Page 68 of The Art of Being Merry
“Is Cobble Glen Tavern on the way? Willa raves about it, but I haven’t tried it yet.”
“We’ll make it on the way.” His feet carry him to his truck, and I follow along, climbing into the passenger seat. It’s only been a few times, but it’s already becoming familiar. “How was your day?”
“Productive. I’m trying to finish up everything this week and next so I don’t have to work the week of Christmas and into the new year. I’ve already shut down new orders until the first week of January.”
“What’s your job? I gather you work from home.”
“Yeah, I own an Etsy shop offering a variety of hand-painted items, and I have commissioned paintings from a gallery in North Carolina. Every three months, I go back and drop them off to thebuyers. I’m hoping to find a gallery local to Winterberry Junction, but no luck so far.”
“What type of painting do you do?”
“I dabble in a little bit of everything. If it can be painted, I’ll try anything once. Lately, I’ve had a lot of custom orders for book edges. It’s time-consuming, but people will pay big bucks for hand-painted edges, so it’s working out.”
“That’s amazing. I want to see your work sometime.”
“Yeah, sure.” I glance over at Dax with a smile, though he can’t see it because his attention is on the road.
I’m not someone who hides her work. If people are interested, I’m happy to share it with them. Not to sound overly cocky, but I know I’m talented. I gave up questioning it years ago when huge checks hit my bank account. Some people will pay top dollar for crap, but that’s not the case in my situation.
“Where’s your studio or workspace?”
“In the basement. It’s finished, so the boys have one side and the other side is my studio. It’s open and ventilated, perfect for my work.”
“Does the basement need work like parts of the upstairs?”
“Nope, it’s in decent shape. I don’t think it was used much by the previous tenants, so once I thoroughly cleaned it, it was good to go. I’m surprised the boys didn’t force you down there. It’s a palooza of Legos.” Shelves and shelves of built sets, a table where some are in progress, and bins of assorted shapes and sizes for when they want to build something without a set.
“They seemed more concerned with Minecraft. Didn’t even mention the Legos.”
“Atlas goes through phases with them, and Jace seems to follow along. He’s my tinker and creative one, whereas Atlas would play video games twenty-four/seven if I let him, though he loves reading, too.”
Our conversation continues on the way to the craft store, Dax telling me about growing up with three siblings and more about Winterberry, and me not talking about my horrible marriage. I keep the conversation to growing up with a twin and the boys. He doesn’t push the topic, which I appreciate. I’m sure he’s burning to know more about my history with my ex, but he’s respectful.
“So what’s this story about why you needed to come to the craft store?” I ask when there’s a lull in the conversation. It’s been burning a hole in me since he mentioned it yesterday on the phone.
“You know the holiday breakfast on the twenty-third?”
“Yep.”
“There’s a decorating committee”—he points to himself—“and since I was late to work yesterday, I might have told the other member of the committee I was placing an order for the decorations. At the craft store.”
I swear his cheeks tinge pink as he regales me with the story.
“Ah, so now you have to place an order for decorations?”
“Something like that. I’m kinda hoping inspiration strikes if I walk around long enough.”
“Is there a theme?”
“The North Pole.”
“Okay, so toys, elves, big candy cane poles, maybe an igloo, Santa’s house and workshop for sure, and?—”
“Wait.” Dax cuts me off. Probably for the best since I’ll keep rambling as more ideas pour into my head. “Jot down your ideas. Please,” he tacks on. “How do you come up with them on the spot like that?”
“No clue. It’s the way my mind’s always worked. You say ‘North Pole,’ my brain conjures up images.” I take out my phone, typing out my ideas, adding a few more I didn’t get to say aloud when he rudely interrupted me.
“You’re hired. Since the breakfast’s in less than two weeks, you won’t even have to come to many meetings.” He sits up straighter in his seat, his hands tapping the steering wheel. “Could you paint backdrops? Or like cardboard cutouts? Are those in your wheelhouse?”
