Page 1 of The Love In Sunsets

one

Eloise stood at the bow and spread her arms out wide. The wind was on the ferocious side that day, pushing the loose strands of her hair all over the place and making her jacket flap, which sounded like birds flying close by. She could barely catch her breath and was afraid to smile out of fear she’d eat bugs as a midday snack. This was her Titanic moment, and something she had always dreamed about doing since she watched the movie as a little girl with her aunt, Margeaux. Growing up, they spent Friday nights with a bucket of fried chicken and a movie. Saturdays were for painting, along with every other day of the week.

The ferry jostled and Eloise caught herself laughing as she gripped the railing.

“Are you okay?” a woman behind her asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Eloise picked up her backpack and moved aside as the woman took her spot at the bow and posed for a photo. Eloise sighed and wished she had handed someone her cell phone for a photo. But then again, that would mean she would've had to charge it before she left London. She had one percent of battery left when she sent her last text to her aunt, telling her she was on her way. Her phone died before she even boarded the plane and the charger she needed wasn't in her bag.

Eloise considered going into the seating area but stayed where she was and took in the sights as the ferry sailed toward town. She hadn't been back to the picturesque town of Seaport in three years, not since her parents divorced and her mom moved to London and her father went to Iowa for work. They had given Eloise the choice to move with either parent. She chose London because it seemed like a better fit for her. At least there, she had a plethora of landscapes to paint.

Only she hated it. She missed Seaport, her friends—even though they hadn’t kept in contact—and her aunt. They were exceptionally close and shared a love of art, especially in the painted form.

Eloise was truly experiencing the full trains, planes, and automobiles modes of transportation, except she hadn’t yet had to use a car. While she could’ve ordered a rideshare, she opted for the ferry. Her journey started when she boarded a plane in London and flew into Logan International Airport. She hopped the train to Providence, and then grabbed the ferry to Seaport. Eloise figured the crisp fresh air would help with her jetlag. In a couple of hours, she knew she would be dead on her feet from exhaustion.

The thirty-mile trek on the ferry was more beautiful than she had remembered, and she wished she could set her easel up on the deck and capture the majestic beauty before her. The sun sat at the perfect angle, right above the treeline, but not too high in the sky that you couldn’t escape it. Boats of all kinds cruised past, with some sailors waving at the massive ferry. Eloise waved back because why not? She used to do the same thing as a kid and loved getting the attention in return.

When the ferry entered the bay, Eloise smiled, tipped her head back, and sighed. She was finally home and had no intentions of leaving, even though she told her aunt she would be there for the summer. Her parents wanted her to go to college. Eloise had no idea what she wanted to do, except paint. She hated structured learning, but also knew the doors a degree could open for her.

Shortly, the famous Seaport bridge came into view and the voice of the ferry captain came over the public address system, notifying passengers they were almost at their destination. While most people rushed to stand at the entrance, Eloise waited. She had a mountain of luggage and had no desire to maneuver it around people. One case carried most of her art supplies: her favorite brushes, the portfolio her grandfather had given her filled with renderings and paintings, and the palette she used. Another had her clothes, well those she could fit in it. The desk agent at the airport had frowned at her when she set her luggage on the scale. Both were over the limit. Not that Eloise cared. Everything she packed was important to her. The rest, the things she left behind in London, were inconsequential and had memories she didn’t care to remember. She slung her backpack over her shoulders, hefted a bag onto the handle of one of the suitcases, and readied herself for shoulder pain.

Finally, they approached the bustling harbor, with fishing and touring boats coming and going. As they port came closer, Eloise saw just how busy her former town was. People walked the streets or rode scooters. Horns honked and traffic backed up for what appeared to be for miles.

Another jostle, this time with a bit more impact, had Eloise reaching for the railing. While everyone rushed around her, she grabbed a hold of her luggage and slogged her way to the exit, grateful for the help provided by one of the crew members. He was kind enough to carry her luggage to the cobblestone road for her before running back to the ship. She sighed at the uneven pavement. The lack of taxis. And her dead phone.

