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

were still some unpacked boxes stacked in her garage, and a couple more tucked right here, under her studio work bench.
What’s in there? My numbered HandBook notebooks—I have to designate a couple of shelves for them. And maybe some old drawings? I’ll get around to unpacking them soon
.
    Now she glanced around the studio and couldn’t help but smile. How many hours had she stood here at her easel, absorbing all the coastal beauty framed by the studio windows? Even the expanse of white canvas didn’t scare her so much when that afternoon light turned everything to gold.
It’s why I almost never answer the phone at this time of day
.
    Today, however, even the golden light couldn’t keep her focused. Her mind skittered and the paintbrush twitched in her hand. Unable to do any real work, she moved to the built-in desk that ran the length of the windowed wall in her studio. Her gaze fell on a favorite image that made her smile.
    Last August she’d spent time painting in the Guildenstern Garden, a local place well-known for collecting multiple species of flora. She’d done small landscapes in various sizes, including a five-by-eight portrait of a humming-bird in a dream-garden—a piece she considered magical.
The hummers have left, now. They’ve started their migration to Mexico
.
    Next she picked up the stack of postcards. They featured her own miniature watercolor—the first landscape she’d done that was actually a portrait.
The vertical orientation… like the Japanese sumi-e pieces I just did. There’s that Asian influence again. But those were huge. This is small, the other end of thescale
.
    The print shop had done a good job, she decided. The color looked true, the proportion appealing. Main Street stretched away to the ocean, pines rose along the edges to touch a blue sky. It hadn’t seemed complete till she’d added cars in front of Sally’s popular restaurant. And she hadn’t been able to resist placing in the foreground the lovely gallery that carried her work.
    Did I send Nicole a thank you note for agreeing to the special handling of “The Cove”?
She stood, walked a few steps, then squatted to open her top filing cabinet drawer. Her fingers danced across the tops of the file labels: Art Supplies; Car Repairs; Darius….
Why do I keep his letters? It’s not like I’d ever read them again. Maybe I’ll make a ceremony of burning them one day
. Events; Finder’s Gallery.
There it is
. Opening the file folder, she found a copy of the note she’d written.
Good… just wanted to make sure
.
    She returned to her workspace and picked up the miniature watercolor.
Think I’ll frame this. It’d be great as a set—maybe one small painting for each season in Milford-Haven. That would echo the Japanese scroll pieces. Love that idea
.
    Her new postcards were practical. She’d already sent them to her short list: a few old friends and some new ones, her always-supportive sister, her ever-skeptical parents, and of course Zelda, who’d help with a business contact list.
    But there was something else about the postcards too. She liked the crisp edges and bright image, felt in it the vibrancy of the little place she now called home. Somehow the town had a heartbeat that matched her own, and the postcard took its pulse. If the Universe had fulfilled a promise to her, this littlecard was her thank-you note.
    The phone rang. She stared at it, then, despite her usual custom, decided to answer. “Hello?”
    “Darling! It’s me!”
    Knowing the voice after the first syllable, Miranda said, “Hi, Zelda.”
    “Well, it’s simply the most brilliant thing you’ve ever done. The postcard is sensational. I want you to send me a thousand immediately. You have more marketing sense than you’ve ever let on, Miranda. This is going to turn the tide.”
    “A thousand? But I only printed a hundred. I’m not sure I have the budget to—”
    “We’ll solve that in just a moment. By the way, what are you doing