Free What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One by Mara Purl

McIntyre.” she read, “Owner of her own company: Artists Representation. I guess that means she manages painters.” Her mind began to click into gear.
I wonder if she’s listed in the Yellow Pages?
Grabbing her copy, she rifled through the “A’s” looking for “Art: Fine”. And there, strategically placed in the middle of a page listing several galleries, was a tasteful business-card-sized print ad. “Artists Representations. Fine Art for Discriminating Tastes.”
This is obviously someone I should invite
. Pressing her long nail just below the number, she placed the call. An answering machine picked up.
    “Hello, this is Zelda McIntyre at Artists’ Representations. We are out of the office at this time, but please leave a message and we will call you back.”
    By the time the machine beeped, Cynthia’s nerves had racheted up again. Looking down as she spoke, she held Zelda’s name in view by pointing at it with her long, pearl-beige nail.
    “Oh. Hello? Oh, hello, this is Zelda.” Cynthia knew at once she’d said something wrong and looked up. “No, no no I mean of course,
you
are Zelda… I was looking at your name when I dialed. Excuse me! This is Cynthia Radcliffe—with an
e
. You’ve probably heard that I’m co-hosting a benefit for the new Arts Museum. I would like to send you an invitation, so please get back to me and let me have your address. I’ll talk to you soon. Oh! My number is 555-1040. Thank you so much! Bye-Bye!”
    She hung up. Mercifully, the message-leaving ordeal was over, and Cynthia’s dreams of a magical evening were well on their way to becoming reality.

Chapter 5
     
    Miranda Jones swished her brush in the jar of water, watching as blue paint trailed off the tip to form tiny pigment-clouds.
    She lifted her gaze to the studio windows and followed the sunbeams lancing through the pines until she could see the sparkle of the ocean beyond.
    Love afternoon light. Always have
. Even as a child, she’d delighted in sneaking out of the house in the afternoon—when she was supposed to be taking a nap—sketchpad and crayons in hand. She’d climb the hill on the far side of her family’s property and make picture after picture of the California Coastal Ranges—Mount “Tam” being her favorite—before the sun sank into the ocean.
That’s one of the good memories
.
    Milford-Haven had been home for only nine months, but there were days when it felt as though she’d lived here forever. It was the first place she’d put down roots of her own, and, aside from her work, that had been more important to her thananything.
    Roots… maybe that’s why I’ve had this urge to plant flowers. Why is having my own home—even though I’m renting for now—such a priority? Everything’s always been handed to me. It’s time to create a space of my own, something that expresses who I am now. I knew I wanted to live in California, and rooming with Mer was great, but it was time to imagine my life on my own terms
.
    This chapter of life—looking for roots, experimenting with her rooms, making new friends—was intriguing, perplexing, even terrifying, she had to admit.
It’s more than just designing my space. It’s almost like I’m creating myself, or discovering who I’m supposed to be
.
    She looked over at the shelf she’d designated to hold the notebooks she used as an ongoing series of chronological logs.
I do journals about my travels. Maybe I should do one about this process. I could use one of my HandBooks. Yes! I could devote one just to this inward-and-outward journey—the journey to find my home
. Heart beating a little faster, she visualized the possibilities.
Sketches, watercolors, musings … I can ride my bike around Milford-Haven and track the visual cues, the emotional markers. I love this idea!
    Now she glanced around at the high, angled ceiling, the hewn beams, the worn hardwood floors.
It might be kinda rustic and simple, but it’s a perfect starting point. I bet my