Chapter 5
Putting Down Roots
The smell of fresh paint still lingered in my cottage. Three days had passed since our excursion, and somehow, in those three days, I had managed to turn half of my living room into an art studio. Paintbrushes sat in jars on the windowsill. Tubes of paint were scattered across my new coffee table. A palette covered in dried greens and blues rested beside an empty mug that I was fairly certain had once contained coffee. And leaning against the far wall were three finished paintings. I stepped back from them, folding my arms.
The first was Moonwater Lake. I’d painted most of it while standing on the grassy bank with Mai and Cobalt. It had been midday with the sun high and bright overhead. The water had been still and glassy, reflecting the sky in broken, shimmering pieces. I hadn’t tried to soften it or romanticize it afterward—I’d simply painted it exactly as it had been. When I got home, I did add tiny hints of lavender among the greenery— the lake had felt more alive than I’d managed to capture at first.
The second was the old stone bridge. It crossed the creek that led toward town, its gray weathered stonework and worn path looking as though they had been there forever. I had painted it beneath a canopy of trees, with sunlight breaking through the leaves and scattering gold across the path.
The third was the oak tree. The enormous one that stood just beyond Grandma’s garden. My garden. I tilted it forward to look at it better for a moment. I didn’t know why, I just liked that tree. It seemed like the oldest thing around the farm. Like it had been here years before this cottage was even built, and it would be here long after the cottage was gone.
I stepped closer to the canvases and tilted my head. “I don’t hate them.”
Coming from me, that was practically glowing praise. Artists were their own worst critics. At least, I certainly was. I had already found at least a dozen things I wanted to change in each painting. But for once, I stopped myself. They didn’t have to be perfect, they just had to be mine.
I carefully leaned the newest canvas back against the living room wall to dry and opened the front door. The summer air greeted me. I stepped onto the porch, letting the screen door fall shut behind me.
The farm looked… tired. There was no other word for it. Once, this farm had probably been bursting with life. Now, it was mostly patches of tall grass, a few stubborn plants, and an old wooden trellis that had collapsed sometime before I arrived that I was just now noticing.
I walked down the steps and crossed the yard. The grass brushed against my ankles as I made my way toward the garden. I crouched beside one of the old beds and pushed aside a handful of weeds. There was a tiny green sprout underneath. “Well, hello there.”
I carefully cleared the weeds around it. I had no idea what it was. A vegetable, maybe. A flower. Possibly just another weed that had somehow convinced itself it belonged there. Either way, I left it alone. The farm didn’t need to be perfect, just like my paintings. Neither did I.
I stood and took in the farm. For the first time, I tried to imagine what this place could become. I could already picture it. Flowers lining the walkway. Chickens scratching around the yard. A few fruit trees. A little vegetable patch. Herbs growing beside the kitchen window. Maybe even a goat or two someday. The thought made me laugh quietly. A goat. I had been here for less than a week and I was already imagining farm animals.
The windows of my cottage were open, letting the familiar paint smell escape into the afternoon air. My paintings were drying inside. My boxes were still stacked in the hall. Half of my things hadn’t even found permanent places yet, and I had been painting instead of unpacking. I swallowed, shaking my head. “One step at a time, Pearl.”
The sound of tires crunching over gravel pulled me from my thoughts. I turned. A dark blue pickup truck rolled into the driveway. I immediately recognized Mai in the passenger seat.
She leaned out the window. “There you are!”
I laughed. “You know you could’ve just texted.”
“And miss the opportunity to dramatically show up at your house?” The truck came to a stop. “Absolutely not.” Mai climbed out before Cobalt had even finished shutting off the engine.
He followed at a much calmer pace, closing the driver’s door behind him. “I tried telling her that.”
Mai looked over her shoulder. “You never try very hard.”
“I value my life.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“We brought food.” Mai held up a paper sack triumphantly.
Cobalt grabbed another bag from the truck. “We also brought lemonade.”
“You’re both forgiven for arriving unannounced.”
We carried everything onto the porch. The three of us ate lunch there, sitting on the old wooden steps because the porch furniture was still covered in a thick layer of dust. Sandwiches from the bar. Fresh strawberries Kiwi had been selling in town. Homemade lemonade. Sitting there with the breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers across the fields, it felt better than anything fancy could have.
Mai kicked her feet lightly against the step. “So,” she said. “How’s farm life?”
“Messy.”
“That’s not exactly a glowing review.”
“I didn’t say bad.”
Cobalt glanced toward the garden. “You’ve been working on it?”
“A little.”
“A little?” Mai repeated.
I shrugged. “I pulled some weeds.”
Mai looked at the yard. “You pulled enough weeds to make a noticeable difference.”
“I had help.”
“From who?”
“The weeds.”
Cobalt grinned, amused.
Mai stared at me for a second before shaking her head. “You’re getting used to it.”
“To what?”
“This.” She gestured toward the farm. “Living here. Having your own place. Being… Pearl. Without the chains of your family.”
