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“Mom, you know how difficult it is to make a living as an artist. That’s why I went the teaching route.”
“And what have you created in the past six years since you started teaching?”
She was right. After Elle spent so much time planning and grading art projects and papers for the kids, working on her own painting was really the last thing she wanted to do in her limited spare time. Since the wedding fell through, she’d all but abandoned her own art, except for the occasional page she did in her art journal.
Zelda leaned in and placed her folded hands on the table. “Hear me out, okay? What if I knew of a way for you to work as an artist and make money?”
Elle sipped her tea, trying not to look too skeptical before she heard her mother out. Zelda was one of Elle’s favorite people in the world. She was a great mother, always there for Elle when she needed her. Like right now, which was why instinct had guided Elle home in her moment of crisis. But at the same time, Zelda wasn’t always the most practical person. In her quiet way, she was often flighty and free-spirited, both traits that Elle loved about her mother but also made her dubious about taking career advice from her.
She swallowed the sip of tea and set her cup back on the saucer. She took care to infuse a smile into her voice before looking at her mother and saying, “What do you have in mind?”
Zelda’s green eyes lit up. “I want to turn the inn into a Zen-based artists’ retreat.”
She beamed. Elle blinked at her.
She didn’t have to hear any more to connect the dots. This was the crux of Zelda and Wiladean’s redesign stalemate. It had to be.
“Is Gigi on board with this idea?”
Zelda swatted the air as if she was shooing away Elle’s question. She sat back and crossed her arms.
“You know that your grandmother and I have very different visions for the direction of the inn,” Zelda said. “We’re investing a pretty penny into this renovation and I think she should be more open-minded. She’s talking about retiring this year and signing the inn over to me. She says she doesn’t want me to have to wait for her to die before I get my turn running the place.” Zelda frowned. “I appreciate that, but don’t you think she should let me run the inn my way?”
“And your way is turning the place into a Zen-based artists’ retreat?”
Zelda nodded. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful? Come on, Elle, you’re an artist, you should see the beauty in it.”
“Mom, I’m not taking sides,” Elle said. “But don’t you think that’s a pretty far departure from the Forsyth Galloway Inn’s legacy?”
“But Elle, you should take sides. This is your birthright, too. You’re an artist. I thought you’d be excited about us offering artists’ retreats.”
Elle sensed that she was about to step onto a minefield. All she needed was for her mother to tell Wiladean that Elle was on board with the artists’ retreats. Elle was intrigued, but it was a big leap away from how their ancestors had always done things, miles away from the centuries-old business model on which they’d built their modest success.
“I’m not taking sides,” Elle said. “But I would like to hear what you have in mind.”
Zelda smiled and sat forward again. “I was thinking of ways that we could set ourselves apart from the hundreds of bed-and-breakfasts in this town and, poof, it came to me. Savannah is an artistic community. Offering a place for people with artistic sensibilities to stay and create while they’re here would not only be different, but it could be a big draw—pardon the pun.” She chuckled and looked proud of herself for the clever play on words. Then she reached out and touched Elle’s arm. “Think about it. We could organize art-themed excursions and programs. We could turn the dining room, with all those beautiful windows and all that glorious light, into an open studio where people could draw and paint. We could hold classes out in the garden and turn one of the detached guesthouses into a classroom. Here’s the best part—you could teach those classes.”
“Mom, I’m an elementary school art teacher.”
