Read Online The Riverhouse by G. Norman Lippert - Free Book Online
Authors: G. Norman Lippert
Ads: Link
sun that hit the back of his neck like a hammer the moment he stepped outside.
Partly, it was the memory of Steph, from their days together here in the cottage. She’d never said it outright, but Shane knew she believed that, left to his own devices, he’d become so entranced by his work that he’d neglect the day-to-day responsibilities of life, things like paying the bills, doing laundry, and yes, mowing the lawn. Shane had never discussed it with her because, deep down, he thought she was very likely correct. Now that she was gone, however, he found that he wanted to prove to himself that he could manage the dull details of life like any other responsible adult, that he wouldn’t turn all reclusive and shaggy, even if it meant a nasty sunburn and a dozen bug bites.
But that was only part of it. The more immediate truth was that Shane was putting off calling Greenfeld.
And be honest with yourself, Tiger,
he thought as he pulled the mower out of the shed next to the cottage,
you’re avoiding him calling you, right? You’re hoping that he gets those photos you just emailed him first, and that he’ll be so happy with how the painting looks that he’ll forget you finished it barely a day before the shipping date.
Yes, this was surely true, and Shane wasn’t shamed by it. He was an artist, damn it, and a good one. He was usually as reliable as the day is long, unlike the moody, temperamental starving artists T and C had occasionally hired back in the day. He could be forgiven one close call in a decade, couldn’t he? Granted, the timing of this particular close call was especially bad, but still. Greenfeld would understand, at least once he downloaded the pics and saw the finished matte painting. That’s all that mattered, really. Thus, Shane had decided to avoid the phone until he could be reasonably certain that Greenfeld had, in fact, received the email with the photo attachments.
Shane hadn’t sent the photos the previous afternoon, like he’d intended. He hadn’t finished the matte painting until late this morning, in fact. He’d gotten… distracted. But the important thing was that it was done, and it was good. Good enough, at least. Not as good as the new painting, of course, the one of the old manor house. By comparison, the matte painting was a dull, lifeless trinket, but that was no surprise, was it? After all, the matte painting was just client work. The client didn’t want art; they just wanted a product, one that Shane was uniquely qualified to deliver.
The new painting, however, was inspired. That sort of thing didn’t happen very often, but when it did, it was a different kind of art entirely. Once again, Shane thought about how easy it would be to become addicted to the muse’s secret embrace, to become her slave. That wouldn’t happen to him, of course, but he understood it now. He had a little more sympathy for the starving artists, even if he, himself, would never become one.
He finished mowing the front yard, drew a few swipes of the mower along the sides of the cottage, and decided that it was enough for the day. The back of the cottage was so rocky and steep, dropping toward the rocky bluff and the river below, that it was almost easier to cut it with the weed trimmer. Better yet, maybe he’d just let the field grass and wildflowers grow in, at least until they obscured the view.
He stashed the mower back in the shed, parking it next to his bike, and grabbed the big garden shears from their hook on the wall.
He spent several minutes prowling the perimeter of the yard, lopping the bushes into submission and chopping off the occasional errant branch from the encroaching trees. That was when he discovered the abandoned footpath in the front corner of the property.
He’d hacked off a particularly stubborn branch from a very old oak tree, and when it finally broke away, it struck the ground with a sharp clunk, as if it had fallen on something much harder than weedy earth. Shane
Partly, it was the memory of Steph, from their days together here in the cottage. She’d never said it outright, but Shane knew she believed that, left to his own devices, he’d become so entranced by his work that he’d neglect the day-to-day responsibilities of life, things like paying the bills, doing laundry, and yes, mowing the lawn. Shane had never discussed it with her because, deep down, he thought she was very likely correct. Now that she was gone, however, he found that he wanted to prove to himself that he could manage the dull details of life like any other responsible adult, that he wouldn’t turn all reclusive and shaggy, even if it meant a nasty sunburn and a dozen bug bites.
But that was only part of it. The more immediate truth was that Shane was putting off calling Greenfeld.
And be honest with yourself, Tiger,
he thought as he pulled the mower out of the shed next to the cottage,
you’re avoiding him calling you, right? You’re hoping that he gets those photos you just emailed him first, and that he’ll be so happy with how the painting looks that he’ll forget you finished it barely a day before the shipping date.
Yes, this was surely true, and Shane wasn’t shamed by it. He was an artist, damn it, and a good one. He was usually as reliable as the day is long, unlike the moody, temperamental starving artists T and C had occasionally hired back in the day. He could be forgiven one close call in a decade, couldn’t he? Granted, the timing of this particular close call was especially bad, but still. Greenfeld would understand, at least once he downloaded the pics and saw the finished matte painting. That’s all that mattered, really. Thus, Shane had decided to avoid the phone until he could be reasonably certain that Greenfeld had, in fact, received the email with the photo attachments.
Shane hadn’t sent the photos the previous afternoon, like he’d intended. He hadn’t finished the matte painting until late this morning, in fact. He’d gotten… distracted. But the important thing was that it was done, and it was good. Good enough, at least. Not as good as the new painting, of course, the one of the old manor house. By comparison, the matte painting was a dull, lifeless trinket, but that was no surprise, was it? After all, the matte painting was just client work. The client didn’t want art; they just wanted a product, one that Shane was uniquely qualified to deliver.
The new painting, however, was inspired. That sort of thing didn’t happen very often, but when it did, it was a different kind of art entirely. Once again, Shane thought about how easy it would be to become addicted to the muse’s secret embrace, to become her slave. That wouldn’t happen to him, of course, but he understood it now. He had a little more sympathy for the starving artists, even if he, himself, would never become one.
He finished mowing the front yard, drew a few swipes of the mower along the sides of the cottage, and decided that it was enough for the day. The back of the cottage was so rocky and steep, dropping toward the rocky bluff and the river below, that it was almost easier to cut it with the weed trimmer. Better yet, maybe he’d just let the field grass and wildflowers grow in, at least until they obscured the view.
He stashed the mower back in the shed, parking it next to his bike, and grabbed the big garden shears from their hook on the wall.
He spent several minutes prowling the perimeter of the yard, lopping the bushes into submission and chopping off the occasional errant branch from the encroaching trees. That was when he discovered the abandoned footpath in the front corner of the property.
He’d hacked off a particularly stubborn branch from a very old oak tree, and when it finally broke away, it struck the ground with a sharp clunk, as if it had fallen on something much harder than weedy earth. Shane
Similar Books
