Read Online Brooklyn Love (Crimson Romance) by Yael Levy - Free Book Online
Authors: Yael Levy
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
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world. She had only to look up to see the sky in pinks, somber purples, and every hue of blue. Looking down from the second floor, she could see the solidly rooted trees, whose orange and yellow leaves swayed in the wind, and the red-shingled rooftops of the other narrow Brooklyn homes surrounding hers. Comforting scenes, she always thought. Familiar in every season. A landscape that was part of where she’d always belonged.
The walls beneath the windows were covered with Rachel’s drawings and paintings, as well as photos of other artists’ works that inspired her. She loved this studio, this sanctuary, for here she felt completely at peace.
She picked up her old, splattered brush and gazed at the canvas in front of her. She had already painted the background of rickety shacks, all muted grays and browns in the gentle morning light, and she was now working on the subjects, a tall blond soldier lifting his young wife onto his horse. Rachel had been working on this painting for days, and the emotional energy required for the project was beginning to drain her. With her deadline approaching, she had no time to afford mistakes.
Dipping her brush into a deep red, she boldly painted the bride’s auburn hair. It was the same color as her own, though more vibrant in the painting. She heard Fitz’s voice in her head: “Art isn’t truth. It’s all about image.” She glanced at the green acrylic paint and debated adding it to the red. Any wrong move would put her hours behind schedule. More red or green? Should she make the logical choice — or the passionate one?
Impulsively, she brushed the green over the red hair, and then stood back and held her breath. She breathed a sigh of relief. The accent was beautiful, the quiet green pushing the red to stand out and reach its potential. She continued the delicate strokes and started thinking of the next colors to use. That’s how it is with art, she mused. There was always a balance, an ongoing dance, of using both feelings and logic to achieve one’s goal.
Her hands ached and her eyes needed rest, but Rachel kept working. The painting was due in class Monday morning, and she only had a little more than an hour left to make sure all her work was done before she would have to get ready for Shabbos. She could almost hear the bells chiming, “Bong bong bong bong! Four P.M. Friday. Time’s up. It’s the holy weekend, and if you’re not ready, you turn into a pumpkin.” At least Cinderella had had until midnight. These short fall Fridays when the sun set so early never left her enough time to get her work done. Really, she was already cutting it close at this hour, and she knew she could always rely on Ma to remind her that time was passing.
In a fury, she worked on the portrait of the girl, or how she imagined the girl would look. The couple in the painting was supposed to be her great-grandparents, though it was hard working without any pictures for reference. All the old photos had been destroyed, so the only references she could use were stories. She had heard her ancestors’ histories repeated dozens of times when the family was together, often during the three meals of Shabbos. That was family time, which was time to talk.
Thinking about how much she cherished the togetherness of Shabbos meals, Rachel recognized the smell of simmering chicken soup wafting up from the kitchen, and she realized she had better go downstairs and turn off the stove. Otherwise, the broth would simmer away and evaporate, leaving only mushy chicken, carrots, and petrishke in the pot. It had never happened on her watch, but she was sure it would be quite an ugly scene if it did.
“What’s going on with the soup, Rachel?” Ma called from downstairs.
“Ma, I’m on a deadline. Could you take care of it?” she replied.
Rachel hadn’t realized her mother had come home from work, but now that she was here, Rachel knew she could count on Ma to take over. Rachel and her mother usually
The walls beneath the windows were covered with Rachel’s drawings and paintings, as well as photos of other artists’ works that inspired her. She loved this studio, this sanctuary, for here she felt completely at peace.
She picked up her old, splattered brush and gazed at the canvas in front of her. She had already painted the background of rickety shacks, all muted grays and browns in the gentle morning light, and she was now working on the subjects, a tall blond soldier lifting his young wife onto his horse. Rachel had been working on this painting for days, and the emotional energy required for the project was beginning to drain her. With her deadline approaching, she had no time to afford mistakes.
Dipping her brush into a deep red, she boldly painted the bride’s auburn hair. It was the same color as her own, though more vibrant in the painting. She heard Fitz’s voice in her head: “Art isn’t truth. It’s all about image.” She glanced at the green acrylic paint and debated adding it to the red. Any wrong move would put her hours behind schedule. More red or green? Should she make the logical choice — or the passionate one?
Impulsively, she brushed the green over the red hair, and then stood back and held her breath. She breathed a sigh of relief. The accent was beautiful, the quiet green pushing the red to stand out and reach its potential. She continued the delicate strokes and started thinking of the next colors to use. That’s how it is with art, she mused. There was always a balance, an ongoing dance, of using both feelings and logic to achieve one’s goal.
Her hands ached and her eyes needed rest, but Rachel kept working. The painting was due in class Monday morning, and she only had a little more than an hour left to make sure all her work was done before she would have to get ready for Shabbos. She could almost hear the bells chiming, “Bong bong bong bong! Four P.M. Friday. Time’s up. It’s the holy weekend, and if you’re not ready, you turn into a pumpkin.” At least Cinderella had had until midnight. These short fall Fridays when the sun set so early never left her enough time to get her work done. Really, she was already cutting it close at this hour, and she knew she could always rely on Ma to remind her that time was passing.
In a fury, she worked on the portrait of the girl, or how she imagined the girl would look. The couple in the painting was supposed to be her great-grandparents, though it was hard working without any pictures for reference. All the old photos had been destroyed, so the only references she could use were stories. She had heard her ancestors’ histories repeated dozens of times when the family was together, often during the three meals of Shabbos. That was family time, which was time to talk.
Thinking about how much she cherished the togetherness of Shabbos meals, Rachel recognized the smell of simmering chicken soup wafting up from the kitchen, and she realized she had better go downstairs and turn off the stove. Otherwise, the broth would simmer away and evaporate, leaving only mushy chicken, carrots, and petrishke in the pot. It had never happened on her watch, but she was sure it would be quite an ugly scene if it did.
“What’s going on with the soup, Rachel?” Ma called from downstairs.
“Ma, I’m on a deadline. Could you take care of it?” she replied.
Rachel hadn’t realized her mother had come home from work, but now that she was here, Rachel knew she could count on Ma to take over. Rachel and her mother usually
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