Her Unexpected Hero. Cheryl Harper

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       CHAPTER THREE

      “WELL, NOW, A birdie told me you might make a visit today,” Janet Abernathy said from her spot on the ladder’s third rung. “Bright and early for a Monday, too.” Winter eased closer as the ladder rattled, concerned her interview might be interrupted by her having to call for an ambulance. Janet was holding a framed painting with both hands, but Winter couldn’t see either a hammer or a nail, so her purpose was unclear. The subject of the painting was enough to freeze Winter in her tracks.

      Someone had captured the mist rising off of one of the valleys in the reserve at daybreak. The pink of sunrise tinged one side of the wispy smoke, while the other glistened. Somehow, an artist had managed to convey the beauty and the delicate details in vivid color. This special instant could never last, except in paint and brushstrokes.

      Winter had no words to describe the techniques or the principles that made this painting art, but the emotions it provoked could be named: awe at nature’s fragile, powerful beauty and love for the mountains that meant home. Neither Knoxville nor Nashville made her feel the same.

      One painting had exactly what made these mountains like no other place for her.

      “Pretty, right?” Janet said. At some point, she’d braced the painting against the wall and joined Winter in admiring it. Enthralled, Winter had missed the whole thing.

      “Amazing. What’s it called?” Winter inched closer, realizing there was no need to whisper. They were alone in the wide-open space of the gallery, but it felt right.

      “Painting number seven. The girl has no poetry, even if she’s brimming with natural talent.” Janet sighed. “Or this is her poetry.”

      Drawn to the painting, Winter studied the darker corners, old growth forests making a frame for the airy center. “Enchanted. The title should have something to do with enchanted.” Winter shook her head. She’d memorized her grandmother’s stories before studying Cherokee folklore and history on her own, but not everyone else had the same interests. “Sorry. The Cherokee have a story about a secret lake that has restorative properties. A wounded animal could enter the lake and come out on the other side, healed. One day a hunter discovered it and was warned to never tell another soul. Humans being as they are, the hunter broke his promise and suffered the consequences. Now, the lake is hidden, but on cool mornings, the mist rises.” Winter rubbed her forehead, aware all over again how a lot of people didn’t care to hear her stories. Kids did. Adults, not as much.

      When she turned to say something to get the job interview she’d planned back on track, Winter found Leanne Hendrix frozen in the roughed-in doorway leading to Sweetwater Souvenir. After all the renovation, the large open space was a perfect white backdrop, just the three of them and this art. Janet had propped one shoulder against the wall, her head tilted to the side. It seemed she was waiting, but for what?

      Winter cleared her throat. “Who’s the artist?” The urge to self-consciously fluff her hair was strong, but she fought it. Wearing one of the dark, perfectly tailored suits she’d chosen as armor while she worked in the district office of the reserve had been a boost to her confidence.

      Or that had been the plan.

      The silence in the room was chiseling away at it.

      “I painted it. I didn’t know the story. I just wanted to keep the memory of a perfect morning forever.” Leanne shifted a step farther into the room with a nervous glance at Janet, whose face was slowly morphing into the Cheshire cat. She wore a grin so big it made Winter nervous. “I’m glad you like it.”

      “Me, too. I’m also pleased as all get-out that I’m right about Leanne’s talent. Since it’s one of the larger pieces we have, I’ll hang it right there, where anyone walking down Main Street can see it and be drawn inside.” Janet held up one finger, bright red nail polish flashing. “However, we’re either going to have to put an astronomical price on it or mark it ‘not for sale.’ Otherwise, I’ll have a big ol’ hole on the wall the second day after we get these doors open.” She tapped her chin. “What to do, what to do...”

      Before Winter could bring up the reason for her visit, Janet had moved back into the souvenir shop on the other side. The musical bells tinkling signaled a visitor to Sweetwater Souvenir.

      “She does that. It’s like she has a sixth sense when someone with money is about to walk in.” Leanne shoved her hands in her back pockets and met Winter’s stare. They both laughed and her shoulders relaxed.

      “I wanted to talk to her about the part-time job.” Winter waved a hand toward the open doorway. “But I have no money in my pocket. I might have lost my chance forever.”

      Leanne shook her head. “No, I mentioned you’d be by to ask about the job. She’ll be back.” She tapped her forehead with one finger. “Never forgets anything, Miss Janet.”

      They’d shared a burger, but other than stories other people told about them, neither she nor Leanne knew much about the other. They’d never been particularly close.

      “I didn’t know you were an artist. Why didn’t you talk about this at The Branch?” Winter realized they’d been focused on her problems. How selfish and unacceptable. Compared to Leanne’s life story, Winter’s had been a charmed existence, but no one heard Leanne whining about shampoo. “What’s the plan here?” Winter glanced around the large open space, the white walls crying out for something.

      “I’m not sure I am an artist. That’s all Miss Janet’s doing. I wouldn’t call myself anything but a...dabbler, but I have enjoyed painting. It keeps me busy, my mind occupied and out of trouble. Today, I’ve got to get moving on covering these walls. That’s the plan. Local artists of all kinds. We’ll have shelving, all painted white, for the smaller pieces, and there will be a small desk near the door.” Storefronts on Sweetwater’s main street all had history, thanks to more than a century of life, but the door’s beautiful carved wood was another kind of art. If Leanne was capturing fleeting moments in paint, whoever had crafted the door showed art was meant to last. Coneflowers were carved into the heavy lower half of the door while morning glories twirled on vines around the thick, wavy glass in the top half. “I can show you the back room. Janet has asked me to work on setting up displays, but it makes me so nervous. There’s a big difference between hanging key chains and folding T-shirts and arranging art, things people have poured their hearts into.” Leanne motioned over her shoulder. “I mean, there are people who do this for a living, you know? Planners who set art installations for galleries. Me? I’m just...” She shook her head helplessly. “She’s got faith in me, so I’ve got to give it a shot. Anyway, talking through it will help.”

      Winter watched her unlock several locks on the door. “Takes security seriously, I see.”

      Leanne held up her hands and made air quotes around “Art gallery,” as she said it. She shook her head. “Since most of this is my stuff, I’m not sure who she’s afraid will be breaking in to steal things. In another life that might have been me, actually, but I imagine Janet’s the only one who can turn my work into money.”