Noah (Angel Institute #7)

Chapter 17

Seventeen

NOAH

I grip my portfolio tightly so the wind doesn’t have a chance to snatch it from me. It’s pushing against me at such a speed that I have to lean into it to make any progress.

I don’t have much of a portfolio. Professional portfolios are curated, evaluated, tweaked, and selected with care. I raced through my house, gathering images that felt right and not thinking too hard about what I picked. I’m going off of a feeling here. It’s a strange thing, trusting my instincts like this after doubting them for so many years.

And yet, it feels amazing.

A bluster of wind slams against me, and my foot slips on some ice. I manage to maintain my footing and continue forward. It feels like the wind is trying to stop me from getting to that little yellow house. I won’t let it. I have to go—now.

I don’t know that I’ve experienced anything quite like the feeling of trusting my gut. My mom says that I was able to hold a pencil correctly at eight-months old, which is pretty incredible. I wonder if this feels like that did on that day. I was too young to remember, of course. I just sense that something big is happening, and I’m moving toward it instead of running away from it like my parents tried to train me to do.

Art classes were only allowed because I needed the credits to graduate.

Art school was out of the question—impractical.

Drawing was a waste of time.

Painting was for children.

Focus on making money. Focus on achieving. Forget the part of you that wants to create—bury it or we’ll make you sorry.

I shove all those ghosts aside. I don’t want them anymore.

“Dear Jesus,” I say into the wind as it bites my cheeks. “Take them from me. I don’t want them in my soul or in my mind.” The wind continues to beat at me and I have to stop walking, though I pray all the harder. “You suffered enough for this, please.”

Suddenly, my skin begins to tingle. The feeling spreads to my very cells, and it’s as if I’m shedding scales. I can feel them dry out and fall off and out of me. I’m becoming lighter. I blink as my eyes seem to clear as they too shed scales. I blink as the winter light bounces blindingly off the snow. The wind stops.

In the calm, I can hear myself breathe, and I can feel God’s love.

I am free.

Free of the self-doubt, the judgements, and the past.

I am made new.

I grin. My whole body—my soul—is lighter without the scales. I’m a new creature and I’m incredible. I tip my head back and laugh in joy. “Thank you!” I call to the sky. The feelings gather in around me and I come back to the street and the feel of the portfolio on my arms.

I look around to get my bearings and find myself in front of the very yellow Victorian-style house with a wraparound porch that I’d been walking toward. My stomach churns with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. I’m about to meet with Ramona Summers, one of Benton Falls’ most respected artists.

I climb the porch steps, and I admire the intricate gingerbread trim and the way the pale yellow paint contrasts with the deep green shutters. It’s exactly the kind of house I’d love to sketch, full of character and charm.

Before I can knock, the door swings open, revealing a small woman with silver hair and bright, inquisitive eyes. “I saw you coming up the walk. Come in, come in. It’s far too cold to be standing around outside.”

I step into a foyer that feels like stepping back in time. The walls are adorned with floral wallpaper, and a delicate chandelier casts a soft glow over an antique hall tree. The scent of cinnamon and paint thinner hangs in the air, an odd but not unpleasant combination.

“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, Mrs. Summers,” I say, following her into what appears to be her studio.

She waves a hand dismissively. “Please, call me Ramona. Mrs. Summers makes me feel ancient, and I’m only 72.”

The studio is a riot of color and creativity. Canvases in various stages of completion are propped on easels and leaned against walls. Shelves lined with jars of paint brushes and bottles of pigment flank a large window that overlooks a snow-covered garden. It’s chaotic but inspiring, and I feel a familiar itch in my fingers, the urge to grab a pencil and start sketching.

“So,” Ramona says, settling into a paint-splattered armchair and gesturing for me to take a seat on a nearby stool, “who are you and what brought you to my door?”

“I’m Noah Montgomery,” I begin, my voice slightly shaky. “I was wondering if... well, if you might take a look at some of my sketches? I completely understand if you’re too busy or—”

“Noah,” she interrupts gently, “I’d be delighted to look at your work.” She holds out her hand and gestures for me to pass the portfolio to her.

