Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74467 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“Still have that thing, huh?” he asked as he nodded toward the portfolio.
The black ratty case had belonged to her grandfather George, and she rarely let it out of her sight. He had given it to her when she was ten, right before he passed away. It was her most prized possession. She held it tightly to her chest. “I do.”
“It’s cool,” he told her. “I remember you carrying it around, every day of middle and high school. It’s like your talisman.”
She hadn’t thought of the portfolio as good luck. To her, it was a place to keep her work, along with a few unfinished pieces by her grandfather.
They walked in comfortable silence down the cobblestone road, slowing or stopping when they came to people stopped in front of the shops. Growing up in Seaport and then moving to one of the busiest cities in the world, Eloise was used to dodging the crowds. Except when her arms were full, and luggage was involved. Fraser had to step out into the road a few times.
Fraser sighed, glanced her way, and rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Eloise chuckled. Their exchange definitely had to do with how some people had very little spatial awareness more than irritation.
When her aunt’s studio came into view, Eloise breathed in a sigh of relief. The studio had been her haven growing up. Her escape from reality. It had always been a place where she could be herself, and not whatever it was her parents wanted her to be. When she was barely three, her grandfather had put a paintbrush in her hand. He didn’t care what she painted, including the walls of his house. Everything was a masterpiece. George Harris taught Eloise how to use her hands and mind to create the world around her with painting, sketching, or pottery. He was a master of the arts, and Eloise was his apprentice.
Margaux’s, the two-story white brick building with black accents, sat on the rounded bend on the most prominent street in Seaport. Summer flowers in wooden flower boxes decorated the front and the black and white awning, with lights added to the ambiance. Upstairs, artists could rent rooms for whatever they needed. Whether to paint, sculpt, or write. From the outside, no one could tell this was one of the most sought-after locations in the city. The real estate value alone had investors knocking on the door daily.
“You know,” Fraser said, interrupting her thoughts. “The studio is on the tourism pamphlet now.”
“Really?” Eloise wasn’t surprised, but then again, she was wholly biased.
“Last year, the new Chamber of Commerce director revamped the website, the brochures, and had a couple different commercials produced to build up tourism. I’m surprised your aunt didn’t tell you she shot a feature.”
Eloise thought that was odd. Seaport never had any trouble enticing visitors before. “Nope, she didn’t. How come there’s such a big push for tourism?”
“Target new people. Younger crowds,” he told her. “It worked. The hotels are booked from May until September. The restaurants are packed. Seaport is booming during the summer.”
They crossed the street, and Fraser held the door open for Eloise. She stepped in and inhaled the scent of vanilla—her aunt’s favorite smell. As much as Eloise wanted to look around, the excitement of seeing her aunt had her dropping her bag and rushing toward the back.
Margaux came around the corner and grinned from ear-to-ear, holding her arms out for her niece. The two embraced, hugging each other tightly. “Oh, I have missed you my sweet girl.”
“Me, too,” Eloise whispered. For the first time in years, Eloise felt like she was truly home. Home wasn’t where you laid your head at night or where you hung your hat, it was where your heart was, and her heart was with her aunt.
The two women parted. Margaux cupped Eloise’s cheeks and beamed with delight. “You being here means everything to me.”
“I had no idea how much I needed this until now. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. My dad—”
“Hush. You’re home now, that’s all that matters.” They hugged again until Margaux let Eloise go. “Where’s your stuff?”
“I left it by the door with Fraser.”
“Fraser? I didn’t know you were still in contact.”
“We’re not,” Eloise said. “He saw me right after I got off the ferry and offered to help me with my luggage.”
“Oh, well, he was always such a nice young man.” Margaux’s eyes widened knowingly.
“No,” Eloise said. “Just no.” She didn’t want her aunt getting any ideas. She was there to paint, figure life out, and enjoy her summer.
Margaux laughed. They made their way to the front, where they found Fraser rocking back and forth on his heels. He turned at the sound of them approaching and ran his hand over his short hair.
“I should go,” he told them. “I’m going to be late for work. You should stop by when you have time. Drinks are on the house.”