Be prepared to change your perspective. Always stay open-minded to a new one, until you’ve painted that very last stroke. Give the painting a chance to become what it wants to become.
“Fine, Mr. Windham. I look forward to it. See you on the 11th, then.” Frank hung up and added Mr. Windham’s name to his notepad. “That’s one more,” he said as Noelle returned to her paperwork. She’d set up a work area at Frank’s table in the back room of the gallery.
“How many is that, in total?”
He poured a cup of tea, which he handed over to Noelle. “Ten.” He poured himself a cup, too, then sat and crossed his leg over one knee. “Unless Mrs. Peterson decides to ring back. She’s checking on something first.”
Frank had been returning calls all morning from new artists who wanted to display their work at the gallery. The recent attention surrounding Joy’s paintings provided a perfect opportunity to stock the gallery with a variety of local artists.
Holly, Frank’s assistant, rounded the corner. “Do you need anything from the Emporium? We’re running out of some supplies, so I thought I’d make a quick run.”
“No, I can’t think of anything.”
Holly disappeared back around the corner, and Noelle stood to stretch her legs. She’d been sitting for hours, sorting through paperwork and helping Frank make calls.
“You’ve worked hard today,” Frank said. “Why don’t you get out of here? I can handle the rest of those.” He took the papers before she had a chance to protest.
“Thank you, Frank.” Noelle reached for her coat. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask—any more thoughts on the symbol Joy embedded in the paintings? I talked to Mr. Lester yesterday, and he said they’re deep in the examination process at Sotheby’s. And if there’s any way we can solidify what the symbol means before the February auction, it would be helpful.”
Frank shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Though I admit, it’s kept me up nights. I’ve researched, brainstormed, and revisited the rare, brief conversations I had with your aunt. I even contacted a couple of her former art colleagues. Nothing came up. I could take a thousand guesses, but none of them would be right.”
“Well, thanks. I’ve come up empty, too.” She snapped the buttons on her coat. “Still, having a ‘mystery symbol’ will probably make her paintings even more intriguing to buyers come Valentine’s Day.”
“Indeed.”
They said their good-byes, and Noelle opened the front door to find the perfection of a cold, clear, early-December afternoon. Cloudless turquoise sky, hint of a crisp breeze.
She waved hello to old Mr. Bentley handing out his bakery samples across the street. Excited children played games on the sidewalk while their mothers chatted or window-shopped. A gathering of seniors had clustered underneath the stone gazebo in the center of town, snapping pictures.
Watching them all, Noelle knew they no longer considered her a tourist. She was a villager now.
That evening, Noelle skimmed her phone for texts. Nothing. She hadn’t heard from Adam for a few days in a row. Unusual, but he was probably swamped with work. He virtually had two jobs these days: his firm and the school renovations. Still, the disappointment grew, not hearing from him. A distraction was in order. She climbed into bed and pulled out another entry from Joy’s journal. She’d only read three entries so far; she loved the idea of going slowly instead of rushing through. Typically, after reading even just a page, the words circled in her head for days afterward.
As always, Noelle expected the paper clip to contain Polaroids of paintings. But this entry only held a single photograph. An aging, yellowed, black-and-white photograph with a half-inch tear at the side. She released it from its silver clasp and stared at the four people staring back at her. She recognized two of them instantly—Aunt Joy and Gram, young, dressed in their 1950s wear: patterned dresses that fell below the knee; pillbox hats atop precise, curled-under hair; and white gloves, properly clasped in front. They smiled slightly and squinted into the sun.
The other two were Uncle John and Grandfather, neither of whom Noelle had ever known. Uncle John died in a tragic car accident about a decade later, a devastating blow to Aunt Joy. She never remarried. And Grandfather lived about twenty years after that, dying of a heart attack the very year Noelle was born.
Aunt Joy had shown her this photo during one of those teenage summers. Noelle had walked into the library one afternoon to see Joy crouched onto the rich Oriental carpet, sorting pictures from a box—lifting them out one by one, remembering, moving to the next one. Noelle tried to back out of the room, leaving Joy undisturbed, but her heel caught the edge of the carpet and she tripped, drawing Joy’s attention.
“Sorry,” Noelle had said.
Instead of being irritated, Joy had waved her in, patted the carpet, and invited her to stay. They spent the afternoon browsing the pictures together, including this one. In fact, Joy had lingered on it the longest. “Very handsome,” Noelle had offered.
Joy wrapped an arm around Noelle’s shoulder, still looking at the picture, and said, “Enjoy your youth, Noelle. They’re simpler days.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “This was taken before the accident changed everything. Before it altered my future. We were so happy here. Not knowing what was ahead. Part of me wants to step back inside this picture, just remain there. When life wasn’t nearly so… complicated.” Noelle had wondered then what that meant and still did. If it had anything to do with the letter Gram had waved in Aunt Joy’s face at the gallery.
Noelle turned her attention to the next journal entry, entitled “Memories.”
It’s impossible to capture a memory on canvas. Too many factors and perspectives involved. Too much room for error, room to get the memory wrong. So I shan’t even try. I found this picture inside an old box of things while cleaning out a closet. And I stared for over an hour, letting it take me back there. A place I rarely go. Because it’s too difficult to nudge myself back to the present afterward.
