Page 88 of Call It Serendipity

“Maybe Taylor forgot something.” I pick the handset up once more.

“Lucy Hart?” a brisk voice asks.

“This is she.”

“Wonderful, this is Melanie. From Whitcombe Gallery.”

“Oh, from the gallery,” I repeat for Claire’s awareness.

She pops a noodle in her mouth and watches me with undivided attention. As if my body language will tell her everything she needs to know about this call.

And maybe it will, considering I’ve gone eerily still. “What can I do for you, Melanie?”

“I am calling to tell you that we absolutely adore your new works. The photos just came in, and we are over the moon for them.”

“You like my new work?” My heart leaps in my throat as Claire punches a triumphant hand in the air.

“We love these paintings. We’re working to schedule their pick-up service now, I’ll let you know when we have the details.”

“Sure, yes. Sounds good.”

“But Lucy?”

I grip the phone so tight my knuckles turn white. “Yes?”

“What do you say we discuss signing you on as an exclusive, reoccurring artist for us?”

“Exclusive?”

This should be everything I’ve ever wanted. One of the most elite galleries in the country wants to stake their claim to me. But instead, there is a hollowness in place of my excitement.

“Yes, exclusive. We’ll make it worth your while, I assure you.”

I bite my lip and wait for the joy to return. But instead, I just feel a nagging tug for something other than this. “Can I get back you about that?” I ask.

“Oh, okay,” Melanie replies, clearly surprised. “We’ll talk next week.”

“Next week,” I agree.

If I’m being honest, I’m a little surprised by my reaction too. Maybe the seasons aren’t the only thing changing.

49

“Please don’t set the house on fire, Levi. I still have to live here after this weekend.” Lucy sighs, her eyes wide with horror.

And honestly, she has a fair point. As excited as I am to be witnessing a fifteen-pound turkey getting dumped in a vat of oil over an open flame, it doesn’t seem like the safest cooking option.

Levi flashes her a grin as he reaches for the waiting bird. “Don’t worry, this is a totally normal way to cook this—and it’s going to taste amazing.”

We’re all gathered around the metal pot and propane set up in Lucy’s backyard. There is a short white picket fence around the lawn with a single car garage, detached, on the far end from the house. The concrete driveway was the planned location for this set up, but it’s slanted, and it was unanimous that wouldn’t end well.

So, after significant brainstorming, Mack ran out to buy a flame-resistant tarp to lay in the grass—far from the towering oaks on the property. And now here we all stand, other than my sister who is yet to arrive, huddled in a circle on the lawn under the backyard floodlight with the smell of warmed oil drifting through the air.

“It’s completely thawed, right?” Mack asks, leaning forward to inspect the bird hanging from Levi’s grip. “Not a single ice crystal in sight? Because that’s what creates an oil explosion.”

“Lovely,” Lucy mutters. I tighten my arm’s hold around her waist in response.

“Completely thawed. I triple checked it,” Claire announces confidently. “You could put the thing on your head.”