Larkspur Dreams - By Anita Higman Page 0,13
a squirrel. Well, maybe a little squirrelly.
Lark could smell wood smoke again. The scent made her think of cozy family gatherings around the fireplace, but since the cold wind was starting to seep through her sweatshirt and jeans, she scuttled back up the driveway and into the warmth of her kitchen. She immediately noticed her bowl of pomegranates on the counter. “Hmm.” She grabbed a sketchbook out of her drawer.
Skelly had given her a bouquet of bougainvillea from his little hothouse, so she slid the vase of flowers behind the bowl and sat down on the kitchen stool. The petals had faded to an antique-looking peach and gave the fruit a nice backdrop. She added a tall bottle of olive oil to the scene. Not quite right. Less was more sometimes, but the balance looked off. A scene with an odd number of items always made a more pleasing picture though. To her, asymmetry was one of those mysteries of art. Lark glanced over at the sack of medjool dates she’d bought at the grocery store. Okay, that might be interesting. She added a handful to the scene. Yes. Just right.
Lark chewed on a date as she made some sweeping outlines of the objects with a charcoal pencil. Mmm. Medjool dates. They looked a little like roaches, but they were always so sweet and creamy.
She noticed some bad spots on a couple of the pomegranates. Oh, well. She’d draw them as is, blemishes and all. It reflected life, didn’t it? All things lovely still missed a vital connection to glory. In fact, wasn’t art of every kind reaching for something more—hoping, dreaming of knowing that Someone who was greater than oneself? Too bad some people refused to consider the grace that could reconnect them to their Creator.
Lark continued her drawing, adding shading here and there. She held it up. Not bad. But soon her thoughts drifted back to Everett. Maybe he was reaching for something, as well, but didn’t know it. Perhaps in his case, he simply needed to be plugged back into life.
Lark fingered her earlobe, because somehow it made her think more clearly, and then out of the blue she got an idea. Just a little idea, but she thought it might have real potential. Just below her in a cabinet, she’d stored away a brand-new box of mothballs. She put away her sketchbook and reached for the box. She took some ribbon from a kitchen drawer and adorned the box with a silky bow and streamers. Okay, pretty in an odd sort of way.
Not bothering with a coat, Lark slipped out the front door and tiptoed over to Everett’s house. No sign of the Gourmet to Your Door van, so all looked clear. She then crept up onto Everett’s porch. The goofy sign still dangled from his door handle. DO NOT DISTURB. She set the box on his doorstep and rang the bell.
Perhaps the gift would come off a little startling, but she would certainly want someone to do the same for her if she’d become a workaholic recluse. Everett needed to take his life out of storage so as not to have the same tragic ending as her dear, old professor. Symbols were powerful tools, and the mothballs could be just the humorous and persuading gift to bring him to his senses. Lark hurried back to her porch, rubbed her arms to keep warm, and slid through her front door without looking back. Everett will surely thank me someday.
She completed her task and then plopped down on her bean bag chair for the next hour to get caught up on reading her new art magazines. Just as Lark finished absorbing one of her publications, the doorbell rang. She trotted downstairs and swung the door open, hoping it wasn’t Everett ready to pelt her with mothballs. But no one stood on her porch. Weird. Just before she shut the door, she found an out-of-the-ordinary kind of object sitting on her welcome mat. A gavel? Why is there a gavel on my welcome mat? It’s from Everett. She turned it around in her hand. Lark smiled even though she had no clue as to what it meant.
Once back in her loft, she continued to ponder its significance. She looked out her office window and stood in amazement. The blind on Everett’s window had been removed. Yes, he must have figured out the mothball gift. He’d understood its meaning, and it had changed his life. Like an epiphany. A