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“Well, honey, next time, you do the choosing, okay?” John said. “I gotta run. Call me tomorrow. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t. Keep me posted on the hot date. I can’t wait to hear about it,” Iris said and disconnected. At least she could still smile at the idea of love, Iris thought as she stood from the couch. Deciding to freshen up before she explored, Iris showered and put on a simple pair of dark jeans, a loose black sweater, and grabbed her leather jacket. Slipping on her purple boots, she made sure she had her key before bounding down the stairs and out into the cool early evening air. It was weird to step out onto the street with no destination, no agenda, and no…anybody to meet. Just her. On her own. Wandering. The concept was so foreign to Iris that she wondered how she would manage being on her own.
Perhaps she was closer to burnout than she’d realized. She’d been burning the candle at both ends for years, always saying yes to every opportunity that came her way, and now she, quite literally, had nothing to do. The concept was so unusual for her that she stood outside the apartment building for several minutes, unsure where to go. Finally, realizing she might look a little ridiculous, Iris abruptly turned left and began to walk toward the water.
Her apartment building was located about midway up a hill, and houses and shops clustered together along the street that curved gently toward the harbor. The sun was just setting, casting a warm glow across the buildings, and some of the tension that gripped Iris’s shoulders eased. Nobody gave her a second look, which meant that she likely looked like just another tourist and Iris soon found herself caught up in window-shopping. She passed a pottery shop, a bakery, a textile shop, and several galleries. At one such gallery, Iris paused, seeing that the sign was still flipped to open. On impulse, she stepped inside and was immediately welcomed by the soft cedar and vanilla scent, along with gentle folk music playing over the speakers. Charmed, Iris walked to a row of photographs and smiled at one where an old man with a newsboy cap laughed in a pub. She wanted to feel the same way this picture did—carefree, relaxed, and among friends. Iris instinctively understood that whoever took the photo of this man did so with love.
“That’s our Mr. Murphy. He’s a national treasure, that one.”
Iris looked up at the voice, her eyes widening as a stunning older woman walked across the shop, nodding at the print.
“He lives here?” Iris asked, realizing the question was a bit silly, but her mind was working on overdrive to filter through the impressions she was getting from this woman. A hint of otherness about her made Iris want to tune into her spirit guides.
“He does at that. His whole life. You’ll likely see him if you head to Gallagher’s Pub for a pint at all. Are you staying here for a while?” The woman studied her with the same open assessment. It was like two footballers meeting on the pitch and neither stepping forward to challenge the other. Not that Iris was in the nature of challenging other psychics, but she did like to acknowledge when someone else dealt in the mystical like she did.
“I might be. I’m undecided at the moment,” Iris said, noncommittal as she continued to stroll the room, tuning into Lara, who was trying to get her attention. “These are lovely paintings.”
“Yes, that’s our resident artist, Aislinn. She’s quite famous for her paintings. Her use of light and colors reflects her depiction of auras or the moods she sees around nature. I’m Morgan, by the way, and I manage Aislinn’s works.”
“You need to speak to her,” Lara whispered in her mind. “She has knowledge to help you.”
Since Iris couldn’t exactly respond to Lara, she put her mental shields back up. That was the danger of having the ability to speak to spirits in her head. She often looked weird when she muttered to herself.
“That’s fascinating. Does she actually see auras, or is it just what she thinks they might look like?” Iris stopped in front of a particularly moody painting done in virulent reds and oranges with a deep burgundy streak through the middle. The violence mimicked much of the feelings that Iris had been going through that week. Not that she would buy this piece—it was too turbulent and unsettled for her—but she appreciated the honesty of the work. Something was to be said for artists who could depict all ranges of emotions, even the unsettling ones.
“You’ll have to ask her yourself,” Morgan demurred, standing next to Iris and looking down at the painting. “She was in a mood when she painted this one.”
“I can see that.” Iris laughed, glancing at Morgan and appreciating the lightness dancing in the pretty woman’s eyes. “I was just thinking what a skill she has to be able to translate such unsettling moods onto the canvas.”
“Her lighter ones sell better unless it is a seascape. I do find a moody ocean print often appeals to our clientele.” Morgan crossed the room and gestured to a wall full of paintings of the harbor at Grace’s Cove, as well as others of an empty beach. Iris was drawn to those. She stopped in front of one, in particular, her breath catching, and she knew instantly this painting was meant for her.
The sun was just setting over the darkened waters of the cove, golden rays streaking across the deep blue surface like a benediction. Craggy rock walls hugged the beach, cocooning it in privacy while waves churned around a cluster of rocks. Or were they rocks? Iris leaned closer and realized that the rocks could almost suggest the form of a person. It was as though someone had walked into the water and the finality and beauty of it caused Iris’s heart to skip a beat. Her hands trembled, and she clenched her fists tightly to avoid tearing the painting from the wall.
“I’d like to purchase this piece,” Iris said with certainty in her voice.
“It’s called The Beginning,” Morgan murmured, and Iris turned to meet her eyes. An understanding passed between them, but Iris wasn’t yet ready to explore what that meant. She was tired from travel, hungry, and more than a little untethered. There would be time to speak with this woman further if needed.
“I think it’s meant for me,” Iris said, not filtering her thoughts, and Morgan’s eyes widened slightly. She glanced down at the slim watch she wore on her wrist.
“It’s actually past our closing time, and our tills are closed. I’ll be happy to wrap it for you, and you can come back tomorrow? Or did you want to take it with you now?”
“You’d let me take it without paying for it?” Iris tilted her head in question at Morgan.
“Yes, I believe you to be trustworthy,” Morgan said, shrugging one shoulder.
So she had been measuring Iris. There was more to unpack here, but Iris knew she’d have to do so at another time.
“I’ll come back for it. I think I’m going to go to this Gallagher’s Pub I’ve heard about and get some dinner, and then I plan to fall face-first into my bed and sleep for sixteen hours. You’ll hold the painting for me, if you don’t mind?”
“I will, of course. We also have prints of it. I haven’t mentioned the price, but here’s the information. It’s quite a lot, dear, so I can also have a print framed for you if you prefer a more economical version,” Morgan said politely, slipping a small card from a little cardholder beneath the painting. Iris didn’t even glance at the price.
Which, truth be told, was probably one of the boldest and most out-of-character things she’d ever done. Aside from hopping on a plane to Ireland with no direction or real destination in mind, that is. But for someone who had spent a huge amount of her life counting pennies, not to even glance at the price tag on the painting was, well, it was kind of insane.
In a good way, Iris realized, as little bubbles of exhilaration rose inside her. Perhaps she was a little giddy from the week, but this choice felt right. The painting was meant for her, and because Iris had been so careful with her money, it didn’t hurt for her to splurge on occasion.
“Thank you, but I’d like the original. It’s a masterpiece,” Iris said. Pride filled her, like someone settling a warm velvet cape over her shoulders, and she lifted her chin. She was buying this painting. With her own money, which she’d worked really hard for. If this was the first step in finding her feet again, it felt right. She’d just have to make sure this new spending habit didn’t leak over into many frivolous things, but Iris sincerely doubted it would.
“I think you’re right. This painting is meant for you.” Morgan reached up and lifted it from the wall, carrying it across the room and through a doorway into another room. Iris didn’t follow, instead feeling a bit bereft at the empty spot that now filled the wall in front of her. “Luckily, she’s recently completed a new one that’s the same size.”
