Page 31 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

TWELVE

Jules knelt in the shade beside the mural wall, knees pressed into cool concrete, hands already stained with yesterday’s cobalt and ochre.

The street was mostly empty—vendors rolling carts across uneven pavement, bakery doors propped open, the air heavy with the scent of sugar and baked goods.

Jules lined up their brushes by size and thumbed through their battered sketchbook, reviewing the day’s plan.

They’d made good progress yesterday, but not as much as they’d hoped for.

The unfinished mural sprawled across the brick: wheat fields here, a burst of wildflowers there, one section still a mess of lines and half-imagined shapes.

Jules studied it, chewing the inside of their cheek as they made small, looping notes in the margin.

The right side needed more movement—maybe a sweep of gold, something to balance the hard lines of the barn.

They mixed a new batch of paint, the familiar scrape and swirl grounding, but their mind wouldn’t quiet.

Anticipation buzzed beneath their skin, tangled with something sharper—anxiety, maybe, or that old ache that came from being watched.

In the quiet, it was easy to imagine the street filling up, people drifting over, eyes lingering on every brushstroke.

They wanted to lose themselves in the flow, to be just hands and color and the low hum of music from the bakery radio.

But already, they could feel the weight of expectation settling on their shoulders.

Yesterday, they were unprepared for how many people approached them, asking about their vision for the mural. Even the compliments they received were a pain because every visitor pulled them out of the flow.

I just want to disappear into color, Jules thought, squeezing a blob of yellow onto the palette.

They set the first brush to the wall, letting the bristles drag a sunlit arc through the blue. For a moment, the tension eased. The mural belonged to them—at least until the second day of the Art Crawl started.

Jules was so focused on their work that they barely noticed the opening of the makers’ market or the first indie music artist taking the stage outside Brew & Barrel.

Locals drifted over in ones and twos, drawn by the bright sweep of color growing across the wall.

Jules could feel the shift even before anyone spoke: a gentle pressure, not unwelcome, but impossible to ignore.

“Morning, Jules!” Mrs. Barnes called, her arms full of peonies and greens from her garden. She paused, head tilted, taking in the new patch of wildflowers Jules had added near the bottom corner. “That’s my old barn, isn’t it? You made it look better than it ever did in real life.”

Jules grinned, wiping a streak of yellow from their knuckle. “Art’s good for a little revisionist history.” They angled the brush, adding a few more dabs of gold to the wheat field. “You think it needs more?”

Before Mrs. Barnes could answer, a pair of little kids darted up—one clutching a frosted donut, the other tugging their sleeve. “Is there a dragon in the clouds?” the older one asked, eyes wide.

“Not yet,” Jules replied, crouching to their level. “But that does sort of look like a dragon’s tail. Maybe I should turn it into one.” They flicked a quick curl of blue into the sky, letting the brush dance. “Do you want to help me decide where the head goes?”

The kid nodded excitedly. Jules handed over a spare chalk stick and lifted her up, letting her sketch a lopsided snout. Mrs. Barnes laughed, the sound light and easy, and pressed a paper bag into Jules’s free hand. “For later. Artists need fuel.”

A few families gathered near the curb, sipping coffee and trading quiet compliments.

“You should do a whole series,” said Mr. Burton, one of Jules’s old teachers.

“The history of Maple Hill in murals. If that’s too ambitious, even canvases that could be hung in businesses around town would be delightful.

I’ve got some old photos I could show you. ”

Jules’s cheeks warmed. “That’s—wow, I never really thought about that. But I’d love to see the photos.”

As the street filled, the rhythm of painting shifted.

The community’s presence was a steady thrum—kids asking questions, parents offering snacks, neighbors sharing stories about long-gone hardware stores or the year the river flooded Main Street.

Each interruption tugged Jules out of their head, but the flow didn’t break.

Instead, it grew richer, layered with laughter and stray bits of local memory.

“It’s like the whole town’s painting with me,” Jules said to the dragon-drawing kid, who beamed in response. Before long, a group of kids had taken over a blank section of the wall and were adding their own touches to it. Jules’s heart swelled, realizing this was why they loved art so much.

For a while, everything felt easy. Their hands moved in time with the swirl of voices, paint mixing with sunlight.

The mural took on new life—unexpected pops of color, shapes suggested by a child’s imagination or a neighbor’s memory.

Jules felt the joy that had diminished the day before returning: the sense of belonging, of being woven into the fabric of Maple Hill alongside every story and every hand that reached out, even just to pass a napkin or point out a favorite flower.

In those moments, art was simple. It was connection, laughter, the low buzz of community. And for once, Jules let themself believe they could be part of it all, not just the artist on the edge, but someone seen and welcomed, brush in hand, right in the heart of things.

The crowd around the mural ebbed and flowed as the morning spun on.

Jules lost track of time, letting the cadence of laughter and questions settle into the background.

Their arms grew heavy as they worked, sweat beading at their temples.

When the last of the families wandered away, the bakery’s radio hummed in the background, broken only by the distant clang of a delivery truck.

That’s when Jules felt it—a different kind of attention.

Not the soft, familiar curiosity of neighbors, but something sharper, more precise.

A man lingered at the edge of the sidewalk, arms folded.

He wore a navy blazer despite the heat, sunglasses perched on his head, a leather notebook in hand.

Jules had seen him once or twice during the Art Crawl, always watching, never speaking.

