Page 82 of Call It Serendipity

“No”—I shake my head—“better to dump it in the lake behind the slopes.”

“Good idea. Gosh, it’s just so old and dirty!”

“And don’t forget ugly, that’s worth mentioning twice.”

Claire nods. “So ugly.”

“And look, you know I love Levi for you and think he’s a perfectly clean man. But, Claire, I have to tell you… that thing smells.”

We collapse together in a fit of laughter across from my paintings. They’re back lit by sunlight streaked through steady falling snow.

I guess it’s time for the season to change after all.

46

Iexpected the ache of Claire moving out to blossom into a tender bruise by the next morning. After the night gave reality the chance to truly settle in.

But instead, I wake up with a sense of purpose. Because today, I’m mailing the photos of my completed series to Whitcombe Gallery. I’ve done it, I’ve completed paintings that I truly love. Something I spent countless hours believing could never happen.

Rolling over in bed, I check the alarm clock on my nightstand. Bold red lines making up rectangular numbers glare back at me, alerting me to the fact that the post office opens in little over an hour. I’ll have just enough time to get the film developed and be the first in line.

I throw back the covers and spring from bed. Heading for my dresser, I snag my cable-knit turtleneck from the top drawer and pull it on, replacing the threadbare Ski Ellicottville tee I slept in. The soft knit falls over my body, the hem reaching just past my hips, and I wiggle on my brown denim beneath.

My camera is already out, loaded with fresh film, in preparation for the crisp morning light that I knew would be highlighting my studio right about now. I quickly snap a whole roll’s worth of photographs, making sure I have every angle and detail the gallery might want to see, then I head downstairs to grab my bag.

I tuck the film canister into a pocket and withdraw my Walkman. This is a Gin Blossoms moment. The band provides the perfect backdrop to my journey down the salt-covered sidewalks.

I’ve heard jokes over the years about why a band of tortured artists would be my favorite as a tortured artist myself. But the truth is, I’ve always considered them the soundtrack to smiling through it.

And that’s just what I’ve done until at some point it wasn’t really about needing to get through it anymore.

Now they’re just my soundtrack to having done it.

I’m bursting with new levels of hope and a swirl of ideas for my next work as I round the gazebo and close the final distance to Greene’s Corner Drugstore, which is ironically not on a corner at all.

Wedged between the café and one of our cutest boutiques, Greene’s always develops photos faster than an hour, and the owner, Howard Greene, always makes sure to toss a handful of Werther’s Originals in my bag. He’s a family friend; my grandfather was his little league coach.

The front door chime drifts through the air as I step inside, and I’m immediately greeted by the smell of the sugary sweet bulk candy display and a hint of lemon cleaning products.

From behind the drug counter, in his white pharmacist coat, Howard raises a hand to wave to me. I quickly pull off my headphones.

“Good morning, Mr. Greene.”

“Morning, Lucy. How are you doing, dear?”

My smile stretches triumphantly. “I am wonderful.” I pull out the film canister and set it on the counter between us. “How are you?”

“Oh, getting by for now.”

I tip my head to the side. Howard isn’t typically the pessimist. “Everything okay?”

“Just this blasted threat of Carpenter Hotels coming in and wiping out my business.”

Of course. The Greene family owns a strip of rental cottages up near the ski resort.

My smile wobbles a fraction. “There’s a second bid now, so who knows.”

“Right you are.” He nods decidedly. “Who do you think it is?”