Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Excerpt: Never Say Goodbye
About the Author
Never Say No To Love
Sonoma Summers Series (Book 2)
Jesse Devyn Crowe
PHOENIX PUBLICATIONS
ARDENVOIR, WA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, and persons, living or deceased, is coincidental.
© 2019 Jesse Devyn Crowe and Phoenix Publications, Ardenvoir, Washington. Published in the United States of America
Cover Images: Adobe Stock © deagreez and © Diego
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems without written permission of the publisher or author except where permitted by law.
Electronic publication: November 2019
In gratitude for the gift of children,
whether ours by blood or by fate...
Chapter One
The Northern California drizzle left the street artist pavilions dripping as the clouds began to clear. The Memorial Day weekend weather forecast promised eventual sun, which boded well for the Bay Area craftspeople who made their living selling handmade wares. Luckily I'd drawn a space for the weekend, so I'd rushed over from Santa Rosa early that morning to set up my booth, hoping to turn over some inventory and perhaps draw some portraits.
I positioned my placard on the awning, the swooping black lettering just above eye level. The sign read Jack's House of Many Colors, a play on the Jack London theme popular in Sonoma County. The name was also a way to maintain some androgyny in my side-business. On first glance, nobody would guess Jack was a woman, which was exactly how I liked it.
My easel rested at the front of the booth with a half-finished image of a winged fairy queen, pastels within easy reach of my stool. The tall racks behind me held some of my latest landscapes, watercolors of Sonoma Valley vineyards in bright summer sunshine, while the wide retail table beside me held bins with smaller matted prints in plastic sleeves. Vineyards weren't the only landscapes I painted in my spare time, but they were what sold, so I had a good selection of those, along with some Golden Gate Bridge and Sonoma Coast beach scenes. Tourists gravitated toward California cliché images, so I reluctantly complied, hoping to pad my savings account. One of these days I'd have enough to afford that trip to Paris and Rome to visit the art museums.
To advertise portraits, I always placed a large 3'x2' likeness of my cousin Rita in a full-length fuchsia cocktail dress holding a champagne glass on a stand at the front of the booth. Rita's warm brown hair was piled delicately on her head, curly tendrils framing her striking face. Due to the size and brilliant color, the piece captured a lot of attention, a few admirers even offering to purchase it. But my cousin had made it abundantly clear that although she'd allow me to draw it, I was damn sure not going to sell it to anyone but her.
Beside Rita, I placed some smaller children's images to show my range. You never knew when a family might drop by and commission portraits of their kids — granted, not my favorite subject, but admittedly one of my most lucrative.
As the sky cleared, the crowds swelled, tourists braving the puddles to browse the handmade crafts. Although the multi-colored booths resembled barely organized chaos, the Arts Commission managed the who, what, and where, instituting order to what used to be mayhem years ago. Thank goodness. Competition brings out the worst in people sometimes. I was glad they instituted the lottery process to make space allocation equitable for all the artists who wanted an opportunity to show in one of the most popular tourist locations in the world.
I pinned my long dark hair atop my head and sat before my easel, ready to meet and greet prospective customers and work a bit on the fairy queen. The morning passed quickly, a few print sales, but unfortunately no portraits. Pushing my disappointment aside, I positioned the first fairy queen on a small shelf facing the sidewalk and began another, a sister queen, adorned in ruby and apricot and gold, rather than the azure and amethyst that characterized the first. The delicate wings gleamed green-gold, a blur as if in motion. The verdant forest background held a simple pattern of dark green leaves and white jasmine, the flowering vine climbing a stone wall.
Around noon, a small blonde girl with freckles appeared by my side, eating a large vanilla ice cream cone.
"Hello," she said, peering around the easel.
"Hello. How are you today?" I smiled at the chubby round face.
"Whatcha drawing?" The child moved beside me to see the image. "Oh, it's a fairy!"" She reached one small hand with sticky fingers toward the easel.
"Let's not touch, okay?" I said, looking madly around for the girl's parents. "Where is your mom, sweetie? Did you bring her with you today?"
"No. She stayed home." The child's answer didn't help me any, so I pressed further.
"Is your daddy here or your auntie?" Grabbing a few paper towels, I wiped the child's gooey hands, then wrapped the ice cream cone so as to keep the sugary ooze contained.
"My daddy is here with my sister." The girl shrugged and took another voracious bite of ice cream, only to have the entire cone contents tumble first onto her yellow sun dress, then onto the pavement in my booth.
"OH," she cried, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks.
"It's okay," I said, quickly grabbing more paper towels to corral the melting goop to toss in the trash, then a few more to dab the dress.
"No," she wailed, "my daddy will be mad. He told me not to be messy."
"Everyone makes mistakes," I said, trying to make my voice sound soothing. "In fact, that same thing happened to me just yesterday." I pointed to a paint stain on my loose worn chambray shirt. "See look."
"That's a bad one," she assessed, tears forgotten for the moment.
"My name is Jacks," I said, holding out a semi-clean hand. "Could you tell me your name?"
"Hannah," she smiled. "Hannah Martin... But Jacks is a boy's name." She wrinkled her forehead in confusion. "You don't look like a boy."
