“Sorry, buddy. You’re not my type.”
“Shoot,” I say, “How do you even know my type?”
He grumbles dismissively, then shares some of his own interesting gossip. “I overheard that girl Maddie and her perky friend talking at the Magpie bar the other night. Maddie said something about you being a Leo and that you need Taurus energy in your life.”
I smile. “Is Riley a Taurus?”
Foster snorts. “How the hell should I know?” he says. “That Maddie sounds full of it, anyway. Talking about starting a matchmaking business or something crazy like that.”
“Maddie’s not just anyone. That’s Riley’s best friend. And I’m guessing the perky one with her was Ari, Riley’s older sister. I graduated with her,” I tell him.
“Older sister, huh? Interesting.”
His mustache twitches, but I don’t comment on that reaction.
“Anyway. Sounds like a lot of mumbo jumbo,” he adds.
There’s no swaying Foster when he’s got his mind made up. But I’ve witnessed Maddie’s skills, though I’ve managed to slip by her matchmaking ways unscathed thus far.
Foster, I decide, needs someone to smooth his rough edges.“You should listen to Maddie. Just for fun. You might actually get to know some new people in town if you let her set you up.”
Foster thanks the curbside barista at Cardinal Coffee and inhales the steam from his triple latte, leaving a tip in the jar. “I’ll try the matchmaking service if you will.”
I laugh. “I already know everybody in town.”
“Everybody except one,” Foster corrects.
Rubbing my chin, I do wonder how it’s possible I haven’t tracked down my favorite artist yet.
Songbird Ridge is not that big.
So why is it that everybody here has known me since I was knee high to a grasshopper, and yet someone from my hometown who graduated only two years behind me in school continues to elude me?
“Well,” Foster says, bumping me with his fist to my shoulder. “I’ll see you around. I gotta go to some impromptu meeting at the Bluejay. Something about that ridiculous art gala that’s happening Friday. I’m so over talking about it.”
I shake my head at him. The annual art gala and auction at the end of January is the biggest fundraiser of the year for our local artists. The event attracts major donors and art collectors from across the state. The money raised goes to a fairly unique cause, and it’s one that Foster has never really come to understand since he moved here a few years ago.
“Be nice,” I tell him. “Remember, this is a community that supports the arts. Literally.”
I may not be an artist myself, but I know what I like. I like Riley Hutchinson. I like everything she touches. And if a town’s unique tradition of providing a base living salary to art guild members keeps Riley fed and housed, then I also support it.
“Sure,” Foster counters. “I like art as much as the next guy, but I really don’t see the point of just handing them all money like this is some sort of commune.”
I remind him, “It’s a tradition that goes back a hundred or so years. My granddaddy happily contributed to the fund when he was alive. He used to host workshops up at his place on the mountain and even built some kilns for them to use.” Until he got pushed off his land, but I don’t want to think about that right now, God rest his soul.
“Sounds like Marxism to me.”
I shake my head. “Whatever. Let me know how that meeting goes.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I wanna get a ticket and bid on something at the gala,” I answer.
Foster grins. “You want to bid on something by Riley Hutchinson.”
“Well, duh.”
“I’ll see if I can get you a ticket. In fact, you can have mine because I have zero interest in putting on a tie and rubbing elbows. What a snooze fest,” Foster says.