I smiled faintly. Four days ago, I’d been thinking about how much work the farm needed. Now I was thinking about flowers. Animals. What I could do with the garden. Somewhere along the way, the list had stopped feeling like work.
Cobalt took a sip of lemonade. “This place really is beautiful.”
“It just needs someone to love it again.” I looked across the property. “I hope I’m enough.”
Cobalt’s expression softened. “You don’t have to fix everything this summer.”
“I know, and I probably won't be able to.” I picked at the corner of my sandwich. “But I want to try.”
For a few minutes, we simply sat there. No plans. No errands. No expectations. Just the three of us and the quiet sounds of the countryside.
Then Mai’s eyes drifted toward the open front door. She pointed accusingly. “Is that a painting?”
I hesitated. “Technically.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Pearl.”
“What?”
“You’re hiding paintings from me? You said you’d show me and you haven’t so far.”
“I’m not hiding them. I just haven’t finished cleaning yet.”
“That has nothing to do with the paintings.” She stood.
“Mai—” Too late. She was already walking inside.
“Should I stop her?”
“You know you can’t.”
He paused for a second, and then sighed in resignation. “I know.” He followed her inside.
A few seconds later, Mai shouted from the living room. “PEARL! You painted all these already? When do you sleep?”
I walked into the room to find her standing in front of the three landscapes. Her mouth hung open. Cobalt stood beside her, staring at the paintings.
Mai turned toward me. “These are incredible.”
“They’re not—”
“They are.”
“They’re just practice.”
“They’re gorgeous.”
Cobalt stepped closer to the painting of Moonwater Lake. His eyebrows lifted. “Wow.”
I felt my cheeks warm. “They’re really nothing special.”
Mai slowly turned toward me. I knew that look. “I need you to listen very carefully.”
Uh-oh. That tone never meant anything good. I sighed. “Mai.”
“You.” She pointed dramatically at me. “Need.” Another point. “To.” Another. “Sell.” One final point, at the paintings this time. “These.”
I blinked. “I…”
“No arguments.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were, and I refuse to hear it.”
I looked at the three paintings. Sell them. I’d always dreamed about it. Not seriously. Not in the way people made plans, figured out prices, and actually put their work somewhere for strangers to see.
It had always been one of those dreams that was safer because it stayed a dream. Dreams couldn’t reject you. They couldn’t look at something you’d poured your heart into and decide it wasn’t worth buying.
“I just don’t know if anyone would actually buy them.”
Cobalt folded his arms. “I would.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not.” He pointed toward the lake. “I genuinely like that one.”
Mai nodded enthusiastically. “So do I.”
I looked back at the paintings. I had been so focused on everything that was wrong with them that I hadn’t stopped to consider what was right. The lake looked like the lake. The stone bridge looked like the stone bridge. The oak tree looked like the oak tree. They were pieces of a place I was only just beginning to know, and somehow already cared about. Maybe that was enough.
Mai stepped closer to the painting of the bridge. “You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“People here love this town.”
I frowned slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. They put pictures of it everywhere. Little paintings, photographs, decorations. Tourists buy things that remind them of places they’ve visited.”
Cobalt agreed. “She might actually have a point.”
“Don’t encourage her.”
“I’d rather encourage her than listen to you talk yourself out of something.”
“That sounds suspiciously personal.”
Cobalt was smirking. “Probably because I’ve known you for five minutes and I can already tell you do it.”
I rolled my eyes, but smiled anyway. “You two are impossible.”
“And you’re avoiding the point.” Mai turned back toward the paintings. “Someone might buy these, Pearl.”
I stared at them. “What if no one wants them?”
“What if someone does?”
That question stayed with me. What if someone does?
Eventually, Mai and Cobalt gathered their things. At the door, Mai turned around. “And don’t you dare paint another twenty pictures before I come back.”
“No promises.”
“Don’t, missy.”
Cobalt chuckled quietly. “See ya, Pearl.”
“See you.”
I watched their truck disappear down the gravel road. The farm was quiet again. I stood in the doorway for a moment, listening to the fading sound of the engine. I looked back at the paintings again. The three of them leaned quietly against the living room wall. Waiting.
I walked over to the painting of Moonwater Lake. My fingers brushed lightly along the edge of the canvas. Someone might recognize the lake. Someone might want this hanging in their home. Someone might smile every time they walked past it. I carried the painting toward the window and held it up to the afternoon light. For the first time, I was only looking at what I’d managed to create, instead of criticizing it. That realization felt bigger than it probably should have.
Tomorrow, I’d ask around town if anyone knew where local artists sold their work. Maybe nobody would want them, but maybe somebody would. For once, I didn’t need to know which one it would be.
I looked out the window at the old farm. The weeds. The fences. The garden. The shed. The chicken coop. There was a lot of work ahead of me. But it didn’t feel quite so overwhelming anymore. And for the first time since I’d arrived, I wasn’t wondering whether I had made the right choice. I was wondering what I could build here.
I glanced back at the other two paintings. “Tomorrow,” I whispered. Then I smiled. “One step at a time.”