stops me on the sidewalk. She has red hair streaked in cobalt and tied up in a knot. Her light blue shirt and gray pants look like they might itch.
“Summer Girl?” she asks.
“Katherine D’Arcy.”
“Righteous.” She glances down at Lucy, then up at my face. “Lu throw up again?”
“You know Lucy?” I ask with surprise.
She gives me a look that tells me my question is ridiculous. “Everybody knows Lucy, and this isn’t her first rodeo. There are probably paper towels and a bottle of bleach in the backseat of Calloway’s car already.” She bends over and peers in through the back window, cupping her hands around her eyes. “Yep. You got a couple bucks?”
I hadn’t taken her for a panhandler. In my surprise I say, “Sure.”
But before I can reach into my purse to give it to her, she snags a passing boy by the shoulder and stops him in his tracks. He looks about eight years old.
“Simon, this nice lady’s going to pay you two dollars to clean up after Lucy.”
“Thweet!” he says through the gap in his teeth. I hand him the cash.
“See you at the post office,” the girl says to me, then she saunters on her way. I stare after her in surprise. Postal deliveries must be huge news around here.
Before I make my way in the direction of the American flag that’s flying a couple blocks ahead, I glance up at the shop window next to the grocery store where I’ve parked. The sign hanging above the door reads: art musique. On the other side of the smudgy window, there are paintbrushes and stacks of paper.
Painting. I’ve always thought I could paint. Isn’t this exactly what Macie wanted me to do? I can practically hear her voice in my head with her find-yourself mantra. I could buy some art supplies and try my hand at some landscapes.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Lucy and step inside to take a quick peek around. Once I’m through the door, I understand the name of the store. While there are brushes and paper to the right, the left wall is covered with acoustic guitars. In the center of the floor is a drum kit, several cardboard boxes piled high, and a table covered in picks, sticks, sheet music, sketchpads, watercolors, acrylics, and oils.
It’s probably the most beautiful store I’ve ever seen, but I’m completely out of my element and afraid to touch anything.
There is a girl, again not much older than me, sitting behind the counter. Her hair is in dreadlocks the color of sand, and pulled back into a thick ponytail. She’s wearing a purple tube top and a pair of green linen overalls that are way too big for her. Her long, toned arms are speckled with dried bits of clay.
She eyes my skirt and cardigan warily. The back of my neck prickles, so I grab a large pad of paper and bend low over the selection of paint tubes, pretending to know exactly what I’m doing, even though it must be quite clear that I don’t.
“Summer Girl?” the girl behind the counter asks in a low, sultry rasp.
I sigh.
“If you want to work with oils, that’s the wrong kind of paper.”
Something behind the stack of boxes taps against the floor, but when I look up, there’s no one there.
“I’m thinking about trying to paint something,” I say. “Are oils easy to use?”
“They’re pretty expensive. You could try acrylic, but if you’re just dabbling, stick to watercolor. And you’ve already picked up the right kind of paper for that.”
The girl goes back to whatever she was doing, which apparently requires her to bend low over the counter and squint. I do the same over the paint table, studying the tiny print on the sticky labels adhered to the brushes.
“I didn’t have you pegged as an artist,” says a deep voice. I jump, emitting an embarrassingly high squeak.
It’s Bennet, and my heart does a weird syncopated stutter at the sight of him. “That’s because this is my first experiment.”
“Well then, I didn’t have you pegged for someone who experimented.”
There is no flirtation in his voice. No sarcasm. Not the tiniest bit of irony. He said it all so straightforward, as if he had actually been trying to peg me as something and had come up with a conclusion that is suddenly now in doubt. I’m not sure I want to know, but I ask anyway. “So…what did you peg me as?”