Page 44 of The Art of Being Merry
I take my time flipping through the book. There are approximatelya dozen unique designs, sketches in various stages of completion, all done for my benefit.
“When did you have time to do all of these?”
“When I can’t sleep, I sketch. It helps calm my mind. This is probably a few hours’ worth of work, but once I got going, the ideas didn’t stop. That’s why some are more detailed than others.” She flips to one with two Christmas trees with arms in a position that makes them seem like they’re dancing. “This one made me laugh, and I had trees on my mind, so I went a little overboard.”
“It’s cute.”
“Agreed. It wouldn’t make a good ugly sweater, but it’s adorable.” She flips to another page with a half-sketch of some sort of snow monster. “This one, not so much. I had the idea, but then it wasn’t turning out the way I wanted, so I gave up. It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Which one is your favorite?” I ask, needing the answer like I need my next breath.
“If I tell you, my opinion will influence you, and I need you to make an informed decision on your own. It’s your sweater.”
She’s not wrong, and I can choose one and then find out her favorite. I scan the images again, debating which one would be the best choice. Because she’s also not wrong that I couldn’t find something that would work. Way better than spending hours scouring the internet for something I might like. With her help, I’ll have something I love and a contender for the winner.
I stop on a page that’s pretty atrocious. With green garland on the sleeves, a fabric Christmas tree with ornaments, and other holiday adornments, it’s a guaranteed winner. “This one.”
By her grin, I know I’ve chosen her favorite. “Good choice. I hoped you’d choose that one. It’s my favorite.”
Damn, am I good.
“Okay, so tell me how you’d make it work.”
For twenty minutes, I let her regale me with how she’d bring the sketch to life. She’s passionate as she speaks, the subject lighting her up and bringing out her love for the craft. She adds a few more drawings to the page around the edges, options she could do if I wanted. I’m amazed at her talent.
At how her quick lines become a Christmas light.
At how she barely looks at the page as her hand doodles.
At how the image in her head is depicted on the page.
Beck has some artistic skills, and I’ve been forever jealous, but it’s nothing compared to what Clementine can do. Her drawings make his look like a child drew them.
“You’re so talented, but I don’t have to tell you that.”
Her brows draw together, the green in her eyes sparkling. “Why isn’t it something you should tell me?”
“Because you know how talented you are.”
“It’s always nice to hear.” Her voice drops as the words fall from her mouth, giving the sense that people in the past have neglected to confirm it, even if she knows.
So I repeat it. “You’re wicked talented.”
One brow raises to her hairline. “Wicked, huh? Where’d you pick up that one?”
“Dated a girl from Massachusetts. I swear she used it every other sentence. I save it for special occasions. Like now. To tell you how skilled you are. How I have complete faith in you bringing this vision to life. Tell me what supplies you need me to get and when you need them by.”
“It would be too hard to explain everything I need. Just give me your credit card.” She gasps and covers her mouth with both hands and mumbles something along the lines of, “Didn’t mean that.”
Wrapping my hands around her wrists, I lower hers. “What was that? Couldn’t quite understand your gibberish.”
She exhales, her shoulders slumping with the action. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to say that. Don’t give me your credit card. I’ll save the receipts, and you can pay me back.”
I wouldn’t ever let her spend her money on something she’s making for me. Heck, I should probably throw in a commission fee for her time and work.
While I don’t think she’s rolling in dough—based on some of her off-handed comments—she has to do okay for herself. How else would she have been able to uproot her life and move to Vermont? Unless she has support from Willa, her parents, or her ex. I suppose all three are possible.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet, taking out the card I don’t use much. “Here. Take my card. Charge whatever supplies you need.”