“Crap.” With the amount of luggage she had, her options were now extremely limited—walk, or find a store nearby that would allow her to charge her phone so she could call her aunt. Eloise looked at her wrist, only to remember her watch had also died a few days ago and she didn’t have time to get it replaced before she left. That’s when she noticed the blue paint under her index finger. It was always some color, the aforementioned blue, or red, green, or orange. Sometimes it was a mixture of every color which turned into a muddied brown or black color. Last week it was purple and the week before that, yellow. If paint wasn’t underneath her nails, it was in her hair. On her elbows. Or in the lines of her skin. After a couple of all-nighters, she’d find paint behind her ears or a smear on her stomach, even though she wouldn’t remember how it got there.

“Eloise Harris, is that you?”

She turned at the sound of her name. Her eyes widened as she spotted her former classmate and onetime boyfriend, Fraser Horne. Eloise took him in and mentally compared what she remembered of him from years ago to the way he looked now. Fraser was still tall and lanky but had filled out a bit in some places. His facial features were more defined, but nothing else had changed. Fraser’s brown eyes were still soft and caring, and he still had a sweet smile. She would’ve known him anywhere had they run into each other.

Eloise hadn’t kept in contact with too many people from school when she left, mostly immersing herself in the art scene in London. Plus, the time difference made things difficult to keep in touch unless it was through social media, which she used mostly to show off her artwork.

“Fraser, hi.” They moved toward each other in the awkward should we hug or shake hands way, ultimately giving each other a half hug. “Wow, how are you?”

“I’m good. Good,” he said, repeating himself as his arms swayed back and forth. When things ended between them, it was because Eloise had no desire to maintain a long-distance relationship with him. When she would travel back to the US, it would be to visit her father in Iowa, and she didn’t want the pressure of being in a relationship. At seventeen, breaking up with your boyfriend was one the hardest things she thought she would ever do.

Eloise had been wrong.

Painting was.

It didn’t matter that she lived in Europe and could travel to some of the most beautiful countryside known to man or take the train to Paris or sit on the cliffs of Moher in Ireland. Finding inspiration during one of the most traumatic events in her life—her parents divorcing—and deciding to move away from Seaport, leaving her friends and classmates behind, as well as moving to a new country was hard. She missed the life she had in Seaport: her aunt, her friends, and the way her parents used to be prior to their divorce. Eloise thought she’d return to the states when she turned eighteen, but then had been accepted into two of the finest art schools in Europe, the Royal College of Art and Beaux-Arts de Paris. She accepted Paris because why not paint in the city of love and lights. Only, she hated everything about school. She didn’t like the structure or being told how her art should be or what it should represent. Eloise wanted to paint. It wasn’t like she wanted to be the next Monet or da Vinci. She wanted to be the first and only Eloise Harris.

“That’s great.” An awkward pause followed. They stood there on the street corner, with people walking around them and cars driving by, staring at each other. Fraser fidgeted. He ran his hand through his hair and his eyes darted around. Was he meeting someone? Maybe he had a girlfriend who he was going to meet on the ferry? Eloise cleared her thoughts. If he didn’t want to talk to her, he’d move along.

“Are you visiting or moving back?” he asked as he looked from her luggage to her.

“I’m here for at least the summer. I’ll be helping my aunt with her Endless Summer Showcase, and then we’ll see. I’ve missed Seaport, but—I don’t know; we’ll see what happens.” She shrugged.

“We’ve had so many people come into town for it. I swear the harbor out by the mansions is some kind of city scape walkway now. Artists set up and paint until the sun goes down.”

“That’s great for Seaport,” Eloise said.

“It is. Tourism is booming. My dad said Margaux’s gallery is part of the attraction for people to come here.”

The Endless Summer Showcase was one of the most popular events in the world of painters. They’d flock to Seaport from all over the country in hopes Margaux would choose their painting to put on display. To be given the chance to show off your talent to the art buyers of the world was worth it to a lot of artists waiting to be discovered. However, the showcase was mostly for Margaux. She was one of the most sought-after artists in the industry. When she was younger, she’d sell out gallery openings in minutes. The elite—Hollywood, CEO’s, conglomerates—they all wanted a Margaux Harris original. She also wasn’t da Vinci or Monet—she was Margaux and people loved her work. Except, she only sold her work one night a year— the Endless Summer Showcase–because of her work these days were commissioned pieces. Every other day, the gallery was filled with artwork from others. Artists could also rent space in the upstairs studio. Getting chosen was a game changer for a lot of painters.

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