Tequila Rose by Willow Winters (pdf e book reader TXT) 📕

As Griffin and I review the plans on the only installed booth with the smell of fresh paint and sawdust all around us, he stops in the middle of his sentence.

“You okay?”

I meet his gaze. “I’m fine. Just imagining this bar filled, with a TV right there,” I say and gesture to the far corner. “A college game on and this whole town in here, drinking our beer while they cheer on the home team.”

Griffin comically mimics a roar of cheers and a huff of a laugh leaves me.

“Everything’s coming together,” I say then raise an imaginary glass and click my tongue when he pretends to clink his imaginary glass against mine.

“Missed you, bro,” he tells me with a grin.

Nodding, I tell him that I’m glad I’m here with him. Glad isn’t the right word, though. I can’t shake this feeling that’s come over me since I got here. I don’t think I like it. But part of me is excited as all hell by it.

It’s just nerves. That’s all this is. I’m sure of it.

We head outside with the intention of checking out our competition in town, a.k.a. having a few beers around town, and lean on my truck for a few moments, taking advantage of the fresh air and catching some late afternoon rays of sun.

The sound of keys jingling approaches up the sidewalk, and next thing I know a gorgeous woman, petite with long blond hair, walks by us, then waits on the corner for the light to change so she can cross the street.

Griffin is saying something but his voice turns into background noise, my eyes drawn to her like she said my name even though I know she didn’t.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and an eerie feeling of déjà vu comes over me.

Long strands of blond hair cascade down her back. She wears a pastel floral skirt along with a simple cream tank top to match.  I don’t recognize her as anyone I’ve run into since I’ve been in this town, but I feel like I know her.

The light changes and as I watch her cross the street, something stirs from within me. Despite the fact that I didn’t get the closest look, the prick of familiarity with her is so strong.

“You ever see that girl before?” I blurt out, interrupting Griffin as I tip my chin in her direction. It’s a small town. He told me once that everyone knows everyone.

He turns his head to get a good look at her and his brow furrows. “Yeah, sure. She’s a few years younger than me, I think. My uncle knew her family, or at least he knew her father. Pretty sure everyone did. Magnolia Williamson.”

“Magnolia,” I say, repeating her name so I can ease my voice over the softly spoken syllables. I don’t remember ever meeting a Magnolia. She disappears out of my line of sight and I turn my attention back to Griffin.  “I don’t know anyone named Magnolia, but she seems familiar.”

“Her father ran some faulty investment scheme that went downhill. He lost a lot of money for a lot of people. Then the asshole went and died a few years ago and left her to pick up the pieces. Gum?”

Griffin holds out a stick of Wrigley’s gum for me to take.

“No thanks,” I say and wave him off.

He squints and looks at me as he shoves the piece into his mouth. “Why so curious?”

I shrug and swing around to the door of my pickup.

“She reminds me of a girl I once knew. But her name was Rose.”

Magnolia

Placing another sold sign on the original piece from a local artist, I let the sense of pride I’m feeling prance into a smile on my face.  The new website is working like a dream.

And that was my idea. 

A giddy little dance, one that lasts all of five seconds and ends with me looking over my shoulder to make sure no one passing by the empty art gallery was watching, is my reward.  That and a bigger paycheck.

The art in the gallery is stunning and photography can’t capture it.  Video sure does a hell of a good job, though. My black heels go clickety-click on the old worn barn floors of the gallery as I make my way back to the counter.  It’s the only piece of furniture in this place, bar the two simple white benches at the very front by the twin bay windows. We have art displayed both on the wall and on easels.  No drinks are allowed in here so we don’t have a reason for tables, unless we’re holding an event.

The twelve-foot-high ceilings are white, as are the walls.  It’s stark and bare, which it should be if you ask me. The art is the point.  The art should be everything. Those pieces are the only thing anyone should be looking at in here.

Every square inch of this place is perfect … because the art is unique, exceptional and fully on display.

It sells substantially better online, though.  Especially now that we have videos of each individual piece and a strong social media presence.

Nowadays, everything sells better online according to Mandy.  My boss has a generation of experience more than me, complete with darn good taste.  She also has a closet and a half of high-end clothes for all her trips up to New York that make me envious of her.  And a husband who loves her and two perfect children who are my age but still in college. Graduate school for one, med school for the other.

She’s the epitome of what every one of my classmates wanted to be when I was at UD for art history.

Her own gallery, trips to every opening around the world worth mentioning in Aesthetica Magazine … and