Read Online Windwood Farm (Taryn's Camera) by Rebecca Patrick-Howard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Patrick-Howard
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Once, and she was even a little embarrassed to admit it, she had even stood at the bottom of the stairs, and called out to the “ghosts” and given them “permission” to reveal themselves.
Nothing. Not even a “boo.”
Of course, she was a little concerned about her sanity but that wasn’t unusual. There were several counselors, a psychiatrist, an ex-boyfriend, and a family doctor who would say the same thing.
If it weren’t for the fact that she still had the feeling there was something unsettling about the farm and, of course, the pictures themselves then she might have just chalked the whole thing up to some mass hallucination and urban legend. Or something.
S ettling into a routine was easy for Taryn, despite the excitement of the first few days on the farm. She generally tried to wake up a little bit before dawn so that she could shower, eat a quick breakfast of cold cereal and toast, stop somewhere along the way to grab a cola (she’d start cutting back the next day, she told herself each morning), and then have her easel and paints set up and ready by the time the sun broke through the sky.
It was still cool in the early summer morning air and the fog enveloped the house, cutting out the world around it. The river was only a few miles away and since the farm was located high on a ridge , the thick mist rose from the valleys to meet the barns and edge of the yard like billowing curtains. As it dissipated late into the morning, she could start making out the subdivisions and signs of town, and that was always a little disheartening. For at least an hour or two, she was able to pretend she was trapped in time, alone in the mid-20 th century, with the rest of the world blocked out.
When she first set out , the air was chilly and she’d slip on a cardigan or sweatshirt. By afternoon, though, with the sun high in the sky, it would be humid and sticky and she’d peel off her outer layer and toss it on the ground. Then she’d continue painting in her tank top and cut off shorts with her reddish blonde hair slicked back in a ponytail. Sometimes she even started out with it wet; fresh out of the shower. She never saw anyone out there, not after the first day when Reagan showed her around.
At around 3:00 pm , she’d stop for the day and load everything back into the car. Sometimes she’d head back to the hotel and grab a nap, and other times she’d find a place to eat first, depending on how hungry she was. She almost always snacked throughout the day on bananas, sandwiches she’d made before she left the hotel, and candy bars she kept in her cooler. She’d never been a huge eater and rarely ate more than one big meal a day, so she let her stomach guide her.
She wasn’t finished working once she arrived back at her hotel . Although she put her paints up, she had other work to tend to. Taryn was basically a one-woman show and ran a small business that kept her on her toes. Keeping up with her correspondence was important. She was never entirely sure how the people who found her did, but they always seemed to locate her for her services. There were emails from all over the country, from historical societies to museums and private individuals, asking for her work. How much did she charge? How much of an existing structure did she need in order to recreate the entire thing as it once was? These were easy questions to answer, for the most part. She replied and asked for pictures, if they had any.
To others she answered, regretfully , that no, she could not work pro bono, not at this time. She was not a nonprofit organization. She must eat just like everyone else. Her car also required insurance and there was rent to pay, despite the fact she was hardly ever there.
In an interview with a regional travel magazine last year , the interviewer asked her how she chose her assignments. Surely, location had something to do with it. And, of course, location did. She loved to travel and going to destinations
Nothing. Not even a “boo.”
Of course, she was a little concerned about her sanity but that wasn’t unusual. There were several counselors, a psychiatrist, an ex-boyfriend, and a family doctor who would say the same thing.
If it weren’t for the fact that she still had the feeling there was something unsettling about the farm and, of course, the pictures themselves then she might have just chalked the whole thing up to some mass hallucination and urban legend. Or something.
S ettling into a routine was easy for Taryn, despite the excitement of the first few days on the farm. She generally tried to wake up a little bit before dawn so that she could shower, eat a quick breakfast of cold cereal and toast, stop somewhere along the way to grab a cola (she’d start cutting back the next day, she told herself each morning), and then have her easel and paints set up and ready by the time the sun broke through the sky.
It was still cool in the early summer morning air and the fog enveloped the house, cutting out the world around it. The river was only a few miles away and since the farm was located high on a ridge , the thick mist rose from the valleys to meet the barns and edge of the yard like billowing curtains. As it dissipated late into the morning, she could start making out the subdivisions and signs of town, and that was always a little disheartening. For at least an hour or two, she was able to pretend she was trapped in time, alone in the mid-20 th century, with the rest of the world blocked out.
When she first set out , the air was chilly and she’d slip on a cardigan or sweatshirt. By afternoon, though, with the sun high in the sky, it would be humid and sticky and she’d peel off her outer layer and toss it on the ground. Then she’d continue painting in her tank top and cut off shorts with her reddish blonde hair slicked back in a ponytail. Sometimes she even started out with it wet; fresh out of the shower. She never saw anyone out there, not after the first day when Reagan showed her around.
At around 3:00 pm , she’d stop for the day and load everything back into the car. Sometimes she’d head back to the hotel and grab a nap, and other times she’d find a place to eat first, depending on how hungry she was. She almost always snacked throughout the day on bananas, sandwiches she’d made before she left the hotel, and candy bars she kept in her cooler. She’d never been a huge eater and rarely ate more than one big meal a day, so she let her stomach guide her.
She wasn’t finished working once she arrived back at her hotel . Although she put her paints up, she had other work to tend to. Taryn was basically a one-woman show and ran a small business that kept her on her toes. Keeping up with her correspondence was important. She was never entirely sure how the people who found her did, but they always seemed to locate her for her services. There were emails from all over the country, from historical societies to museums and private individuals, asking for her work. How much did she charge? How much of an existing structure did she need in order to recreate the entire thing as it once was? These were easy questions to answer, for the most part. She replied and asked for pictures, if they had any.
To others she answered, regretfully , that no, she could not work pro bono, not at this time. She was not a nonprofit organization. She must eat just like everyone else. Her car also required insurance and there was rent to pay, despite the fact she was hardly ever there.
In an interview with a regional travel magazine last year , the interviewer asked her how she chose her assignments. Surely, location had something to do with it. And, of course, location did. She loved to travel and going to destinations
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