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“Livingston,” I answered immediately, knee-jerk.
And, suddenly, I could see myself as her.
Sloane Livingston.
I could be her.
The woman with the friendly neighbor that she called a friend. The woman who casually illustrated some children’s books for fun, to help a young single mom to teach her daughters some lessons.
I could be her.
The one who shared rum cake at ten in the morning.
The one who was willing to give this place a real shot. Not because it was necessary, because life would be a never-ending pit of misery if I didn’t try, but because I could carve a life out for myself here.
“You know what you should do?” Auddie declared excitedly.
“What?”
“Get a job at that wine-and-paint place they just opened in town?”
“Wine-and-paint?” I asked, brows drawing together.
“Yeah! It’s fun. I went when they first opened, when the girls had a sleepover. You pay, and bring your own wine. Then everyone there gets to drink and paint some cool picture that you would never be able to paint on your own. I mean… my sunset was pretty hideous even with instruction, but it was a blast. I bet the owner would totally let you do a class here or there. Or private events. That place has been crazy. She probably hasn’t had a night off since it opened. You’d be perfect for that!”
Maybe I could be her too.
The woman who taught art lessons to drunk women having girls nights out.
I could be her.
I could maybe even be happy being her.
After some time, some adjustment.
I could get there.
For the first time since any of this started, I felt a small sliver of something I could only call hope.
The next day, I got to work on a sweet story about a little girl who had a hard time making friends at school – something I learned that Margo, Auddie’s six-year-old was struggling with because she was a bit on-spectrum, and some of the other kids didn’t understand why she did or said some of the things she did.
“Do you think we should print up a couple other copies?” Auddie asked, thumbing through the completed book for the fifth time since I gave it back to her six days after she handed it to me.
I had to say… I really enjoyed it. I was proud of it. And sure, I enjoyed designing my purses. I was proud of what I made. But the very big distinction here was… this was fun. There were no concerns about what some ‘big names’ might think of my collection, if it would sell, what the general public would think. All I had to do was create something that two sweet little girls would like.
And Auddie assured me that I had accomplished that task.
“If you think you know some other little girls that would like it, yes,” I told her as I mixed the cookie batter in a bowl. Under Auddie’s watchful eye. She swore she would make a baker out of me yet. So far, I had been less than successful. But she assured me that where cooking was an art, baking was a science. I just had to get all the parts right, and it would be a perfect product. I was willing to put my faith to rest in that.
“Well, Margo has a little group of friends with Autism or Aspergers that we meet every few weeks for playdates. I think the moms – and the kids – would really get a lot out of this.”
“Then definitely get them printed up,” I told her, then maybe went a bit business-head on her, reminding her to put copyright pages and all that jazz.
“I think I will,” she declared dramatically, coming over to inspect my stirring. Apparently, there was a right and a wrong way to stir. Who knew? “So did you hear back from the lady at the painting place?”
Auddie had dragged me there two nights ago to drink wine and paint. And then loudly demand that I be hired there.
“She wants me to send in some original work. I don’t have anything finished yet. But I am going to do it.”
“Good. I’m glad. Someone like you, with talents like yours, you shouldn’t be working in retail, wasting away. You need to use that. It’s special. People will pay for special.”
“I definitely want to be able to draw and paint more,” I admitted. “Things that make me happy or excited. I’ve drawn for work before, but it wasn’t really anything that…”
“Lit a fire under your butt?” she supplied for me. “Those are ready. Get your ice cream scoop, and put them on the tray.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, following instructions. “It is nice to feel really passionate about something.”
“Life is too short not to love what you do,” she told me. Auddie worked from home doing various jobs that her Masters in English allowed. Copyediting. Freelance articles. Ghostwriting. Anything that would bring in money, but allow her to be home for her girls should they ever need her.
