Page 3 of Hargrave Artistry
Armed with only her phone and a mesh tote bag, she took her bicycle and rode through the quiet neighborhood streets. Turning on Central Avenue, she was the only person in sight. Lights glowed softly in the display windows. She knew that folks would be busy in the back rooms of Island Bloomers and the Bread Basket. Depending on how long she spent at the marina, she could pick up croissants from the bakery for a cheat day breakfast. And if she grabbed some fresh flowers, Roni wouldn’t fuss too much.
The marina, in contrast to Central, was bustling with activity as boat crews scurried around the docks, prepping for charter tours and fishing trips. The smells of fresh bait and fuel mingled in the air. Not her favorite aroma, but it was the scent of good business down here. She locked her bike in the rack and waited patiently. Many slips were already vacant. She could start poking around now, but she didn’t want to get in the way.
Instead, she wandered along the storefronts that sat back from the water, the covered walkway offering a break from both sun and rain. Like the shops on Central, they wouldn’t open for a few hours yet. She hadn’t brought her gloves for serious dumpster diving, but if she found something worthwhile, she wasn’t afraid to fish it out of the trash bins.
She had meandered all the way down to the sailing school at the end of the second stretch of shops. Walking by, she went on to the glorified carport where Miles, owner of the school, maintained and refurbished sailboats.
That was her first jackpot of the day. He had twine and some interesting cables in his discard box. Miles was one of several folks in town who knew she liked to repurpose random items and weave them into her artwork.
The aluminum cans she’d used for the pelican were a prime example. But today she was just looking for inspiration, keeping her design vision small. It was part of the way she teased out and developed larger pieces.
While considering how to connect one discarded element with another, she watched and listened to the boats heading out, motors puttering softly through the no-wake zone near the docks.
When the area quieted, she headed down to explore. It was always an adventure what her gaze would trip over. Bits of line, hooks, or netting, items that didn’t serve the fishermen any longer, but could be creatively repurposed.
She bent down, plucking a shoelace from a crack in the wooden planking. She noticed a row of seashells, but left it alone. The shells were lined up too perfectly to be simple discards. Someone had saved those with a purpose in mind.
She added a busted bucket handle to her bag, her mind toying with the possibilities.
“Hey? Pardon me. Are you okay?”
She looked up, and up some more, into hazel eyes full of concern. “Wow.” Immediately her fingers itched to sketch that rugged, masculine face. She’d never seen him before, but she felt an undeniable reaction. His eyes were framed by dark eyebrows and long eyelashes most women would covet. His nose was just shy of perfect and his mouth… inspiring.
“Oh. Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. I come out here and glean all the time.”
“But…” He seemed baffled as he stared at her bag. “Do you need money? Can I give you a lift?”
She decided to err on the side of appreciation for his compassion rather than take it as an insult to her appearance. She stuck out her hand to shake his. “No, thank you. I’m Natalie Hargrave. And yes, I’m out here scavenging junk, but it’s all in the name of art.”
She couldn’t take her eyes off him, from his sandy, windblown hair to his square jaw shadowed by a rough wash of stubble. If he ever let that beard grow in, she imagined it would be thick and soft.
And not any of her business.
“Hargrave? You’re the artist they’ve been talking about around town. I didn’t realize you lived here.”
“Being a resident is one reason why they asked me to do artsy things,” she replied.
“That’s cool.” He seemed genuinely impressed.
“I hope your opinion holds once the sculptures are installed,” she said, surprising herself. She usually avoided comments that implied she had any care for the varying opinions on her artwork. She’d found that asking for feedback on her artwork was not the way to stay in a healthy mindset.
“Did you miss your charter?” she asked, aware that he had yet to give his own name.
“No, not at all. I was just out for an early walk this morning.”
“A good day for it,” she agreed. “We could walk together,” she offered. “If you’re not embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“No way. Walking with a famous artist sounds way better than doing it alone.”
She laughed, appreciating the smile that brightened his eyes. “This must be your first visit to Brookwell.”
“It is,” he said. “My friends highly recommended it and I thought, since I had a couple of days off, I would go exploring. Any suggestions on what I should see first?”
“Well, we’re known for guiding excellent fishing trips. And the gorgeous beach of course. One of the best in the state and rarely overcrowded,” she added.
“Good to know.”
“As far as must-dos…Have you been to the Bread Basket?” she asked. “It’s a family-owned bakery on Central. They’re famous for their strudel, but everything they serve is wonderful.” She glanced around the immediate area, trying not too stare to long at his broad shoulders. “But, um, if carbs aren’t your thing, you can’t go wrong with paddle board or sailing lessons.” She pointed toward Miles’s shop.
