The Painter's Brush with Death

Page Count: 37
Word Count: 0

(MSRP: 3.0000)

He is more than adequately handsome, he drives that dreamy Stanley Steamer, and if only the elegant Sarah could get a sleigh ride in to town, she could set about checking on Mr. Roberts' background! It is infuriating, stuck as she is, waiting for their elderly Morgan's injury to heal. It is plainly beneath her to ride in on the delivery man's wagon, and it's not the sort of inquiry she can send by post. Mr. Roberts seems so utterly perfect, but he comes with too many unanswered questions. Ingenuity is called for, desperate ingenuity.

A lady is a lady at any time, even, as here, in the midst of the changing styles and culture of America just before 1920.

37 Pages Sweet


"I have been painting the moon," the tall and elegant Sarah confided. Her guest, Mr. Oldfield paused a moment and frowned.

"A picture of the moon," Rebecca explained, leaning toward them with a bit of a titter. "We don't have a brush to actually reach the moon, itself." She held out a platter with their best and smallest china dessert dishes holding paper-thin sandwiches. Her cheeks were quite indelicately rosy and her dress decidedly Victorian. Between ruffles and lace and ornamental buttons, she was nearly as decorative as a lamp shade.

Sarah did not permit herself any response so coarse as to roll her eyes, but would rather have liked to. And silly Rebecca had immediately managed to make Mr. Oldfield feel uncomfortable.

"Of course, of course," the man muttered. His eyes went to the other side of the room where the sisters' other guests, Mr. and Mrs. O'Rourke were chatting busily and eyeing the handsome Mr. Andrew Coughney in a peculiar fashion.

Rebecca laughed gaily while she hustled off toward the kitchen, calling back, "I've always fancied the moon would look lovely in a soft pink!" They heard her a moment later calling, "Audrey!"

Sarah leaned toward Mr. Oldfield and gave him what she considered her most genuine smile. "It would be so gracious of you," she nearly whispered, "to overlook my sister's--well, unfortunate humor. Where she gets these little ideas, I really cannot say."

Copyright © 2018 The Wild Rose Press, Inc.