What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (9 page)

Milford-Haven had been home for only nine months, but there were days when it felt as though she’d lived here forever. It was the first place she’d put down roots of her own, and, aside from her work, that had been more important to her than
anything.

Roots… maybe that’s why I’ve had this urge to plant flowers. Why is having my own home—even though I’m renting for now—such a priority? Everything’s always been handed to me. It’s time to create a space of my own, something that expresses who I am now. I knew I wanted to live in California, and rooming with Mer was great, but it was time to imagine my life on my own terms
.

This chapter of life—looking for roots, experimenting with her rooms, making new friends—was intriguing, perplexing, even terrifying, she had to admit.
It’s more than just designing my space. It’s almost like I’m creating myself, or discovering who I’m supposed to be
.

She looked over at the shelf she’d designated to hold the notebooks she used as an ongoing series of chronological logs.
I do journals about my travels. Maybe I should do one about this process. I could use one of my HandBooks. Yes! I could devote one just to this inward-and-outward journey—the journey to find my home
. Heart beating a little faster, she visualized the possibilities.
Sketches, watercolors, musings … I can ride my bike around Milford-Haven and track the visual cues, the emotional markers. I love this idea!

Now she glanced around at the high, angled ceiling, the hewn beams, the worn hardwood floors.
It might be kinda rustic and simple, but it’s a perfect starting point. I bet my folks would just hate this place. At the very least, Mother would have “suggestions” about how to “improve” it
.

She pushed the thought away, eager to stay in the embrace of the new life she was creating for herself. People here knew her only from what they saw of her and her canvases. With no
cumbersome history to get in the way, friendships could be formed purely on their own merit. The smallness of the town was a constant delight to her, as was the fact that the citizens seemed to have at least some sense of the preciousness of the pristine coastal environment.
One of my passions
.

She watched as a jay swept gracefully down from a high branch to land on the deck railing outside her window.
Nature in its glory… our precious planet… the only one we have
. She’d had the argument with her parents time and again, and never once won it. They had their points down pat: recycling was for
other
people; emissions regulations would ruin the economy; new technologies would succeed when could they prove themselves financially; reports of global warming were exaggerated.
Why do they believe these lies? Why can’t they see what I see?

Again she shoved aside the argument, reaching inside for the sense of purpose that’d brought her here.
I have something to give
. And what she couldn’t bestow in daughterly affection to her parents, she could freely and joyfully give to strangers through her paintings.

She went to any and every length to imbue her work with accuracy. If it meant traveling through treacherous country or venturing on the high seas, she did it without so much as a heartbeat of hesitation.

That’s another thing that drove her parents crazy, always forcing her sister to play the diplomat.
I hate having to explain myself. Meredith does it so much better
. Authentic detail in her work was critical. What was so hard to understand about that?

Yet the research was just part of the process. The source of it—the center, as she liked to call it—that was the mystery, and
the joy.
In that quiet place there’s a power. That’s what my home really provides
. And after her sometimes-dangerous travels, she’d wanted a centered place to call home, where she could always return, to let that truth flow through the end of her paintbrush.

She’d chosen to rent this house—actually the left side of a duplex—because of the large upstairs room. The moment she’d seen it, she’d known this would be her studio. The light was perfect—pristine northern exposure all morning, warm northwestern hues in the afternoon. The wall of picture windows offered a panorama of the coastline winking through a protected band of mature pines. And she’d have ample room for her supplies.
It’s the most perfect workspace I’ve ever had
.

Not only had she fallen in love with the studio, she loved the whole place. She’d spent several weeks in an exuberant, newfound domesticity, surprising herself by drawing floor plans for furniture, playing with color samples, and designing shelf units, which Kevin had later built for her. Rather than settling for temporary furnishings, she’d held out until things came into focus, sleeping with only her mattress on the floor till she’d found the right bed, painting each room a different shade—sometimes more than once—and playing with fabric swatches for sofa and chairs, comforter and pillows.

The special quilt from her sister had been one perfect addition to her new home, a moving-away gift she now thought of as her one house-warming present. Miranda would never have ordered it for herself—a quilt featuring cotton squares printed with images of her own landscapes. But now, cleverly stitched into a puffy comforter, with colors that perfectly complemented her decor, she treasured it not only for its
connection to Mer, but as an element of self-expression.

Over these past nine months, it’s like my whole life became an art project
, she mused.
One I haven’t finished
. In fact, there were still some unpacked boxes stacked in her garage, and a couple more tucked right here, under her studio work bench.
What’s in there? My numbered HandBook notebooks—I have to designate a couple of shelves for them. And maybe some old drawings? I’ll get around to unpacking them soon
.

Now she glanced around the studio and couldn’t help but smile. How many hours had she stood here at her easel, absorbing all the coastal beauty framed by the studio windows? Even the expanse of white canvas didn’t scare her so much when that afternoon light turned everything to gold.
It’s why I almost never answer the phone at this time of day
.

Today, however, even the golden light couldn’t keep her focused. Her mind skittered and the paintbrush twitched in her hand. Unable to do any real work, she moved to the built-in desk that ran the length of the windowed wall in her studio. Her gaze fell on a favorite image that made her smile.

Last August she’d spent time painting in the Guildenstern Garden, a local place well-known for collecting multiple species of flora. She’d done small landscapes in various sizes, including a five-by-eight portrait of a humming-bird in a dream-garden—a piece she considered magical.
The hummers have left, now. They’ve started their migration to Mexico
.

