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Maybe going on a few dates with him wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Chapter Thirteen
“One thing about trains: It doesn’t matter where they’re going. What matters is deciding to get on.”
—The Polar Express
The bell rang behind us as we made our way out of Eve’s Drop, me with my special cocoa and James with his plain one. The sun decided to finally come out, giving our fingers and noses a bit of a reprieve from the cold as we walked toward The Market.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try mine?” I asked him, holding up my to-go cup.
“Positive.” He sipped his and sighed contentedly. “I’m not a huge fan of peppermint.”
Who isn’t a fan of peppermint?
“Your loss, then.” I drank mine and stopped as we reached Chordcrafters. “Did you want to pop in?”
James’s eyes lit up with hope as he peered in through Levi’s holiday-decorated window, but then he shook his head. “Maybe another time.”
The guy plays and sings like he’s done it his whole life.
He lights up like a Christmas tree when he’s near the music shop.
So what’s holding him back?
As we crossed Cherry Street, my mom stepped out of the main entrance of The Market and buttoned up her coat. She saw us and smiled, her face curious.
“Hey, Mom!” I called as we got closer. “You remember James?”
“Of course I do. Hi.” Mom reached out her hand and then drew it back, frowning at it. “I really should wash the paint off myself more before offering my hand. Sorry.”
James chuckled. “No problem, Mrs. Mancini. Gianna was just showing me around town.”
“Is it okay to visit your studio?” I asked. “We won’t stay long.”
“Sure.” Mom pulled a scarf out of her pocket and wound it around her neck. “Just be careful moving around the stuff on the easels. It’s still wet.”
After showing James around the main floor of The Market and introducing him to some of the vendors and Sandy, he followed me up the stairs to Mom’s studio. The smell of fresh paint and clay lingered in her space as Nat King Cole crooned softly on the radio in the corner. Potted plants covered an entire wall with an LED tree illuminating them, and several more hung from the exposed beams above. The opposite wall had floating shelves covered with paints, stains, glues, and a small tin filled with dark chocolate “for emergencies.” A long desk with an open sketch pad and trays of more paints, brushes, and different sizes of pens and markers sat next to the largest window that faced the street.
“This place is incredible,” James said as he ran his fingers along the fabric draped next to one of Mom’s oil paintings from last season. “Your mom created all of these pieces?”
“Mm-hmm.” I sat down in the swivel chair my dad once gave her many Christmases ago and spun back and forth. “More, but she’s sold quite a bit over the last several years, and the rest is already downstairs at her booth.”
James stopped near the wall of plants. “Why hasn’t she tried getting an agent, or I dunno, selling her stuff in the city somewhere? Is she not a city person?”
“She used to be. Grew up in the city, went to college there for a while too, but got stuck here during a bad winter storm.” I stopped spinning. “My dad worked late grading papers that night and saw her slip and fall on his way home. He helped her up and walked her over to the café—before it was Eve’s—and the two of them stayed there till after closing. Just talking.
“A few days later, Mom’s ankle was better, and her car was fixed up and ready to go, but she didn’t want to leave.” I paused and smiled at the memory of my parents telling me this story to get me to sleep. “Long story short, she said goodbye to my dad but promised to write. And they did. For a year. She finished up art school and decided to move here. She said that Mullings Creek got into her heart and didn’t let go, and that she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“And she’s been here ever since,” James added, crossing the room to me. “Wow. Sounds like a movie.”
“Yep.” I got up and spun the chair back toward her desk. “Everyone’s told her she could make tons of money if she sold her stuff elsewhere, but Mom doesn’t want to. She says it just…brings her joy.”
“I still think I’d always wonder ‘what if.’ ” James ran his fingers over the desk’s edge. “But I can respect that.”
After showing James the studio, we headed back toward the B&B, where we took a seat on a front porch swing near a tall patio heater. James pushed the swing a bit with his feet as mine swung freely.
“My dad is kinda the opposite of your mom,” he said, eyes watching the wispy clouds move over the sun on the tops of the trees. “He grew up in a small town. Said it was suffocating, so he moved to the city and stayed there. He did photography in college before he switched majors.”
