What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One by Mara Purl

answering the phone?”
    “What? Oh … I don’t know. I don’t seem to be able to paint anything today. I’m very distracted. I just have this feeling something is about to happen.” Though Miranda had always had strong intuitions, she was just beginning to trust them.
    “Well, Miranda darling, it is! Now, I have some good news and some bad news.”
    Miranda braced herself. “Bad news first.”
    Zelda launched into one of her long and detailed stories about being unable to get the client to go for the “big” piece.
Zelda’s never seemed clear on the actual titles of my paintings. But she must be talking about
Elephant Seals Take the Sun,
and I guess she wasn’t able to sell it
. “So… the client’s decision is final?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Oh, dear. I was counting on that income.”
    “Didn’t I tell you there was good news?”
    “So you did.”
    “Well, darling I feel so dreadful about this, after promising I had this sale all sewn up, that I’ve decided I’ll buy it from you.”
    Miranda had an immediate and automatic aversion to loans of any kind. “Zelda, that’s ridiculous. You can’t afford to float me for $10,000.”
    “True. This is outside the scope of our official representation contract. But, since I know you need the money right away, I thought we could handle this as a private sale. The thing is, I can only afford to pay you half price. So I’m sending you $5,000. And who said anything about floating? This isn’t a loan, it’s a sale.”
    It wasn’t like Miranda to worry about money—though there was never a surplus. There was, however, what her sister liked to call her “ordered chaos.” Miranda’s own bill-paying method didn’t seem chaotic to her. The bills stayed in a neat stack until she sold a painting—then she paid them all.
    This money from Zelda … it wouldn’t be a loan. But it would be a mercy-sale, even at half price. “I can’t accept your charity, Zelda.” she said into the phone.
    “I insist! I’ve already written the check, and I’m just about to put it in the mail. It will only take a day or two to reach you from Santa Barbara. And anyway, it’s high time I had my most significant artist on conspicuous display in my own home.”
    Zelda seems very certain of herself, though something still feels wrong about it
. But Miranda pushed her doubts aside. This was her manager, and it was an offer that would meet her immediate needs. She hesitated one more moment and then yielded. “Uh … thank you, Zelda. Listen, I’m going to go. I don’t want to run up your phone bill on top of everything you’redoing for me.”
    “That’s my girl. We’ll talk soon. Ta-ta!”
    Miranda hung up the phone and tried to return to the afternoon light, still feeling the events of the day weren’t through with her.

    Zelda McIntyre pushed back from her black, gilt-edged Louis XV desk and stood, pausing for a moment to inhale the fresh citrus-touched aroma of the Sweet Bergamot potpourri she kept in a crystal bowl. She’d found the aromatic treasure at Marks and Spencer during a trip to London. She liked it all the more upon realizing it shared some undertones with Zibeline—her preferred evening fragrance.
    Walking the few steps to her French windows, she looked down at the courtyard, where afternoon light gave a peach tinge to the white stucco walls.
Just the right tonality for autumn
. Even without the tiny, fragrant jasmine blossoms that’d finished for the year, glossy green leaves spilled exuberantly over the edges of their over-sized pots. And the
tromp-l’oeil
mural covering the courtyard walls extended the vines upward to the roofline, making the space exquisitely inviting.
One of my better ideas… hiring Miranda to paint that three-part mural for me this past summer
.
    The young woman was something of an enigma. When Zelda had first heard about the artist from a little gallery up the coast, a few well-placed phone calls had revealed Miranda was of the