Smiling, I shook my head. "No, you're right, I am definitely not a boy."
An elderly lady in a dark green sweater who couldn't help listening to our conversation selected one of my miniature matted vineyard scenes and handed me two twenty dollar bills. "She doesn't look like a boy to me either," she smiled down at the youngster.
"Thank you," I waved as the woman exited the booth.
"So Hannah, I'm worried your daddy is looking for you, thinking you are lost."
"I'm not lost," she said, very sure of herself. "I'm right here."
"How old are you?" I blurted, suddenly curious.
"Five," she said, holding out the appropriate number of fingers.
A traveling marimba band passed the booth, their music making further conversation impossible for a few moments. Hannah watched the musicians with wide eyes, her shoulders tipping back and forth. I smiled at her subdued dancing, then stood and said. "You gotta put some hips into it, girl!"
Stepping in front of the booth, I demonstrated, holding my arms out to the side, hands tipped, hips and shoulders rolling to the rhythm
as my feet moved side-to-side on the pavement. "Come on, give it a try."
Hannah began imitating me, her rosy cheeks grinning. Her long blonde hair swayed out and back as she eventually found the beat. A few tourists stopped and watched us dance together, enjoying the show. I took Hannah by the hand and twirled her around, until she became dizzy and began giggling so hard I feared she'd careen into one of my tables.
"Okay, enough for now, " I said, pinning her by the shoulders to halt her spin. "So... where did you leave your daddy and sister? "
"Over there," she pointed to the right, shrugging.
"I think we may need to find a policeman. He can help you find your daddy." I grabbed my purse, then signaled to the neighboring vendor. Keeping an eye on an adjacent booth was a courtesy we performed for each other whenever one of us needed to step away.
"No, Jacks. Please." Hannah turned her back to me, her hands covering her eyes. "I want to stay here with you."
What the hell was I supposed to do now?
"Your daddy must be so worried about you Hannah. I just know it. We need to find him. It'll be okay. Come on." I reached for her hand and after a moment's hesitation she allowed me to take it. We moved out into the crowd, but had only taken a few steps when I heard a man's desperate shout.
"Hannah! Hannah, where are you, honey?"
"She's here," I yelled back. "We're at Jack's, the pastel booth."
A moment later I caught sight of a handsome man dodging through the crowd, his eyes frantically searching every booth, another small blonde girl in tow. "Where's Jack's?" I heard him ask the pottery vendor. Finally he saw the two of us, swung the second child up to his chest, and rushed toward me.
"Thank God," the dark-haired man sputtered, his gray eyes relieved. "Thank God you found her." He set the smaller child down and squatted to hug Hannah. "I was so worried, punkin. What happened?"
"I dunno," the five-year old said, her eyes downcast. "I went to hear the guitar men playing and then I found Jacks."
"You found Jack's, yes. This nice lady was helping you." He peered up at me. "I can't thank you enough, I—"
"No," Hannah interrupted. She reached out her hand and prodded my leg. "I found Jacks."
"Jacks. That's me." I smiled at the handsome man squatting in front of me.
"I see. You found Jacks. Good job, baby."
The man stood then, his lithe frame moving with a dancer's balanced grace. "Carl Martin," he said, but did not offer his manicured hand. "I want to thank you for your time and trouble, Miss Jacks." He removed his wallet from his back pants pocket and flipped through the bills until he came to the hundreds. Grabbing one hundred, then a second, he pushed the money toward me.
I stared at the cash in disbelief, then gazed up at him. "That's really unnecessary."
Nodding, he removed an additional hundred from the wallet. "I insist. And not a word to anyone about Hannah getting lost today." He nudged the money in the direction of my hand still resting beside my leg.
I squinted at him, trying to figure out his gig. Carl Martin was quite an attractive man, but treating me as if I were some servant looking for a payout was blatantly rude. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. Or his money.
Sighing impatiently, he lowered his voice. "I am buying your silence, Miss Jacks. I don't need this incident getting any publicity. If the tabloids pick it up..." His voice sounded suddenly wretched, his eyes darting in all directions. "I could lose visitation with my children...."
Head shaking, I took one giant step backward. "Keep your money, Mr. Martin. I don't expect to be paid for a simple act of kindness."
"Then perhaps we could purchase something from you. One of these paintings?" Carl peered around, studying my small gallery booth.
In the neighborhood where I grew up, a payoff was a payoff, regardless of the trappings. I wasn't interested. I refused to accept money for helping a lost child. Grabbing my red Closed sign, I plunked it on my table. "Unfortunately, I'm closed , Mr. Martin."
I smiled at Carl’s freckled blonde daughters. "Nice to meet you, Hannah. You guys have a nice day." What I wanted to say to the man was "fuck off," but I wouldn't curse in front of his children. Instead I walked away. It was the only way I could think of to get rid of the rich jackass.