Those Glory Days were fine days. Laughter and art and music and smoking and drinking. And love. Always love.
Looking at us this morning, the four of us, made me wonder—how accurate is a photograph? How much can you truly depend on it? The crispness of the edges fades over time, just as the memories do. You adapt them to fit your version of the past, what you wish had taken place instead of what actually did.
A friend snapped the photo, just before we took off to the horse races. A very good day. A breezy, sunny, glorious day. The four of us laughed and even sang songs on the way to the track. I wish we had been frozen in time the way this photo has frozen us. Because the complications and heartaches that would follow… well, none of us had any idea. How could we know? There we stood, smiling—so innocent, so dashing.
I came close to tearing up the photo tonight but decided against it. No, let these young people stay innocent. Let them enjoy each other and not have any idea what’s ahead. That’s the least I can do for them.
Noelle found a table in the back corner and took the seat facing the door so she could see Adam when he arrived. She had suggested the bakery for today’s lunch, since she thought he might be tired of the pub. Minutes ago, she ordered the items he’d texted her from the meeting—ham sandwich, potato soup, coffee, plus the same for her. She hoped he would turn up before everything got cold.
When she looked up from her coffee, Adam approached the table. “Hey,” he said, shrugging out of his coat before sitting down. “That old man out there”—he pointed backward toward the door. “What a hoot. He must be a hundred years old.”
“Ninety, I think. Mr. Bentley. He’s amazing.”
“You won’t see anything like that in London!”
“Are you being a London snob?”
“Quite the opposite. I love how quaint this place is. It’s refreshing.”
She spread her napkin out on her lap. “How much time do you have?”
“Not very long. Need to head back to London soon. Thanks for ordering. What do I owe you?”
She waved him away. “It’s on me, no worries.”
“I’ll get yours next time, then.” He blew on his first spoonful of soup. He looked more tired than usual. Dark circles rested under his brown eyes.
“How’s the project going? Are things coming along as planned?”
“So far. In fact, the first draft was finished last night. Still have lots of changes ahead before we can finalize them. But at least we’ve got the core idea down on paper. I’ve got the plans in the car, if you want to take a look.”
“I’d love to.”
He told her about the progress, all the people volunteering their time to work on it with him spearheading everything. And as he talked, it occurred to her this Adam seemed oddly disconnected from his teenage self. Each time they’d met lately, she leaned less on the memories of their teenage years and more on the man he’d become, special on his own. If she’d met him today for the first time, she wouldn’t need to rely on old teenage memories to feel something for him. To fall for him now.
Damn. There she went again.
“Well,” he muttered between bites. “I’ve completely hogged the conversation. Sorry. Tell me more about how things are. Are you settling into the village well? Is it starting to feel like home yet?”
She told him about working with Frank more often and getting to know Holly. Then about Mac, how protective he was of the cottage, which made her feel safe. And how she had learned nearly every person’s name in the village, along with how they were connected to each other—friends, sisters, husbands, wives. “I think they’ve finally quit seeing me as that strange American who’s invaded their village, taken over Joy’s cottage. I wouldn’t call myself one of their own yet, but maybe someday.”
They finished the meal and made the short trek to Adam’s car, still parked at the church at the end of the street. “This is pure hindsight,” Adam said, “But I suppose before I accepted this project, I should’ve asked how you felt about it. Me, being here in ‘your’ village.”
“You mean, like, getting my blessing?” It sounded so old-fashioned when she said it that way.
“In a sense, yeah.”
“It’s incredible, what you’re doing. Why wouldn’t I approve? You’ve got it. My blessing, my help, my anything you need. I’ll even make calls for you, get my hard hat on—”
“You have a hard hat?” He raised an eyebrow.
“You know what I mean.”
He squinted sideways at her. “A hard hat might suit you, though. Of course, you’d need a blue one to match your eyes. I wonder if they make them in blue. I should check into that.”
He pressed his key to unlock the door with a chirp then offered a ride to her cottage, which she accepted. The cold air was starting to seep into her bones.
At the cottage, he kept the engine running but got out to find the plans in the backseat. She walked around to his side of the car. When he unfolded the papers, they revealed squares and rectangles with numbers of dimensions and abbreviations. Obviously, she didn’t view or interpret them from Adam’s detailed perspective, but she could see how much work he’d put into them. On his own time, with his own money.
“These are great,” she said, wishing she had a better word than “great.”
“Thanks. I’m happy with them.” He folded the plans again. “So, I don’t have any more meetings planned before the holidays. Sort of a lull while I play catch-up at the firm. Guess I won’t see you until after Christmas?”
“Yeah, guess not.” She didn’t want to ask where or how he would be spending his holiday. Surely with his future wife and his future in-laws. The thought made her too-full stomach turn.
“Guess I should go.” Before she knew it, Adam had caught her up in an embrace. Her cheek lay against his warm chest. The hug only lasted a couple of seconds, but it was long enough. It was everything.
He whispered “Happy Christmas” before letting her go then kissed the top of her head and backed away to open his door.
Stay, please stay, she begged him in her mind. Instead, the words came out, “Drive careful. Be safe.”
She watched him pull away, knowing that was the same warning she should be giving herself when it came to Adam.