I hand it to her, and feel as if I’m handing over a piece of my soul—which is true. Each one came from inside of me. Or, as I’m learning, from God through me.

Ramona opens the cover carefully, her eyes widening as she begins to flip through the pages. I watch her face anxiously, trying to decipher her expressions. She pauses on the sketch of the town square during the tree lighting ceremony, her finger tracing the lines of the clock tower. Her eyes dance across the page. I know the moment they stop on Paige. She’s done in more detail—signifying that I saw her more intently that night than anyone else who was there. A soft smile plays on Ramona’s lips.

“Noah,” she says softly, “these are wonderful. You have a real talent for capturing the essence of a place, the feeling of a moment.”

Relief and pride wash over me in equal measure. “Really? You think they’re good?”

She looks up at me, her eyes serious. “Good? Noah, these are excellent. The way you use light and shadow, the attention to detail... where are you showing?”

I feel my cheeks heat up. “Nowhere. I—I’ve never really thought anyone would want to buy my sketches.”

Ramona closes the sketchbook and fixes me with a stern look. “Young man, you are doing yourself and the world a disservice by keeping this talent hidden. You need to share these with a wider audience.”

My mind reels at her words. I feel the same thing. It’s like we’re in tune to the same radio station. “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I admit.

Ramona’s soft brown eyes light up with excitement. “Oh, there are so many possibilities these days. You could set up an online studio, sell prints of your work. Start small, postcards are always popular. And have you considered putting your sketches on puzzles? People love local art puzzles.” Ideas seem to tumble out of her faster than I can process them. “You could add inspirational sayings to some of your sketches, make them into motivational prints. Oh, and calendars. A calendar featuring scenes of Benton Falls would sell like hotcakes, I bet.”

My head spins with the onslaught of suggestions. I pull out my phone and start taking notes. Maybe I should record this conversation.

“I... I have no idea how to do any of that. I can learn, though,” I hastily add. I don’t want her to think I’m not valuing her advice. I am. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. I want to be an artist.” The words sound alien and yet so true I can’t deny them any longer.

Ramona reaches out and pats my hand gently. Her skin is thin and soft and smells like peonies and paint. It’s probably in her blood. “You don’t have to do everything at once. Start small, see how it goes. The important thing is to start.”

I nod. She’s right. “I’m starting a lot of things right now.” I keep making notes as thoughts pop into my head. Her space is one of creation and there’s a lot of creative energy in here. I want a place like this. My spare bedroom. I’ve always felt like I needed to keep a bed in there in case my parents wanted to stay over—they never have, and I think I’d rather they stay at the local bed-and-breakfast. I add change my spare bedroom into an art studio to my list.

“Perhaps something with this beautiful young lady?” Ramona asks. She’s back on the tree lighting image.

“Definitely.” I grin. “That’s Paige. My girlfriend.” Wow—I’m really claiming the life I want now. I wonder what Paige would say about that title. Would she want to be my girlfriend?

How about my wife? I’m not afraid of getting married. Not to her.

“She’s lovely.” Romana sighs wistfully and closes the book.

“Thank you, Ramona. For looking at my sketches, for your encouragement. It means more than you know.” I take my portfolio back and she stands to show me out. We say goodbye, and I promise I’ll check in with her right after the holidays. “Merry Christmas,” I tell her.

As I leave Ramona’s house, my mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and possibilities. The cold air helps clear my head a bit, but I still feel slightly off balance, as if the ground has shifted beneath my feet. It’s dark out, with a sky full of stars over my head. I can’t believe I was with Ramona for that long—it felt like just minutes.

I check the time. The float deadline has come and gone. My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since the cookie. I text Paige.

Me: Would you like to meet me at Casa Ramirez for dinner?

Paige: Be there in five.

Me:

Looks like I have a date with my girlfriend.

Now all I have to do is let her know that we’re that serious. After the way she kissed me earlier, it might not be that hard of a sale. I’m more confused than ever about the trip though. How am I going to get a new business off the ground if I’m in another part of the world and focused on Paige’s channel?

My phone buzzes.

Paige: Can you pick me up?

Me: Of course.

I pick up the pace. There are so many things to discuss with her that I can hardly wait.