Page 1 of Hargrave Artistry
Chapter One
Natalie Hargrave was wellaware she was the baby of the family. No one had to remind her, she’d been protected and sheltered her entire life.
Truly, she was grateful.
Her parents had raised her to be responsible and self-sufficient, but she had also been given every opportunity to follow wherever her heart led. Sometimes—rarely—her heart led her astray. More often—like right now—the path offered a lovely adventure.
She stared at her latest finished sculpture, overflowing with gratitude for the end result.
Her art could lean toward the abstract, but the three pieces Brookwell Island had commissioned her to put together had become expressive depictions of the island itself. Or more accurately, what she felt made this island so very special.
As a mixed media artist, she didn’t always work on such large pieces. But she would do just about anything for this particular town with its charming streets, gorgeous beaches, and welcoming residents.
Brookwell Island—specifically the vacation house her father had purchased when she and her sisters were young—was herfavorite destination. She’d traveled extensively in her thirty-two years—with the family, with school and educational trips, and on her own.
Of all those varied destinations, Brookwell remained her favorite. Her favorite town, her favorite coastline, and her favorite people.
She smiled as two of those people approached her now.
“Is it done?” The little boy, Bryce, was holding his Aunt Sharon’s hand. Sharon Trumble was one of the most talented painters Natalie had ever met. Also one of the most down-to-earth women. She was the example Natalie wanted to grow into someday.
“You know, Bryce, I decided it is,” she replied.
“You just choose?” he asked his nose wrinkling. “Is that how it works, Aunt Sharon?”
“That seems to be how it’s worked for Miss Natalie.”
She decided not to inundate the little guy with all the details that factored into her marking a project complete. She was sure Sharon could sympathize and explain it better to him one day. Sometimes—this time in particular—the product was declared finished in order to meet a deadline.
The art gallery on Central Avenue that often featured Sharon’s paintings had given her a space to work on the commissioned sculptures in the service alley that ran the length of the block behind the row of storefronts. For weeks, she’d been drawing a small crowd on the days when she worked outside, fitting together a mish-mash of items into something greater. A still piece that evoked movement and emotion in the environment and the viewer.
It was her passion. Creating something substantial from a spark as fleeting as a thought was her first love.
Considering the way her romantic life had spun out, it might well be her last love.
She could live with that. Lately she’d been envisioning a life of complete independence, traveling where she wished, hooking up with whomever she met, and moving on when the mood struck.
It wasn’t an impossible dream. She was building a reputation for her artwork and teaching that was starting to pay off. Plus, she had the stability of the B&B business partnership with her sisters. After their mother died, the three of them inherited the family’s summer house. Rather than just keep it to themselves, they turned it into the Hargrave Hideaway.
The decision had been one of their best moves ever. They’d gained a five-star reputation for hospitality in an exclusive location. And eventually turned it into a full house rental, giving them even more freedom to go with the increased income.
Well, freedom when it wasn’t her week to tend to the guests.
She checked her phone, knowing soon it would be time to put on her shuttle-driver hat and get the current guests to the airport.
“What do you think?” she asked Bryce.
To her surprise he didn’t just blurt out any old answer. He walked all the way around the sculpture.
“You’ve taught him well,” she murmured to Sharon. The older woman beamed with pride.
“I think it looks like a pelican made out of fish,” Bryce said after a couple of circuits. “But what are the fish made of?”
“Aluminum cans,” she said. “I cut them open and twisted them inside out.”
“Cool!” He bounced up and down. “How come some are dark?”
“Those are the ones I burned.”
