Page 1 of Take This Heart
CHAPTER ONE
BEAUTIFUL DEVIL
GOLDIE
Minnesota is in my bones.
Apparently, thecold hands, warm heartmyth was debunked by scientists, who said that how toasty your body is has a direct correlation to how nice you are to others.
I beg to differ.
On some winter days in Minnesota, it doesn’t matter how nice you are—you, your hands, and the rest of your body parts are going to be cold.
But the cold is familiar, like a cantankerous grandma who pinches your cheeks too hard but knits you colorful half-finger gloves because she knows you love them…Grandma Donna. The kind who always smells like Vicks VapoRub and who, no matter how much you eat, thinks you don’t like her food because you didn’t have three helpings…Grandma Nancy.
I’ve missed that. The mercurial seasons. The lakes—thereare more than 10,000, no matter what the license plates say. The fact that (some) people say “doncha know” without irony…both Grandma Donna and Grandma Nancy.
It’s not always cold; in fact, in the sweet days of summer and fall, you can almost forget that winter is around the corner. But the consistent 70-degree sunshine in California was delightful, as were the palm trees and delicious food and people whose whole personality was yoga pants. Traffic, I didn’t enjoy so much, and after I had a horrible car accident on the 405, something inside me shifted. Eternal sunshine didn’t seem so important anymore. I wanted roots. Comfort. The kind of sky that makes you wonder what craziness is rolling in next.
So I came home.
I’m an interior designer by day—farmhouse kitchens, cozy cabins, the occasional baby nursery—and I paint by night. Oils, mostly. I’ve worked nonstop for the past four months getting ready for my art installation at MIA—the Minneapolis Institute of Art—a place I never imagined showing my artwork. I’ve thrown everything into it. Late nights. Early mornings. Meals scarfed in front of half-finished canvases. I love creating, that feeling of bringing an idea to life. I get some of that creativity out through interior design, but that’s breathing life into someone else’s ideas. It’s the most rewarding feeling when I paint a piece that’s all me and watch it transform with each layer of paint.
For a long time, any form of creating energized me, but the exhaustion is catching up.
The last thing I feel like doing right now is attending a gala at the Walker Art Center. I love the place, but a room full of intimidating people on a night when I just want to be painting at home? No, thank you. But I’ve heard I need to putmyself out there and get acquainted with the art community if I want to be part of it.
I miss Addy like crazy. We met in California. She was my roommate in college and remains my best friend, the one person who always knows what I need. FaceTime calls are never enough. She lives in Silver Hills, Colorado, with the love of her life, Penn Hudson—who happens to be a pro football player and istherunning back of all time—their kids, Sam and Winnie, and a baby on the way. Oh, and she also houses a family of Sphynx cats whom I get daily pictures of…insert full-body shudders here. They’re super sweet. And so ugly they’re almost cute. Almost.
I’ve made a few friends at work, but I don’t see any of them here yet. So I’m clutching a glass of champagne like a security blanket and sipping more than I should on an empty stomach.
I smile at people I don’t know and compliment a woman’s earrings, wondering how long I have to stay.
“There you are.” Luna puts her arm around me. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to a few people.”
I sag into her. “I’m so glad to see you. I needed to see a friendly face.”
Luna has taken me under her wing. She’s the one who got me into MIA, and she thinks I will need to quit my job and paint full-time after my show. That’s the dream. We’ll see.
She flits around confidently and introduces me to so many people, I don’t retain the names, and then she’s called away to talk to someone else. I’m near an exhibit that’s caught my eye, so I tell her I’ll catch up with her.
The exhibit is intriguing—it’s an architectural model of a park with sculptures integrated with nature. I study it for a while, but when I realize that it’s actually a proposal to rehaul the sculpture garden I love across the street, I frown.
“You don’t like it?”
The voice is low and husky, and when I look up, I struggle not to gasp. The beauty of the man in front of me is…wow. Holy buckets. I swallow and try not to appear as shaken as I feel. His black hair falls over his forehead, firelight eyes cool and assessing beneath thick curly lashes. Perfect lips. He’s alsotall. I’d put him at 6’5” like my youngest brother Dylan.
He blinks and tilts his head, like he’s waiting for my response.
“Oh. Well, it’s an interesting concept, but is it really meant to replace Spoonbridge and Cherry? That sculpture is iconic! It’s been part of the landscape of Minneapolis since before I was born. Why would anyone want to bulldoze it or anything else in the sculpture garden?”
He’s smirking until I saybulldoze, and then his eyes narrow.
“I’m sure it wouldn’t be bulldozed, more like moved to another location,” he says.
I turn to face him and shake my head. “Part of the beauty of it is the skyline in the background. It would be a travesty to move it.” I nod toward the model and make a sweeping gesture with my hand. “Thisis a travesty.”
He snorts derisively, and now, I’m really annoyed. I cross my arms over my chest and stare back at him. He’ssnortingat me now?
