Page 8 of Painted Dreams
“No matter,” Nana said briskly. “These things happen in their own time. Now, there are a few other items in the box.”
“More? Nana, I feel like I won the lottery already.” Next, Kat pulled out the gorgeous velvet tapestry scarf Nana had made and held it close, feeling the softness for a moment, then she wrapped it around her neck.
Her stomach fluttered. She and Nana had always kept little secrets between them, such as not mentioning a visit to the art gallery or the art supply shop to Kat’s mother, but this was different. “Nana, I don’t know what to say. I never expected–”
“Shhh. I know you didn’t, but I want this. When I’m gone, the rest of the family can have their share. You’ve brought me so much joy, Kat. I couldn’t have asked for a more wonderful granddaughter. You’ve kept me young, my dear.” She picked up her cup. “Now, I think I need a warm-up.”
Kat took a shaky breath. Glad for the diversion, she poured them both more tea then took a long sip of her own, letting the warm liquid soothe her tight throat. The light caught the ring on her finger, and sadness washed over her. Of course, she knew why Nana was giving away her things. These were her winter years. The move to the center was the beginning of the end. One day, Kat would be on her own, with no Nana. How could she ever fill that void?
ChapterThree
Nick signed the check then leaned back in his desk chair, flexing a rubber band in his left hand. Looked like almost everyone in the group had a good month. Maybe the little extra cash would be enough to keep a spark going for some of the consignment artists who were talented but lacked confidence and a business sense.
Standing, he slid the check into an envelope and placed it in the stack of others before he could change his mind. He’d considered reducing his commission again. With the additional holiday volume, he always cut back his percentage. He sometimes felt guilty about taking any percentage of the artists’ profits for the gallery, but it took money to operate the place, and he knew that without the exposure the shop provided, some of these artists would falter.
Though it ate into the time he could focus on his own work, the shop was important to Nick, too. It gave him relevance in the business world as well as the artistic community. He’d been on more panels and committees than he cared to remember—but he remembered the payoff and focused on that. His recent efforts had kept a city park open during a critical time for the annual Art in the Park fair.
He checked his watch. Close enough to quitting time. Only one more workday before Christmas Eve, and last he knew, people expected Christmas gifts—and that meant some time in his studio. He’d been sidetracked by the call from Rebecca Andrews and the upcoming audition in New York.
He tucked all but one of the checks behind the counter where the artists knew to pick them up. The other he handed to Trena Jeffries, a sixty-something fiber artist who enjoyed working the store. Manning the retail side was part of Nick’s deal with a few artists whose work he stocked.
“This one’s for you,” Nick said.
Trena looked up, and her weathered face broke into a grin. “Ah, now I thought that comment was going to come with a nice cold beverage.”
Nick laughed “Drinking on the job these days, are we?”
“Always.” She held up a mug with lettering that readArtistCaffeine at Work. “Don’t tell the boss, okay?”
He held up his hands surrender style. “Hey, you’re the boss now. I’m outta here.”
“I’ll see you next week. Merry Christmas.”
Twenty minutes later, Nick pulled into the drive of his combination studio and apartment, a former garage and tool shed on his parents’ property. With the help of a couple of friends, he and his dad had finished the inside of the garage for a studio and added a second floor living space. It was the perfect set-up. They’d kept one of the garage doors, which allowed for easy unloading of lumber and moving his larger works.
Another perk of the location was that it took only a few steps to get to a hot home-cooked meal. Of course, the downside was that it took only a few steps to get to a hot home-cooked meal, and he indulged on a regular basis, requiring due diligence at the gym.
Nick glanced toward his parents’ house and decided to decline the standing invitation. Next year, he’d have to start on gifts earlier. Last Christmas he bought items from other artists—and managed to disappoint the entire family. Seemed they really did expect handmade gifts from him.Every year.
Inside, Nick moved past the table saw in the center of the studio, his eyes resting on the unfinished Christmas projects strewn across the work surfaces. He reached into one of the cupboards for a cherry stain to finish his sister’s jewelry stand. A long row of cupboards that ran the length of one wall held a wide array—and sizable investment—of brushes, sponges, saws, and sculpting tools. He kept most of his tools behind closed cabinets to keep them clean and free of sawdust. But he deliberately kept a little sawdust on the floor. He liked the sharp scent of the fresh raw wood that permeated the workshop.
He breathed in the air and checked his impatience with the holiday projects. Though he was ready to move onto bigger jobs, small projects were his bread and butter. He’d been selling carved boxes, chess sets, trays, and bowls for years. Every summer until he’d established the shop, he’d loaded up his truck again and again and hit the art fair circuit, working the crowds, building a name for himself. His work featured intricate inlays, expert craftsmanship and assembly, and careful attention to every detail. In the past couple of years, he’d pulled away from the art fair rounds and had made a concerted marketing effort to connect with high-end builders, to be visible in the community and offer his work or discounts on custom designs in auctions at the private schools and arts fundraisers.
He pulled the jewelry stand close, his thoughts wandering as he watched the reddish color soak into the smooth surface under his hands. The marketing efforts appeared to be working. It was through one of those contacts that Rebecca Andrews had heard his name. Rebecca… An idea whispered to him, and he set down the sponge and moved to the shelves at the back of the studio where he stored finished pieces. He rummaged through a selection of bowls and found a good option. It was only about four inches in diameter with a floral inlay design in teal and blue shades at the center and a matching border around the top edge. The small bowl wasn’t valuable enough to be considered a bribe, but maybe an incentive. Perfect for a small gift.
He intended to give it to Rebecca, but he couldn’t help wondering if it would appeal to her daughter. Based on Kat’s colorful clothes and accessories, he sensed she might like the colored pieces—and he wouldn’t mind appealing to her as well.
* * *
Kat enjoyed a little extra sleep the next morning then got out of bed ready for a fun Christmas Eve with Nana. Today, they would resurrect a long-time tradition of making holiday cookies together. She was so relieved to find that while Nana was moving a little slower, she was still mobile and mentally sharp. For Nana, the retirement home was more of a downsizing than a care center.
Kat dressed then went downstairs to rummage through her parents’ basement for empty boxes.
“Katherine, what are you doing?” her mother called from upstairs.
Rats. She’d hoped to smuggle them out without her mother noticing. “Just getting a couple of boxes,” Kat hollered back. She turned off the lights and made her way upstairs to find her mother waiting at the top, hands on her hips, lips pursed.
“What do you need boxes for?”
