* * *
Juliet finished early today at the collective and decided she needed to have some fun. The boys’ grandparents were picking them up from school and taking them out to dinner, so she had free time—which was a rarity.
After closing and locking the studio, she changed into jeans and her smock, then ducked her head into Oliver’s waiting room. “I’m going to leave early. There are three of you still here to walk out together.”
“Sure.” He nodded to her clothes. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m heading to the art gallery to paint one of the pictures there. It’s going to be a gift to Scarlet.”
“That’s sweet.” He stood. “I’ll walk you to the car.”
“Then you have to walk back alone. Besides, there are two guards out there in broad daylight.”
“All right, I’ll call one of them over.” He shook his head. “I hate this.”
“Me, too.”
The guard arrived and walked her to her car. The early afternoon sunlight felt wonderful on her face and arms.
Pushing negative thoughts aside, Juliet drove away from her place of work smiling. The art gallery was off a busy street in downtown Rockford, but they had a decent-sized parking lot. Grabbing her rolling, suitcase-like paint box she kept in the trunk, she wheeled it into the gallery. She loved the cozy reception area that held some beautiful Henry Moore sculptures and the hushed atmosphere even out here. “Hi, Patrice,” she said to the woman at the front desk.
“Hey, Juliet. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Yeah, but I’m going to paint today. I’m working on a gift for a friend.”
“How sweet. You know where the chairs and easels are. Do you need some help? I can call a workman.”
“No, thanks. I got it.”
“Have fun.”
Juliet deposited her paint box in front of the Rice PrescottHorse and Woman, then got an easel and chair from the little storage area in this part of the gallery. Designed as the room to copy the masters, the artists of the paintings in here had given their approval.
She took out the small collapsible table and the canvas she carried in the suitcase and set out the paints. When she opened them, the sweet fruity scent of the acrylics, with undertones of citrus and geranium, calmed her immediately.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in slowly, then out again, repeated the practice a couple of times, then lifted her lids and studied the Prescott painting. It was so beautiful.
She picked up a light pencil designed to draw on a canvas and sketched out the elements of the painting to define composition, proportions and placement.
The background, a cloudy sky above wide swaths of sunlight, sat behind a snowy field with a barn at the top. From there, a path started at the house and curled down to three barren trees, then past a miniature horse and woman.
She mixed a dollop of dark red with a small amount of brown and dipped her paintbrush in it. She was concentrating hard when a man came up beside her. She’d noticed him earlier as the only other patron in the room. “Hello.” His voice was a warm, rich baritone.
“Hi, there.”
“Mind if I watch you paint?”
“Not at all. Just step back a little.” He stood off to the side of her as she applied the first coat on the barn.
“That’s lovely,” he said when she finished. “You mixed the colors exactly right.”
“Thanks.”
“I was studying this picture earlier. I’m thinking the artist should have filled in those trees more.They’re kind of blah.”
“No, you’re wrong about that. Prescott did that, I think, to fit in the overall stark mood of the work.”
“What do you think the mood is?”
