She pulled me into the shop. "Look at these frames! The owner says he got them from an estate auction in England. All hand-carved—the details are so exquisite they'll make you weep."
The little shop was crammed with antiques—old typewriters, phonographs, paintings, china... Every piece carried the patina of years.
The elderly man with round glasses brightened when he saw Zoe. "Miss Harper, brought a friend?"
"This is Noelle, the one I told you about." Zoe introduced me enthusiastically.
The old man studied me appraisingly. "Does look like an artist. Come on, the frames are in the back."
We followed him to the rear of the shop. Against the wall stoodabout a dozen picture frames, each one beautifully carved—some with elaborate Baroque flourishes, others with cleaner neoclassical lines.
"Wow!" I couldn't help but gasp.
"Right?" Zoe leaned in close. "I knew you'd love them. Look at this one—see how detailed the roses are? You can even make out the texture of the petals."
I reached out to trace the carvings, feeling the warmth and grain of the wood beneath my fingertips. How many years had these frames witnessed? What paintings had they once displayed? Who had cherished them?
"Noelle, what are you thinking about?" Zoe asked.
"I'm wondering where all the paintings that used to be in these frames are now."
Zoe blinked, then laughed. "You always think of things no one else does. That's the artist's soul, I suppose."
"Maybe."
"Oh, Noelle, guess what!" Zoe picked up an old palette, practically vibrating with excitement. "I just landed this incredible project—painting a mural on a wall down by Fisherman's Wharf! Five whole stories tall!"
"God, how long will that take?"
"At least three months." She shrugged. "But the pay's fantastic, and I get complete creative freedom. The client just wants something ocean-themed. Everything else is up to me."
"That sounds incredible!"
"It really is," Zoe grinned. "Though I had an epic battle with the gallery owner about the exhibition layout. That old codger insisted on hanging my paintings in the corner, muttering something about 'maintaining overall aesthetic harmony.' I told him straight up—either display them prominently, or I withdraw. Guess what happened?"
"He caved?"
"Of course!" Zoe lifted her chin proudly. "Artists need backbone, or people will steamroll right over you."
"Speaking of which, how's Lily doing? Last time you mentioned she was sick." Lily was Zoe's orange tabby cat.
"She's completely recovered, but she caused absolute chaos."
"What happened?"
"That little demon punctured a whole tube of my brand-new cadmium yellow paint while I wasn't looking, then tore through the house like a maniac. Now there are yellow paw prints on every surface imaginable." Zoe looked simultaneously exasperated and amused. "It took me an entire day to clean up the mess."
"Did you scold her?" I asked, laughing.
"Of course not, I couldn't bear to." Zoe sighed. "I've had her for three years. No matter how mischievous she gets, she's still my baby."
Her words made me laugh, and I felt unusually lighthearted.
"You mentioned wanting to see landscapes from around the world, right?"
"Yes."
"I have a photographer friend who's traveled to nearly every continent. She has thousands of photos. I should introduce you two sometime. She says every location has its own unique quality of light—completely distinctive."