Next she picked up the stack of postcards. They featured her own miniature watercolor—the first landscape she’d done that was actually a portrait.
The vertical orientation… like the Japanese sumi-e pieces I just did. There’s that Asian influence again. But those were huge. This is small, the other end of the
scale
.

The print shop had done a good job, she decided. The color looked true, the proportion appealing. Main Street stretched away to the ocean, pines rose along the edges to touch a blue sky. It hadn’t seemed complete till she’d added cars in front of Sally’s popular restaurant. And she hadn’t been able to resist placing in the foreground the lovely gallery that carried her work.

Did I send Nicole a thank you note for agreeing to the special handling of “The Cove”?
She stood, walked a few steps, then squatted to open her top filing cabinet drawer. Her fingers danced across the tops of the file labels: Art Supplies; Car Repairs; Darius….
Why do I keep his letters? It’s not like I’d ever read them again. Maybe I’ll make a ceremony of burning them one day
. Events; Finder’s Gallery.
There it is
. Opening the file folder, she found a copy of the note she’d written.
Good… just wanted to make sure
.

She returned to her workspace and picked up the miniature watercolor.
Think I’ll frame this. It’d be great as a set—maybe one small painting for each season in Milford-Haven. That would echo the Japanese scroll pieces. Love that idea
.

Her new postcards were practical. She’d already sent them to her short list: a few old friends and some new ones, her always-supportive sister, her ever-skeptical parents, and of course Zelda, who’d help with a business contact list.

But there was something else about the postcards too. She liked the crisp edges and bright image, felt in it the vibrancy of the little place she now called home. Somehow the town had a heartbeat that matched her own, and the postcard took its pulse. If the Universe had fulfilled a promise to her, this little
card was her thank-you note.

The phone rang. She stared at it, then, despite her usual custom, decided to answer. “Hello?”

“Darling! It’s me!”

Knowing the voice after the first syllable, Miranda said, “Hi, Zelda.”

“Well, it’s simply the most brilliant thing you’ve ever done. The postcard is sensational. I want you to send me a thousand immediately. You have more marketing sense than you’ve ever let on, Miranda. This is going to turn the tide.”

“A thousand? But I only printed a hundred. I’m not sure I have the budget to—”

“We’ll solve that in just a moment. By the way, what are you doing answering the phone?”

“What? Oh … I don’t know. I don’t seem to be able to paint anything today. I’m very distracted. I just have this feeling something is about to happen.” Though Miranda had always had strong intuitions, she was just beginning to trust them.

“Well, Miranda darling, it is! Now, I have some good news and some bad news.”

Miranda braced herself. “Bad news first.”

Zelda launched into one of her long and detailed stories about being unable to get the client to go for the “big” piece.
Zelda’s never seemed clear on the actual titles of my paintings. But she must be talking about
Elephant Seals Take the Sun,
and I guess she wasn’t able to sell it
. “So… the client’s decision is final?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, dear. I was counting on that income.”

“Didn’t I tell you there was good news?”

“So you did.”

“Well, darling I feel so dreadful about this, after promising I had this sale all sewn up, that I’ve decided I’ll buy it from you.”

Miranda had an immediate and automatic aversion to loans of any kind. “Zelda, that’s ridiculous. You can’t afford to float me for $10,000.”

“True. This is outside the scope of our official representation contract. But, since I know you need the money right away, I thought we could handle this as a private sale. The thing is, I can only afford to pay you half price. So I’m sending you $5,000. And who said anything about floating? This isn’t a loan, it’s a sale.”

It wasn’t like Miranda to worry about money—though there was never a surplus. There was, however, what her sister liked to call her “ordered chaos.” Miranda’s own bill-paying method didn’t seem chaotic to her. The bills stayed in a neat stack until she sold a painting—then she paid them all.

This money from Zelda … it wouldn’t be a loan. But it would be a mercy-sale, even at half price. “I can’t accept your charity, Zelda.” she said into the phone.

“I insist! I’ve already written the check, and I’m just about to put it in the mail. It will only take a day or two to reach you from Santa Barbara. And anyway, it’s high time I had my most significant artist on conspicuous display in my own home.”

Zelda seems very certain of herself, though something still feels wrong about it
. But Miranda pushed her doubts aside. This was her manager, and it was an offer that would meet her immediate needs. She hesitated one more moment and then yielded. “Uh … thank you, Zelda. Listen, I’m going to go. I don’t want to run up your phone bill on top of everything you’re
doing for me.”

“That’s my girl. We’ll talk soon. Ta-ta!”

Miranda hung up the phone and tried to return to the afternoon light, still feeling the events of the day weren’t through with her.

Zelda McIntyre pushed back from her black, gilt-edged Louis XV desk and stood, pausing for a moment to inhale the fresh citrus-touched aroma of the Sweet Bergamot potpourri she kept in a crystal bowl. She’d found the aromatic treasure at Marks and Spencer during a trip to London. She liked it all the more upon realizing it shared some undertones with Zibeline—her preferred evening fragrance.

Walking the few steps to her French windows, she looked down at the courtyard, where afternoon light gave a peach tinge to the white stucco walls.
Just the right tonality for autumn
. Even without the tiny, fragrant jasmine blossoms that’d finished for the year, glossy green leaves spilled exuberantly over the edges of their over-sized pots. And the
tromp-l’oeil
mural covering the courtyard walls extended the vines upward to the roofline, making the space exquisitely inviting.
One of my better ideas… hiring Miranda to paint that three-part mural for me this past summer
.