Publishable By Death by Andi Cumbo-Floyd (reading like a writer TXT) 📖

out a variety of hydrangea and viburnum. In front of the large shrubs, they placed smaller containers of these flowering bushes that had dark-green leaves and these beautiful purple or white flowers that hung gently from stems. I caught the owner’s eye and pointed, “Hellebores,” she said. “Lenten rose.”

I grinned. I wasn’t much of a church-goer myself, but I did know that Fat Tuesday was coming up, and if their name was any indicator, these beauties were blooming right on time.

Marcus, Lucas, Cate, and I spent the better part of the next hour laying out Cate’s books, trying to organize them at least a bit into broad categories – photography, painting, sculpture, etc. Fortunately, Lucas was able to convince Cate that we didn’t really have enough tables or space to break them down by genre or time period, or else we might have been sorting when the street festival ended.

Finally, about eight-thirty, I told Marcus I needed to check on Divina’s art and decided to take the opportunity to walk Mayhem quickly before the crowd really arrived. Although, by the look of Main Street, people were already shopping, and some shop owners looked more than ready to begin their sales. The two older gentlemen who owned the hardware store next to my shop had put out a collection of odds and ends that looked like they could draw in the American Pickers. A bit further down the road, I noticed that Max Davies must have overcome his fear because he had a member of his waitstaff outside with coupons for twenty percent off an evening’s meal as well as surprisingly cute recipe cards for a chocolate soufflé and his Duck a l’Orange.

The folks at the hair salon were offering discounts on walk-in haircuts that day, and I wished I had time to stop and have my do trimmed. When you have thick curly hair cut short like mine, you can’t go too long between trims or you start to look like Lyle Lovett. That guy’s music is great, and the hair is great on him . . . not so much on me.

Elle Heron had out vegetable starts – lettuce and broccoli, cabbage, and maybe kale. I never quite understood kale or the rage around it, but she was already doing a brisk business. I gave her a little wave as I passed.

At the co-op, a young man with the largest ear gauges I’d ever seen was just opening the door, and he said, “Ms. Beckett?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Ms. Stevensmith wanted me to let you know that her piece is here and to show you where it is.”

“Oh good. Thanks!” I must have looked worried because he gave my arm a little squeeze as he walked past me to lead the way down the hall.

And there it was, right in the middle of the main gallery space at the center of the building. The piece was exquisite – exquisite and huge. It stood almost two stories tall, reaching up to the bottom of the handrail on the second-floor catwalk above. The colors were stunning – all pinks and purples, some gentle blues – all pieces of paper cut and folded to give the appearance of movement.

I knew the piece was a study of our town, a study done in the dark, if the title was literal, and I could see it if I looked hard – the cupola on the top of the courthouse, the jettison roof of the maritime museum, even the thin rails of ship masts lined up at the marina – but the beauty of the piece was that it could be almost anything the viewer wanted to see. One minute, I contemplated the flower-like appearance of the paperwork, and the next I felt like I was looking at the ocean after a nighttime squall. It was absolutely magnificent, and I found myself unable to move away.

“So you like it then?” Divina said as she came into the gallery and stood beside me.

I looked at her with awe. “Like it? Ms. Stevensmith, it is, it is . . . oh, I don’t even have the right words. Incredible, breath-taking, poignant.”

She smiled and kept her eyes on her art. “It is one of my favorites.” She glanced quickly at me. “I know that probably sounds prideful of me to say, but I’ve always thought that if an artist doesn’t love her work, then how could anyone else?”

I smiled. “I completely agree. And Divina – is it alright if I call you Divina?” She nodded. “Thank you. I’m so grateful for your gift. You didn’t have to be so generous.”

She smiled and then turned, and I thought I heard her say, “Oh, but I did.” But she moved off quickly, so I didn’t get to ask her what she meant.

I glanced down at my watch. 8:50. I had to get back. I thanked the man at the desk, untied Mayhem from the light pole outside, and walked as quickly as I could without looking ridiculous. It just wouldn’t do for me to be late to my own street fair.