Chapter Two
The following day the weather cleared and business absolutely boomed. I sold one of my larger vineyard landscapes and more prints, and kept busy most of the day with portraits. The public attention devoted to an artist at work always astounded me. Unfortunately when the artist was me, I couldn't pay too much attention to the crowd. But after I was done, I would look around at the smiling faces and feel warm inside. Of course, I typically received glowing comments and more interested buyers afterwards as well, which was good for my pocketbook.
My last portrait of the afternoon was a lovely nine year-old Japanese child with jet-black hair. The girl's eyes were light blue, something I'd rarely seen. She sat quite still for the portrait, holding the white-blue peony her mother selected. The blues were a near match, and in the drawing I made it so, the vibrancy a contrast to her white dress and long dark hair. I always kept a bucket of flowers at my feet for portraits, often asking a girl to select one herself. I thought of it as a representation of who they were becoming. For young boys, I kept a few carved wooden toys, a train and a horse, along with a baseball mitt and small football. Older children rarely elected to hold anything, but I didn't mind because by about age 12 their clothing and jewelry choices were more characterizing and I worked with that instead.
As I wrapped the girl's portrait in brown Kraft paper, I noticed Carl Martin standing alone behind the group that had gathered to watch me work. Clad in Ray-Ban sunglasses and a deep purple golf shirt, I watched him shift anxiously from foot-to-foot. His polished Italian loafers gleamed blue-black beneath his form-fitting jeans as he approached me with a determined expression. I didn't particularly want to speak to the man again, but I didn't have much choice because my booth held a handful of interested customers perusing my prints and asking questions.
"Good afternoon, Miss Jacks," Carl said, removing his sunglasses in the shade of my booth.
"How can I help you today, Mr. Martin?" I raised my eyebrows, all business, hoping he did not want to revisit the prior day's conversation, because I absolutely would not accept the man's payoff.
The gray eyes studied me, hesitant, and I realized he was quite nervous. "I came to apologize for my horrid behavior yesterday. I —"
"Jackie, there's no price on these fairy queen pieces. Are they for sale?"
I turned to the woman standing beside my easel who had spoken. "I haven't priced them yet, Leyla. I thought I'd do a trio. Are you interested?"
"Absolutely. This is new work for you. More like fantasy portraits, yes? I love them. And so will my granddaughters." Leyla smiled, warm appreciation in her voice. Then her eyes sharpened and she stepped closer. "Are you by chance Carl Jacobs Martin?" she asked, studying the lithe man beside me.
"I am," smiled Carl. "And you are?"
"Leyla Abrams. Pleased to meet you." The older woman blushed with pleasure. "You are interested in our Ms. Jacqueline Carmichael's work today?"
"Indeed," Carl said. "My daughters were here yesterday and became positively smitten with those same fairy queen portraits. My Hannah has spoken of nothing else since."
Before my eyes, Carl transformed from nervous and hesitant to smooth and magnanimous, as if he'd somehow flipped a switch. I stared at him, perplexed. Who was this man? A celebrity I didn't recognize or something?
"I'd hoped to speak with Ms. Carmichael," — he spoke my name correctly and gazed pointedly at me — "about a commission." Carl nodded at Leyla as if it were her idea.
"How exciting!" Leyla gushed. "You can do no better than Jackie, Mr. Martin. I will leave you two alone. Unless perhaps you might...." Leyla produced a pen out of her pocketbook and what looked like an old grocery list.
"Of course," Carl agreed,
gripping the pen between his fingers and signing the paper scrap with a flourish.
By then my remaining customers had completed their purchases and followed Leyla out of the booth, leaving Carl and I to our conversation. Taking a deep breath, I piled the receipts quickly in my cash box. "You were saying something about horrid behavior?" I turned to the man beside me, my dark unpainted eyebrows raised.
"Yes, I—" Carl Martin stuttered, nervous now again. The early evening hour had driven many patrons to the Sonoma Valley's excellent restaurants. Street music played a merry accompaniment to the sound of distant traffic. We were nearly alone on the sidewalk now, with the exception of the vendors in the booth beside me packing up for the day. I needed to do the same, but first I wanted the business with Carl Martin over.
"Wait. First tell me who you are." My curiosity had gotten the better of me. I had to know.
"I am currently an agent for some rather popular people in the sports entertainment industry ," he shrugged. "Some people, like your Leyla, recognize me. Most others wouldn't."
"I see," I nodded. "So why are you here in my booth today, Carl?"
"As I was saying, I wanted to apologize for my horrid behavior when Hannah ran off on me. I was an ass. A frantic ass. Worried something terrible might have happened to her. And then I was so relieved she was found and cared for.... She told me how you cleaned up her ice cream and how you danced together and... really she's spoken of nothing else since. I wasn't joking about the fairy queen pictures earlier. Yesterday I became so concerned that she'd tell her mother about getting lost — about me losing her, that is — and the incident would be used as ammunition against me in our rather nasty custody battle." Carl threw his hands in the air and shook his head.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all this. But I want you to understand why I tried to give you that money. Idiotic as it seemed, it was out of sheer fear that the fact I'd lost my child at a street fair would somehow get out and the consequences...I don't blame you for not taking the money. I respect that. More than you know."
Never Say No to Love (Sonoma Summers Book 2) Page 1