Page 8 of Hargrave Artistry
It had been a hard life lesson to find her approach was the exception rather than the norm.
She walked down to the beach, toed out of her canvas sneakers, and sloshed through the ebbing tide, letting her thoughts wander. The foamy edge of the waves sucked the sand from under her feet over and over. She’d always loved the feeling, digging her toes in and trying to hold on, not caring that it was a futile effort.
Her mother always said she was the wonderer, the daughter who had never outgrown simple curiosities. Natalie lived and breathed that observation like the highest compliment. Curiosity made her a stronger person and artist.
“I miss you, Mom,” she whispered to the wind, letting it sweep away her words. Part of her hoped that somehow her mother would hear her.
These last few weeks had been a study in perpetual upheaval. From the nearly devastating arson to implementing the new business model to finishing the three sculptures for the town. She didn’t consider it a blur as much as a fascinating rapid-fire shift. She liked the new direction and figured it would hold them for a good long time.
Which meant she had even more time to explore what she wanted to do.
Backing away from the water’s edge, she found a sturdy stick and a palm frond. Using both, she started drawing in the sand. Simple shapes at first, curves and angles. The soft arc of an eyebrow, the hard edge of a specific, fascinating jaw.
When she realized she had finished a profile of Trent, she sat back on her heels and laughed. Following temptation, she used her phone to take a picture of her temporary masterpiece.
Should she send it? How silly and out of character. She’d delete it before she made that mistake. What was it about the man that pressed her to share her creative bursts?
She’d enjoyed coffee with a pleasant stranger. Anytime she wanted to bring him back she only needed to close her eyes and think of his face. Maybe even sketch it again in the sand—when she was alone.
She began blurring the edges of her sketch with her own footprints. It would be hours yet before the tide rolled back in. Although this was a private beach, she wouldn’t risk anyone else getting a glimpse of her whimsy. Tucking her hands into her pockets, her fingers caught the edge of the business card. Pulling it out, she read the three lines: Trent Blakely, Consultant. And his phone number.
No address or email. No company name. She flipped the card back and forth. The paper was good quality, the printing engraved.
“What exactly do you consult on, Trent Blakely?” she murmured.
Calling would be the easiest way to find out. Or maybe she should send him a cheesy little text. She considered sending a text with the photo of the sketch she had done.
Again, a little voice in her head urged her to do it. Why did the idea hold such an appeal today, when normally she’d cringe? She reached for the stick to refine the area she had walkedthrough, determined to follow her hunches. Maybe she should take a selfie with this sand portrait and up the cheesy-factor.
“Well, my goodness,” a familiar voice called out from behind her. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Natalie.”
She shivered, hating herself for it.
Jackson Griggs should not have this much sway over her. She was no longer the starry-eyed co-ed he’d fooled so easily. “You’re not welcome here, Jackson.” She didn’t even pretend to be polite. “Leave now.”
“I swung by earlier,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “Since I’m in town on business, I thought I’d see if you wanted to grab dinner.”
She ignored the obnoxious invite. Jackson lied—always. “What business could you possibly have here?” Who was he conning now? As soon as he gave her a hint she would go warn them. Probably more efficient to post a wide broadcast to the community business association. Or take out an ad in the Brookwell Bugle. When it came to Jackson, subtlety was useless.
“Come on, Natalie.” He spread his arms wide. “The past is over. Let’s start fresh. As friends.”
“No.”
For a moment, she felt trapped with the ocean behind her and Jackson blocking the only exit. Swimming away from him seemed dramatic, but she was considering it. Then she took a closer look. He was dressed for the golf course in lightweight slacks and a polo shirt, but he had on loafers. No doubt expensive loafers. He wouldn’t risk coming closer for fear of scuffing his shoes in the sand. She didn’t need to worry unless he took off the footwear. She folded her arms, keeping a good hold on the stick, just in case. “Go away, Jackson.”
“Let’s talk.” He waved her closer. “Come on up.”
Exactly as she suspected. He wasn’t about to damage his precious shoes. “Go on to your golf date,” she called out. “Andmay your mark see right through your scam,” she added under her breath.
“Nat, please. Looks like we’re both in real estate now and?—”
That did it. They werenothingalike and never would be. Before she realized what she was doing, she stalked up the beach, her hand tightening on the stick. She would make him leave. Deep down in some dark part of her soul, she hoped he gave her a reason to whack him at least once in the process.
“Weare nothing,” she snapped when she was closer. They never had been. It had always been Jackson and his schemes. “Last chance to leave before I call the cops.”
“You’re overreacting. As usual.” His gaze slithered over her, head to toe and back again. “How are you getting so many great reviews on this place with such a short fuse?”
She took a step back, just to be sure he couldn’t reach her easily, and sent a text to the security team. Pocketing the phone, confident back up would arrive shortly, she stared him down. “I’m not going to dinner.” She would not allow him to spin such an event in his favor. “Good luck with your business in Brookwell.”
