“I like to paint.”
“Paint? Like pictures?”
I giggle. “Yes, like pictures.”
He tilts his head. “You any good?”
I shrug. “I took some classes in high school. The teachers said I was.”
“I’d like to see some of your paintings.”
His comment makes me light up inside.
The waiter comes by and leaves the check, thanking us, then withdraws.
Blue stands and digs in his hip pocket, pulling out several large bills and dropping them on the table. “You ready?”
I nod, and he takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. I follow him out, and an image of the time he led me through the crowd at my sister’s wedding flashes through my brain.
Once we’re out the door, we turn and head to the house where his bike and my car are parked. Along the way, we pass several shops, and a window display catches my eye. I stop, tugging on Blue’s hand. “Oh, look at that.” I point to the artwork in the shop.
“Pretty,” he says.
I glance at the name of the place.Rose Gallery. “Can we go inside? Just for a minute?” I ask excitedly.
He grins. “How can I resist that pretty smile? Sure.”
It’s a fantastic gallery filled with paintings and pottery. I pull Blue to a large life-sized statue of a horse painted in pretty colors. “Oh, isn’t it amazing?”
The shopkeeper wanders over to us. “Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“I was chosen to have mine displayed at the county courthouse. Each year they make a dozen of these life-size horse sculptures cast in a polyurethane resin, and artists are chosen to paint them. It’s called the Trail of the Painted Ponies. Then they’re auctioned off, and the money is given to charity. The winner is displayed at the county courthouse for a year. It’s very prestigious, and you also get a cover article in Southwestern Art magazine.”
“I’ve heard of that. My art teacher talked about it.”
“My husband bought mine back for me. I’m so happy I didn’t have to part with it. Do you paint or sculpt?”
“Yes, but nothing like this.”
She leads me to a counter and hands me a flyer. “Maybe someday you can enter. This year’s entries are open for three more months.”
I spot a photo on the wall, and it’s this woman with the horse and the prize cup. My eyes widen. “Are you the artist?”
“I am.” She grins and extends her hand. “Carrie Rose.”
“Luisa Sanchez. Pleased to meet you.” I glance at the horse. “Oh, it’s beautiful. I’d love to be able to do something like that.”
“Come by on Tuesday night. I give classes in sculpture and painting.”
“That would be amazing.”
“Seven pm. I’ll see you then.”
I shake her hand, and we leave. “She was really nice.”
“She was.” Blue winks at me. “I think you found a friend. Or maybe a mentor.”