Now, he stepped closer, his gaze coolly appraising the mural.

“Impressive use of color,” he said, voice clipped and urbane. “Would you say your palette choices are more impressionist or expressionist?”

Jules blinked, brush poised midair. The question felt like a pop quiz in a class they’d never taken. “Uh, I don’t know. I just go with what feels right. I’m mostly self-taught.”

He scribbled something in the notebook. “Interesting. Who are your influences? Any formal training?”

Jules’s cheeks burned. “Not really. I just…paint. I like color. I try to make it feel alive.”

The man’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “And your process—do you plan everything out, or is it more intuitive?”

Jules shifted their weight, the paintbrush suddenly heavy in their hand. “I sketch a little, but mostly I make it up as I go. Sometimes, the canvas tells me what it wants.”

He made another note. “Have you shown in galleries? Sold work?”

Jules’s confidence shrank, shoulders curling in. “A couple of commissions. Nothing big.”

“Hmm.” He stepped back, studying the mural as if weighing its worth. “You have a certain raw energy. It’s rough, but…compelling. I’ll be watching your progress.”

Jules managed a tight nod as he turned away, disappearing into the flow of festival-goers.

The space he left behind felt colder, the mural’s colors suddenly too bright, too loud.

Jules’s hand trembled, paint smudging the edge of the cloud they’d been working on.

After seeing how excited the kids were this morning, they’d decided to hide as many animals in the mural as possible to create a bit of an interactive installation.

But no matter how they tried, the stranger’s criticism lingered in the back of their mind, erasing all of the good feelings from earlier.

Am I a fraud? Should I know these things? Should I have had a better answer?

A shadow interrupted their spiral. Paige, all bounce and sun-streaked curls, slid between Jules and the mural with a practiced smile. “Hey, superstar.” She threw a quick glance down the street, then back at Jules. “Everything okay?”

Jules tried to smile, but it didn’t quite land. “Just got grilled by someone who thinks I should know my art history.”

“Ugh. Art snobs.” Paige rolled her eyes, then raised her voice just enough for anyone lingering nearby to hear. “You need a sign that says, ‘Compliments welcome, criticism can be kept to yourself.’” She nudged Jules’s elbow. “Want me to run interference if he comes back?”

Jules let out a shaky breath. “No, I’m good. I just… He made it sound like I was making it all up as I went.”

“Which is exactly what you’re supposed to do,” Paige insisted, her tone gentle but firm. “That’s why people love your work. You make this feel alive, not like something pulled out of a textbook.” She squeezed Jules’s shoulder. “Don’t let one guy ruin your day.”

Relief washed through Jules, slow and tentative.

Paige’s presence was grounding, her sibling energy a shield against the lingering sting of the stranger’s scrutiny.

Now that they were dating her big brother, she was ready to stand guard wherever needed.

The friendship they’d shared over the years had taken on a whole new meaning, one Jules savored.

For the first time since the man had walked away, Jules felt their breath even out, the tension in their chest beginning to ease.

“Thanks,” Jules murmured, voice small but grateful. “You always know what to say.”

Paige grinned and handed over a granola bar. “Eat. Hydrate. And remember—you’re not here to impress anyone but yourself. The rest of us are just lucky to watch.”

Jules nodded, the weight in their chest a little lighter. With Paige at their side, the mural didn’t feel quite so daunting, the colors not quite so loud. The world narrowed to the two of them, a bubble of safety in the middle of Main Street.

They were still standing there, Paige chattering about her students’ latest art disasters, when Keaton’s familiar silhouette appeared in the distance, lunch tote in hand.

Keaton approached quietly, his steps measured, as if he’d already guessed the mood before he’d even arrived. He stopped just outside the reach of the mural’s paint splatters, holding a lunch tote, and waited for Jules to nod before coming closer.

“Hey,” Keaton said, his voice low and meant just for Jules. “Brought you a break.”

Jules tried for a smile. “You always show up with food right when I need it.”

Keaton’s mouth twitched. “It’s either that or you pass out on a ladder and get me in trouble with my mom for letting you skip lunch.”

Paige grinned and squeezed Jules’s arm. “I’m off to wrangle kids. Shout if you need backup, Picasso.” She gave Keaton a look that Jules recognized—a silent handoff of responsibility.

Keaton set the lunch out on a folding table, unpacking sandwiches, chips, and a thermos of coffee. He set out two mugs—one with a cartoon frog, the other plain.

Jules sat down, feeling the tremor in their hands. Keaton slid the frog mug and a sandwich over. “Eat. You don’t have to talk. Just sit with me.”

They ate in silence, but Jules didn’t feel pressured to fill it. Keaton didn’t ask questions or try to fix anything. He just sat there, his knee bumping Jules’s under the table, a quiet reminder that Jules wasn’t alone.

Jules let out a slow breath, feeling their shoulders relax. The simple act of eating together with Keaton’s steady presence made the tension in their chest ease. The mural loomed, unfinished, but for now, Jules could set that worry aside.

Keaton glanced over. “You don’t have to paint for anyone else. Just yourself.”

Jules nodded. “I know. It’s easy to forget.”

Keaton squeezed their knee. “That’s why I’m here. To remind you.”

Jules looked at the paint on their fingers, then back at Keaton. “Thanks. For lunch. For everything.”

Keaton’s reply was quiet. “Anytime.”

They finished their food, the festival noise fading into background static. For the first time that day, Jules could breathe again.