Lucky for me, Terri, a server from our local diner, speaks up from a few chairs down. “I wish the oldest would find someone new. His daughter deserves to have a momma. I still can’t believe Selena is gone.”
My chest feels heavy thinking about Selena Livingston. She was a ray of sunshine in this community. She got in a car accident two months after giving birth to a beautiful baby girl. That was almost two years ago, leaving Dean to care for a newborn all on his own. The Sutten community rallied around the family and helped out, but I still can’t imagine how Dean Livingston must feel.
The air around us gets heavy for a moment. Their daughter, Clara, seems happy. He brings her to church every Sunday, and it’s cute to watch her talk her daddy into doodling funny things on the program or watch her beg for something sweet when he stops in with her at the bakery.
I get lost in my own thoughts as Rhonda finishes painting the dye on my strands of hair. The only thing that pulls me from my thoughts is hearing Rosemary speak up, now from a chair next to mine.
“I think I might have Harold try out one of the scenes from our naughty book club this week.”
Rhonda and I share a look through the mirror. My entire body shakes as I try to hold back a laugh. It’s no use—the snort that comes from my body is completely unladylike and probably a little rude.
Rosemary’s shrug tells me she doesn’t mind. “What, girls?” she asks incredulously. “Surely it isn’t a secret that Harold and I go to pound town.”
13
CAMDEN
I’m sitting in my tiny office in the Sutten gallery, reviewing new pieces I’m having shipped here, when the bell to the gallery chimes. My eyes fall to the time in the corner of my monitor screen. It’s barely seven in the morning. We aren’t open yet. We aren’t open at all today. Almost every piece of art had sold at the opening over the weekend. And anything that didn’t sell that night sold on Monday. It’s Wednesday, so the gallery is empty, and I won’t have new inventory until this weekend.
Sighing, I push my chair away from my desk and head down the hallway. I hadn’t bothered locking the door to the gallery because I thought the closed sign on the door and the lack of lights would inform anyone curious enough to wander by that we were closed.
I’m ready to tell the customer I have nothing to sell them when my feet come to a halt. It isn’t a customer in the gallery. It’s Pippa.
She doesn’t notice me, her eyes trained on a piece of art on the far wall that isn’t for sale. It was one of the first pieces Margo ever did for me. I’d wanted to keep it because of her take on an artist’s life. I’d always displayed it in the Manhattan gallery, but for some reason, it feels more at home here.
Pippa stands a safe distance away from the drawing. I can see her profile, but I’m tucked away in the hallway enough for her to not notice me yet. I welcome the few seconds where I can take her in without either of us having our armor on. I’m sure the moment she notices me, we’ll be back to the thing we’ve created where we throw insults at one another. But for a moment, I forget about all of that.
She holds two coffee cups, one in each hand. The pink lids look out of place in the stark white gallery. She’s the one bit of color in here, the white floors and white walls—and muted colors of Margo’s painting.
My eyes trace over her hair. It seems lighter than the last time I saw her, but I’m wondering if maybe it’s just my eyes playing tricks on me. The first thing I notice after the possible change in color is that her hair looks tame for once. It isn’t in her face, and it isn’t messily knotted at the top of her head. It’s sleek and smooth. If I were any closer, I might be tempted to reach out and run my hand through the locks just to discover what they feel like.
The unwelcome thought has me ripping my eyes away from her because it’s Pippa. This is the woman who spilled an entire pitcher of beer on me, who ruined my suit for Beck and Margo’s wedding with an array of different-colored icing. The one who isn’t shy about making it known her feelings toward me—or lack thereof.
Despite the bad blood between us, as a fan of art, I can’t deny that she’s a work of art herself. Her skin is effortlessly sun-kissed, like she’d spent a lot of time outside during the summer. I can’t help but wonder what she does in her free time, what her hobbies are. The glow of her skin tells me that whatever she was doing, she spent time outdoors. She wears a baby pink shirt that cuts off right above the waistband of her light denim jeans. I can only see the side of her, but the square neckline shows a good amount of her cleavage. There are so many beautiful lines to her body. Her high cheekbones and upturned nose. Her breasts that seem to be a perfect handful. Hips that slightly curve out at her waist and all the way down her legs. My eyes catch on the way the jeans hug her body perfectly. I could spend hours getting to know every slope and curve of her body, beginning with her thighs and getting lost in between them.