Rooms - James L. Rubart [92]
“You said fun, not shopping.”
“So that promise you made about seeing locally made crafts with me at least twice this summer . . .”
“Yeeeeees!” Micah stood and launched into his radio voice. “And that promise is about to come true! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, can you think of a better way to spend your Saturday? No? Me neither! The Nehalem’s Art Festival. Yeehaw!”
“You think that’s amusing, don’t you?”
“Mildly.”
“How’s tomorrow, as long as you’re not previously engaged.”
“And if I am?” Micah wandered toward his kitchen.
“Tell her you’re utterly intrigued by another woman.”
“You’re funny—”
“Thank you.”
“—sometimes,” finished Micah. “Pick you up at eleven?”
“Perfect.”
Micah hung up the phone and smiled. Definitely in love. The wanna-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you type of love.
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The Nehalem’s Art Festival boasted more than thirty booths, some stuffed to overflowing, others with just the right amount of merchandise, the artists manning them having figured out the fine line between having too much and too little space to display their treasures.
They wandered past dried-flower arrangements, handcrafted cribbage boards, and strawberry-scented candles before they stopped at a booth featuring paintings. The artist sat on a tall pine stool, her back to them. She was engrossed in the beginning stages of a new painting, a dried-out riverbed in the high mountains.
“You like these?” Sarah motioned to the finished pieces.
“Yeah, I do. And you?”
“Not really my style.”
“So what is your style?”
“I’ll let you know when I see it,” Sarah said.
Micah watched her move off, then turn back after realizing he hadn’t moved. He continued to study the paintings. Sarah eased back alongside him. “Why do you like them so much?”
“They make me think—create impressions in my mind. Her technique intrigues me.”
“You have thought for my painting, yes?” The artist spoke without turning as Sarah and Micah smiled at each other and mouthed in unison, “Good ears.”
“Yeah, I have a thought,” Micah said.
“You will share it with me, yes?”
“Your paintings remind me of LaQue’s work with your use of shadows and of Thomas Glover’s use of detail.”
“Good! Very good. I studied the work of both extensively. You are collector or studied art in college?”
“No, but I . . . I do like your paintings.”
The lady turned and looked at Micah with a quizzical expression. The right side of her mouth turned up in a tiny smile. “You are serious? You are not student of art? An artist then, maybe? You must be painter yourself.” She set down her brush, got off her pine stool, and walked over to them.
“No, not an art student. And no, I don’t paint.” Micah looked down. “Actually, I don’t even know where that comment came from. It came out of nowhere.”
“Thoughts must come from somewhere, yes? Among laypeople those two artists are known little. Their styles are far from each other. So your pickup on their influence is unusual. Your insight and appreciation of painting is deep, no?”
“Um, thank you. Best of success to you.”
They walked away, and Sarah poked Micah in his side. He jumped a foot and a half sideways.
“Hey! Do you have to keep doing that to me?”
“So do I need to add art critic to your list of accomplishments?” She laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
“No.”
“What do you mean no? That lady was genuinely surprised. And impressed. Obviously you know quite a bit about art to name her influences.”
Micah rubbed his forehead and kept walking.
“Micah?”
“I don’t know where that came from.” He turned and rubbed his face with both hands. “Seriously. For some reason I just knew the names and saw their styles in her painting. But it’s gone now. I can’t even remember a word I said.”
“What?”
“One second I’m just staring at the painting like everyone else; the next this lightbulb goes off in my head and—bam!—I know who influenced her style and their names. As clear as I know software. A window opens and I see another world.” Micah snapped his fingers. “Then just as quick, the memory