more simply put, she hadn’t painted anything in almost a year.
Oh, she’d thought about her craft often, obsessed about it, really. At least until she’d moved out here. Lately, she’d begun to dream about it again, like she’d done as a child. But even though she’d brought along all of her supplies, the white canvases that lined one wall of the cabin she’d rented a few weeks after arriving in town were still blank. Her paints and brushes lay untouched, her heart and her mind as vacant as the walls that surrounded them now.
“Ah, yeah, we’re the same person,” she finally responded to the expectant looks on Nate’s and Callie’s faces. “I mean, yes, I’m V. E. Brent, but I haven’t...been involved with the art world for quite some time.”
Even now, Vanessa was still surprised at the deep depression she’d sunk into after Adele’s death last year. Or the fact that she hadn’t been able to fill the void with her art.
Adele had hung on until just before Thanksgiving and the day of her memorial service had been the start of an arctic winter that had settled in Philadelphia, and most of the country. Vanessa, too, had become locked in her own personal deep freeze. For months she’d mourned, but unlike when her mother died, she failed to find the same solace and comfort in her work. No matter how hard she’d tried, no matter the techniques or tools she employed, her gift had faded into a vast wasteland where nothing flourished.
Even after she’d finally broken out of her self-imposed grieving this past spring, thanks to an intervention led by Adele’s mother, the ability to create was still dormant and she’d decided something drastic was needed to shake her back into the world of the living.
Number ten: move out west.
Vanessa had been reading a weekly blog by a big-city volunteer coordinator who’d moved to Rust Creek Falls to help the town recover from a devastating flood the year before and ended up falling in love and marrying the local sheriff. Soon the idea to move to this little slice of cowboy heaven planted itself in her head and wouldn’t let go. So she’d sublet her loft apartment, refused to listen to her father’s halfhearted attempts to change her mind and bought a one-way plane ticket to Big Sky Country, placing the first check mark on her and Adele’s bucket list in months by arriving just before the July Fourth holiday.
“But you are involved in art,” Callie said, breaking into Vanessa’s thoughts. “You’re great with the kids at the community center.”
Vanessa smiled, remembering how she’d gotten roped into helping with a summer day camp that’d showed up at the center looking to entertain a group of kids on a rainy day. “That’s pretty much finger painting, playing with clay or simple watercolors. Other than that I’m not...”
Her voice cracked and she looked away, that familiar lump back in her throat. Damn! She walked across the vast space, her gaze centered on the empty fireplace. “I’m not...well, let’s just say that side of me—V. E. Brent—she isn’t painting. At all.”
“Oh, please don’t think we’ve invaded your privacy.” Callie hurried to her side. “We haven’t told anyone else who you really are. Nate came up with this idea before we even knew thanks to your beautiful sketches.”
She looked back at them. “My sketches?”
“Yes, the ones you’ve been doing of the locals around town. They’re amazing. I love the portrait you did of me when I was tending to a scraped knee at the playground. I never even realized what you were up to until you gave it to me. I’ve got it hanging in my office at the clinic.”
A few weeks after her kids program took off, Vanessa had started to once again carry a sketch pad and colored pencils in her oversize bag.
Something she hadn’t done in months.
At first, the blank pages seemed to mock her whenever she opened the pad, but then she’d forced herself to do quick exercises, simple pen-and-ink sketches of whatever might catch her eye.
Surprisingly, it had been people.
The citizens of Rust Creek Falls had become her test subjects, either in the park, the community center or while sitting tucked away in a corner of a local business. Sometimes she asked for permission, but usually the sketches were done so quick the focus of her practice exercise didn’t even realize what Vanessa was doing until she’d rip out the page from her sketchbook afterward and offer it to them.
So far, no one had been upset with her. She’d figured most had just been tossed away, but she had spotted a few, like Callie’s, posted around town. Evidence that her creativity was trickling back little by little.
“The drawing you did of my mother working the counter at Crawford’s Store is now matted, framed and holds a place of honor in my father’s study,” Nate said. “Callie and I were there for Sunday dinner and that drawing got me thinking about the mural, the resort and you.”
Surprised at that, Vanessa’s gaze was drawn back to the empty space over the desk, looking very much like the oversize blank canvases in her cabin. Nate’s request caused her fingers to itch, a familiar sign they wanted to be wrapped around a paintbrush again. But Vanessa knew what would happen. As soon as she’d pull out her paints...nothing. Sketching a few random subjects was vastly different than taking on a commissioned work, where the nuances she’d have to capture in oils required planning and a delicate touch.
Things that were still beyond her reach.
Moving far away from home and memories of Adele had been her way to start her life again, and deep down, hopefully restore her spark, her inspiration for her craft. Except for those rare moments when she tried to paint and still failed, Vanessa was enjoying her time in Rust Creek Falls. She’d been lucky enough to find a great place to live, joined the Newcomers Club—a social group of women new to Rust Creek Falls—made some great friends and explored the area. The art program at the center kept her busy, she’d gone on a few dates with some of the local cowboys and made a point to appreciate each day of her new life.
Number thirteen: stop and enjoy sunrises and sunsets.
Another check mark on her list, made the first morning she woke up in Montana. Adele had been right. Concentrating on her life, and using their list as a guide, had helped her to find joy again.
Which made this idea of Nate’s downright scary. What if she said yes and her creative block kept her from putting anything on the wall? And her work was abstract in the truest sense of the word. Powerful color compositions with no reference of any kind to anything recognizable. What Nate was describing was much more detailed, and in a way, more personal.
Still, she found herself wanting desperately to take on the challenge.
Maybe this mural was a chance—her last chance—to find her talent again.
* * *
Jonah Dalton breathed in the cool morning air, holding it for a moment in his nose and mouth, like he used to do as kid. The air had a bite to it—like the fresh tartness of a Granny Smith apple the moment you first sink your teeth into it—that couldn’t be matched anywhere but here in the wilds of Montana.
He’d missed that taste more than he’d been willing to admit.
The air in Denver, his home for the past eight years, had a flavor that was a mix of excitement and culture, but that was to be expected in a sophisticated city of over 600,000
