice carried across the room. "The newspaper lady wants to interview you!"
Sure enough, a woman with a camera and a notebook was making her way toward us, her eyes bright with the scent of a good story.
"Ms. Lennox? I'm Sarah Bryant from the Valley Reporter. I'd love to speak with you about this wonderful program you've created."
