Indigo (For The Love of Purple #1) - Audrey Faye Page 0,10

“Who’s Gracie?”

Drew’s shoulders relax a fraction. “She owns the local hardware store. She does most of the minor repairs around town, but she can’t keep up. If Blue knows how to use those tools she’s wearing, Gracie will be very glad to make her acquaintance.”

That’s one problem solved. I take another sip of my chai. It’s really good, and I’m clearly going to need a refill. Some days just shouldn’t be navigated without caffeine. “Who’s Mabel?”

Drew’s shoulders head right back up around his ears.

Poor man. The three of us really do need to come with a warning label. I try multiple choice. “Ghost, psychic, water spirit?” Those are the most likely possibilities in a town this size, although Violet’s range has been expanding lately.

He blinks very slowly. “Uh, she’s a ghost. The one who thought I should bring you that drawing, to be specific.”

I look down at the sketch that ended up in my hands. The one that somehow communicates the essence of who we are with a few quick lines of the backs of our heads. “She sounds like a smart cookie.”

He leans very gingerly against the building, like it might fall over any moment, and takes a cautious sip of his tea. “This is a very strange day.”

He has no idea. “You should have taken a pastry and run for it.”

His lips quirk. “Apparently.”

My turn to get uncomfortable. I don’t have time to lean on buildings, even though I suddenly have an odd urge to talk to intriguing strangers. “I need to head inside before Violet gets lost in the stock room or Blue decides she’s living on the roof.”

He grins. “It wouldn’t be a terrible idea. The roof has a great view, and the water has some spectacular moods in the winter.”

I glance up at the second-story windows across the street. “You live over there?”

Shuttered eyes. “For now.”

I study him as I take another sip of my chai. A man with talented hands and mysterious layers who sees my friends as they are and has conversations with a ghost.

I definitely need a good look at his chart.

Right after I sort out whatever just happened to mine.

Chapter Seven

DREW

I shove my hands in my pockets and question my sanity one last time. I can’t even blame this particular impulse on Mabel, which she was more than happy to point out while I put on my coat and the knitted scarf that she says makes my eyes look like one of my paintings.

Hopefully one of the decent ones.

I scan the Shenanigans storefront as I cross the street. Rumors have been abundant for the last week, possibly because it’s the middle of April and rainy and there’s very little else to do besides idly speculate about three interesting newcomers. If those rumors are to be believed, the shop is coming together, the newcomers are showing admirable interest in local artists, baked goods, and Perception Bay lore, and Blue knows what she’s doing with every single one of her tools.

There’s less information making the rounds on Indigo and Violet—via official channels, anyhow. I’m not sure what’s happening on the less official ones. Visiting artists only get trusted so far, especially when they often emerge out into broad daylight looking like they’ve seen ghosts.

Or what most people think that ought to look like, anyhow.

In fairness, when I’m in that state, it isn’t usually Mabel’s fault. She does her best to remind me to eat and sleep and open the windows to let the paint fumes escape. When I get deep enough in my work, I just stop hearing her. All of my senses start living in my hands.

My fingers stir restlessly in my pockets.

I roll my eyes. I only have two canvases left and they’re the annoyingly small ones Roger insists I paint because otherwise only disgustingly rich people can afford my work. It isn’t true—we keep anyone who sells my paintings to the agreement that half are sold for reasonable prices to people who stop and stare at them with a certain look in their eyes—but there are many kinds of lives that don’t easily accommodate a painting taller and wider than the man who creates them.

I peer at the Shenanigans front window as I pass by, but it’s still covered from the inside with gift wrap and crime-scene tape. Which is an interesting metaphor. I pause at the door and knock before I open it. The townspeople are still figuring out whether it’s permissible to walk in at all hours like