Read Online Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) by Rebecca Patrick-Howard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rebecca Patrick-Howard
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and painted lines in firm, aggressive strokes.
I’m going to tell a story , she announced to herself, about a tavern that was owned and run by a woman. It’s a male building, but it was female command that kept it going. That’s what I’m going to paint.
In most aspects of her life she felt awkward, uneasy with herself. In college her clothes had been too bright, too colorful, for the young professionals already walking around in their black sweaters and business suits. Even in a town known for its country music she’d been embarrassed about her love of George Strait, Dwight Yoakam, and Patty Loveless, especially considering everyone she knew were all into grunge and alternative. Nobody had understood her friendship with Matt.
But when she painted…that’s when she felt like herself. Even in high school art class when she hadn’t been very good and only her art teacher encouraged her, she’d been happy.
Stoically, the tavern observed her in much the same manner she scrutinized it. Her sundress (she was down to her dresses since she couldn’t afford to do laundry at the moment) clung to her legs and ants scuttled over her feet. Her hair hung limply to her shoulders, matted in some places where the sweat gathered and dried. Thick, gooey mud was smeared across one cheek. A strap fell down to her shoulder, revealing the hint of a beige bra underneath.
She didn’t notice any of this.
Angry at herself even more now for not taking the nice man, Jamie , up on his offer and fed up with being so broke, she painted on.
Finally, when the sun started sliding in behind the clouds and she realized she’d need more linseed oil to continue, she stopped. Her canvas stared back at her, a quarter of the way completed. The real tavern waited in expectation, anticipating her next move.
Her energy had vanished, though, and she was drained. It was looking like rain, too. She couldn’t do anymore today.
After loading the car with the canvas and paints before it came a downpour, she grabbed Miss Dixie and began walking around the tavern. She was finished painting, but she wasn’t finished with her day. There were still things she wanted to do, needed to do. She might work on the painting back in her room and she could use more images.
The clicking of the camera was comforting to her and as soothing as any tonic or pills she’d ever taken. She aimed Miss Dixie at the windows, the porch, the field in the back (which used to be full of trees, she was told), and the piles of bricks that had once belonged on the building but were now laying in heaps around the yard. She’d taken more than fifty pictures before she realized it and the first few drops of rain had her scurrying back to the car.
The tavern faded into the gray sheet of rain behind her, forlorn and unmoving. Its windows were its eyes, however, and even without looking back she could feel them on her as the muddy water from the puddles sloshed against the side of the car.
T aryn could see the image from across the room. She’d put her memory card in her laptop and stepped into the bathroom while they were uploading. When she returned, the picture that glimmered at her had her taking a step back and slamming her shoulder into the wall behind her. Even ten feet away, it called to her and grabbed. She could feel the room start to spin, her vision growing fuzzy, the blood rushing and pounding in her head. She steadied herself on the bathroom doorframe, sure she’d pass out, and yet she couldn’t take her eyes off it.
It was the last one she’d taken, a shot of the back of the tavern. You could clearly see the gaping hole in the roof, the fragmented glass hanging on in the windows, and the poison ivy imposing itself on the brick. All of that was expected. But what looked at her wasn’t.
“Oh geeze,” Taryn moaned, sinking to her feet.
Standing in the dusty, grimy glass on the second floor, was a well-defined figure of a woman. It wasn’t a trick of
I’m going to tell a story , she announced to herself, about a tavern that was owned and run by a woman. It’s a male building, but it was female command that kept it going. That’s what I’m going to paint.
In most aspects of her life she felt awkward, uneasy with herself. In college her clothes had been too bright, too colorful, for the young professionals already walking around in their black sweaters and business suits. Even in a town known for its country music she’d been embarrassed about her love of George Strait, Dwight Yoakam, and Patty Loveless, especially considering everyone she knew were all into grunge and alternative. Nobody had understood her friendship with Matt.
But when she painted…that’s when she felt like herself. Even in high school art class when she hadn’t been very good and only her art teacher encouraged her, she’d been happy.
Stoically, the tavern observed her in much the same manner she scrutinized it. Her sundress (she was down to her dresses since she couldn’t afford to do laundry at the moment) clung to her legs and ants scuttled over her feet. Her hair hung limply to her shoulders, matted in some places where the sweat gathered and dried. Thick, gooey mud was smeared across one cheek. A strap fell down to her shoulder, revealing the hint of a beige bra underneath.
She didn’t notice any of this.
Angry at herself even more now for not taking the nice man, Jamie , up on his offer and fed up with being so broke, she painted on.
Finally, when the sun started sliding in behind the clouds and she realized she’d need more linseed oil to continue, she stopped. Her canvas stared back at her, a quarter of the way completed. The real tavern waited in expectation, anticipating her next move.
Her energy had vanished, though, and she was drained. It was looking like rain, too. She couldn’t do anymore today.
After loading the car with the canvas and paints before it came a downpour, she grabbed Miss Dixie and began walking around the tavern. She was finished painting, but she wasn’t finished with her day. There were still things she wanted to do, needed to do. She might work on the painting back in her room and she could use more images.
The clicking of the camera was comforting to her and as soothing as any tonic or pills she’d ever taken. She aimed Miss Dixie at the windows, the porch, the field in the back (which used to be full of trees, she was told), and the piles of bricks that had once belonged on the building but were now laying in heaps around the yard. She’d taken more than fifty pictures before she realized it and the first few drops of rain had her scurrying back to the car.
The tavern faded into the gray sheet of rain behind her, forlorn and unmoving. Its windows were its eyes, however, and even without looking back she could feel them on her as the muddy water from the puddles sloshed against the side of the car.
T aryn could see the image from across the room. She’d put her memory card in her laptop and stepped into the bathroom while they were uploading. When she returned, the picture that glimmered at her had her taking a step back and slamming her shoulder into the wall behind her. Even ten feet away, it called to her and grabbed. She could feel the room start to spin, her vision growing fuzzy, the blood rushing and pounding in her head. She steadied herself on the bathroom doorframe, sure she’d pass out, and yet she couldn’t take her eyes off it.
It was the last one she’d taken, a shot of the back of the tavern. You could clearly see the gaping hole in the roof, the fragmented glass hanging on in the windows, and the poison ivy imposing itself on the brick. All of that was expected. But what looked at her wasn’t.
“Oh geeze,” Taryn moaned, sinking to her feet.
Standing in the dusty, grimy glass on the second floor, was a well-defined figure of a woman. It wasn’t a trick of
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