“It is. Do you know it?”
“Not very well unfortunately, though I’d like to.”
“The technique comes from the Japanese idea of flaws and imperfections,” Brenda explained. “The potter creates a piece of pottery, perfect and whole, then breaks it intentionally. The shards are gathered and mended with melted gold in such a way that highlight the breaks. The idea is that a Kintsugi piece is unique and more beautiful for having once been broken. I believe it speaks to resiliency. And strength.”
“It’s exquisite,” Jill decided as she placed the cup back in the display.
“I’m so glad you like it, but that’s not why I called you over,” Brenda said. “We’ve had a last-minute cancellation in our emerging artists gallery, and I think you should take the spot. For one of your photographs. The work in that gallery won’t be included in the judging, but it’s good exposure if you’re interested.”
“Are you kidding?” Jill straightened, excitement surging through her. “I’d love to. What do you need me to do?”
“Well, for starters select the image that best represents your work. We only have room for one, so whatever you choose should be the very best you’ve got. Then you need to have it printed, framed, and delivered here by Friday morning.”
Jill could feel herself deflating. She could never manage to get all that accomplished in such a short time. Getting a photograph show-ready in two days was next to impossible. Framing alone would take almost a week.
But Brenda was unfazed. She tore a corner from a slip of paper and scribbled down a phone number. “I know it seems like a lot, but I have a guy. He does gallery work for us and I’ve already talked to him about you. He said that if you can deliver to him by tomorrow morning, he’ll mat and frame it. Bring it here first thing Friday and we’ll have a space for it.”
“Are you kidding? That’s wonderful, thank you,” Jill said, taking care not to gush.
“One more thing. The guidelines say that the piece needs to be related to Dewberry Beach in some way so choose something you’ve recently done. The final choice is yours, of course, so bring him whatever speaks to you.”
The opportunity made Jill brave and she dared ask a question that she might not have otherwise.
“Do you like my work?” she asked. “The photographs in my portfolio from yesterday at Betty’s house, did you like them?”
Brenda’s gaze lingered on Jill. “The truth?”
“Yes.”
“I think you have potential, but you need to learn to trust your instincts. I liked the photographs I saw at Betty’s house, and your recent work is even better. It looks as if you’ve found your voice and that’s always important.” Brenda pursed her lips as she thought. “You know, my favorite image is still the bridal portrait. The composition is unexpected and that’s good, but the magic, for me, is the expression on the bride’s face. She’d clearly forgotten you were there and that’s when the magic happens—when your subject stops posing. Anyway, there’s something about that photograph that has stayed with me.”
Jill blushed. Someone as accomplished as Brenda had complimented her work—work that Marc had dismissed as a hobby. Surely, she’d misheard.
“Oh, the look on your face.” Brenda laughed good-naturedly as she reached for Jill’s arm. “I felt the same way when a potter I admire told me he liked my stuff.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a clatter at the entrance to the ballroom. A pair of delivery men laden with cardboard boxes entered the room and the energy changed noticeably. Volunteers gleefully abandoned their work and went to meet them.
“Oh, good! Lunch is here.” Brenda glanced toward the commotion. “And not a moment too soon—I’m starving. Let’s go see what Danny and his brothers packed up for us.”
“Danny?”
“Danny Esposito from the Dewberry Deli. That man has a heart of gold, I tell ya. He donates lunch for all the volunteers—every volunteer at every site in town—on festival set-up day. We can afford to pay but he won’t let us, insists that we think of it as his contribution. He’s a good man.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “And you should taste his Nonna’s salads. They’re amazing.”
Lunch was served on a long table in a sunny corner of the ballroom. Someone had spread a patchwork of tablecloths across the surface, adding a splay of colorful cloth napkins and bowls of deep red apples for a homey and inviting effect. They’d arranged a bounty of food in the center—platters of fat sandwiches, serving bowls of salads, and plates of vegetables. Nearby was a coffee and dessert table groaning with pastry donated by the bakery. Volunteers filled their plates and returned to the table to catch up after the morning’s activities. Jill leaned into the hum of conversation, remembering meals around Aunt Sarah’s dinner table and the chatter of cousins.
They were interrupted by a woman, harried and red-faced, bursting into the room.
“You will never guess what just happened!” She rushed to the head of the table to make her announcement. Planting her hands on her hips, she leaned forward. “They’re selling The Monstrosity.”
Conversation halted.
Finally, someone ventured, “Nancy, are you sure? How do you know?”
“There’s a For Sale sign in front—I saw it myself—and I think they’re showing it right now. A bunch of people got out of a Mercedes. I saw them on my way over here.” She clasped her hands together in a desperate plea. “Now’s our chance. We need to do something.”
“Nancy,” one woman nearby said gently, “we all hate that house as much as you do, but what do you imagine we can achieve at this point?”
“Have you forgotten what that man did? Taking advantage of Marva. Stealing her home. Have you forgotten what that man did to Pete? Destroyed his career, that’s what he did. Don’t you remember how humiliating it was for Pete to
