Page 1 of Hargrave Artistry (Brookwell Island)

Chapter One

Natalie Hargrave was well aware she was the baby of the family. No one had to remind her, she’d been protected and sheltered her entire life.

Truly, she was grateful.

Her parents had raised her to be responsible and self-sufficient, but she had also been given every opportunity to follow wherever her heart led. Sometimes—rarely—her heart led her astray. More often—like right now—the path offered a lovely adventure.

She stared at her latest finished sculpture, overflowing with gratitude for the end result.

Her art could lean toward the abstract, but the three pieces Brookwell Island had commissioned her to put together had become expressive depictions of the island itself. Or more accurately, what she felt made this island so very special.

As a mixed media artist, she didn’t always work on such large pieces. But she would do just about anything for this particular town with its charming streets, gorgeous beaches, and welcoming residents.

Brookwell Island—specifically the vacation house her father had purchased when she and her sisters were young—was her favorite destination. She’d traveled extensively in her thirty-two years—with the family, with school and educational trips, and on her own.

Of all those varied destinations, Brookwell remained her favorite. Her favorite town, her favorite coastline, and her favorite people.

She smiled as two of those people approached her now.

“Is it done?” The little boy, Bryce, was holding his Aunt Sharon’s hand. Sharon Trumble was one of the most talented painters Natalie had ever met. Also one of the most down-to-earth women. She was the example Natalie wanted to grow into someday.

“You know, Bryce, I decided it is,” she replied.

“You just choose?” he asked his nose wrinkling. “Is that how it works, Aunt Sharon?”

“That seems to be how it’s worked for Miss Natalie.”

She decided not to inundate the little guy with all the details that factored into her marking a project complete. She was sure Sharon could sympathize and explain it better to him one day. Sometimes—this time in particular—the product was declared finished in order to meet a deadline.

The art gallery on Central Avenue that often featured Sharon’s paintings had given her a space to work on the commissioned sculptures in the service alley that ran the length of the block behind the row of storefronts.

For weeks, she’d been drawing a small crowd on the days when she worked outside, fitting together a mish-mash of items into something greater.

A still piece that evoked movement and emotion in the environment and the viewer.

It was her passion. Creating something substantial from a spark as fleeting as a thought was her first love.

Considering the way her romantic life had spun out, it might well be her last love.

She could live with that. Lately she’d been envisioning a life of complete independence, traveling where she wished, hooking up with whomever she met, and moving on when the mood struck.

It wasn’t an impossible dream. She was building a reputation for her artwork and teaching that was starting to pay off.

Plus, she had the stability of the B&B business partnership with her sisters.

After their mother died, the three of them inherited the family’s summer house.

Rather than just keep it to themselves, they turned it into the Hargrave Hideaway.

The decision had been one of their best moves ever. They’d gained a five-star reputation for hospitality in an exclusive location. And eventually turned it into a full house rental, giving them even more freedom to go with the increased income.

Well, freedom when it wasn’t her week to tend to the guests.

She checked her phone, knowing soon it would be time to put on her shuttle-driver hat and get the current guests to the airport.

“What do you think?” she asked Bryce.

To her surprise he didn’t just blurt out any old answer. He walked all the way around the sculpture.

“You’ve taught him well,” she murmured to Sharon. The older woman beamed with pride.

“I think it looks like a pelican made out of fish,” Bryce said after a couple of circuits. “But what are the fish made of?”

“Aluminum cans,” she said. “I cut them open and twisted them inside out.”

“Cool!” He bounced up and down. “How come some are dark?”

“Those are the ones I burned.”

“With the torch.” He gave her a big grin. “I saw you. We saw you.”

A bunch of people had probably seen her do that. It was a miracle she hadn’t stirred up any gossip and gotten blamed for the fire out at the Hideaway a few weeks ago. But something about his little guy’s reaction made it feel far more important.

Bryce pointed toward the end of the alley. “Aunt Sharon let me watch from right over there.”

Nat suppressed a smile. The kid was adorable. “What did you think?”

“It was super cool. And you got to wear really big goggles.”

“Safety first and always,” she said, earning a nod from Sharon.

He looked at his aunt. “You don’t wear goggles when you paint.”

“You’re right, I don’t. Painting rarely poses a safety risk. Different processes require different precautions. You must work safely and correctly no matter what tools you use. You’ve seen me wear goggles when we work out in the yard sometimes.”

“Yeah. And the big gloves.”

“Those too,” Sharon agreed. “Let’s let Miss Natalie get back to her work.”

Bryce dug in his heels. “She said she was done.”

“Look around.” Sharon crouched down to his level. “Do you think this is where her supplies and tools should stay? You remember that clean up time is an important part of the process.”

“That’s true,” Nat agreed.

“We can help,” Bryce offered.

He really was the sweetest kid. “Another time, how about?”

His chin bobbed up and down. “I’ll talk to Mom. She’ll say it’s okay. She works across the street,” he informed her.

At the Island Bloomers flower shop. Natalie and her sisters coordinated with Bryce’s mom, Molly, and the shop owner Nina, to keep fresh flowers at the Hideaway. “All right then,” she said to Bryce. “I’ll look forward to your help on another day.”

He waved and soon the adorable pair were gone.

She did clean up the workspace, and she rolled the finished sculpture toward the gallery, wrangling it into the storage area. Once the city approved the sculptures, they would be installed and revealed to minor fanfare.

Big fanfare to her. She’d never been invited to participate in this kind of a commission before. Her mind filled with a view of how she imagined it would go. Her sisters would be front and center, as proud as could be. Their mom would be there in spirit.

And her father… Absent. She didn’t even know how to reach him these days. At one time, she’d been the quintessential daddy’s girl, now she was afraid she was developing some troubling daddy issues.

The alarm on her phone went off and she said goodbye to the gallery owners and dashed off to the Hideaway. It wouldn’t take long to get everyone checked out and to the airport on time.

After that, she might treat herself to an evening of building tiny sandcastles on the Hideaway’s private beach before heading home to Veronica’s place.

The younger of her two older sisters, Veronica had bought a house here on Brookwell when they opened the B&B, giving them easier access as they launched their business.

Natalie found sharing a house with her sisters now that they were adults a bit weird.

They were getting along remarkably well considering their individual eccentricities.

It amused her to imagine how shocked their parents would be.

Nat figured it helped Veronica a great deal that she and Celeste traveled often.

Since changing their business model at the B&B to full-house rentals, Celeste had given up her suite at the Hideaway that she’d called home.

She was adapting well to the changes. For Nat, it wasn’t much different.

She was part nomad at heart, enjoying the variety in moving from one short-term teaching assignment to another around the state.

It gave her the flexibility she needed to hold up her end of the Hideaway business and still find inspiration in everyday beauty and experiences.

But right now, she wanted the familiar. Her body yearned for the beach she knew so well—to feel the scrub of the sand underfoot, hear the soft drum of the surf in her ears, and lean into the rejuvenating breeze that would tug at her hair and fill her lungs.

Carving small sandcastles had become a bit of a ritual after finishing big projects. She could lose herself in something small and easily completed. Something whimsical that would wash away with the next incoming tide.

Eccentric? Her family would definitely think so. Which was why she’d never been inclined to tell them about it.