A Brighter Palette Read online

  A Brighter Palette

  Colors, Volume 1

  Brigham Vaughn

  Published by Two Peninsulas Press, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A BRIGHTER PALETTE

  First edition. June 29, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Brigham Vaughn.

  Written by Brigham Vaughn.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

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  Further Reading: Three Shots

  Also By Brigham Vaughn

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This story was inspired by a flash fiction I did on my blog almost two years ago. I’ve been wanting to tell Annie and Siobhán’s story ever since.

  Other than major city landmarks, most of the destinations mentioned in A Brighter Palette are fictitious or loosely based on an amalgam of real places. I describe Annie as having worked for “The Boston Chronicle”. Although there is no current newspaper in Boston with that name, it was a colonial paper published from 1767-1770. I thought the name would be a nice nod to Annie’s love of early American history.

  Siobhán’s style of painting isn’t based on any one artist in particular, but I did enjoy researching current lesbian art and I’d highly recommend taking the time to search for it. There are some beautiful pieces available.

  I want to thank Chris K. who helped me create Annie’s journalism background. Thanks for putting up with me pestering you with questions about whether or not Annie’s career history was plausible. I appreciate your help so much!

  I also want to thank my beta readers for their help on the story. Allison, K. Evan, and Helena provided much-needed feedback and I appreciate their hard work so much. In particular, K. Evan helped with the Boston fact-checking, and Helena helped with the Irish side of things. The story wouldn’t be the same without them.

  Huge thanks to Sally Hopkinson for her fast, accurate, editing work. I couldn’t do this without you!

  As always, big thanks to the bloggers and readers who love my work and spread the news about it. Your reviews and mentions on social media help immensely. And welcome to any new readers. I hope you enjoy Annie and Siobhán’s story.

  Chapter One

  June

  “Pretentious twat, isn’t he?” The words were harsh, but the lilt of an Irish accent softened them.

  Annie Slocum glanced over her shoulder to see a slim, dark-haired woman smiling at her. Annie pressed her hand to her chest as if that would somehow slow her suddenly racing heart. She wasn’t sure if it was because she hadn’t noticed someone standing behind her or because the person in question was so stunning.

  She wore a fitted black dress that hugged her subtle curves, and the long sweep of her hair was nearly as dark as the fabric she wore, a beautiful contrast to her creamy skin. Annie was so absorbed in the lilt of her accent and her beauty that it took her a moment to put the pieces together. The words finally registered, and Annie figured out who on earth she was calling a pretentious twat.

  “Who? Uh, Gabriel?” Annie asked, clearing her throat and hoping the other woman hadn’t noticed her too-long pause. Gabriel Quinn, the gallery owner, had been droning on about the color and composition of a nearby piece the entire time Annie had been standing there. All while wearing a vintage-looking suit and fedora. On top of his habit of being an insufferable bore, it was a good bet that was whom the woman was talking about.

  She nodded. “Yes. Gabriel likes to hear himself talk. He sells my paintings, so I can’t complain much, but he’s always goin’ on about the deeper meaning where there is none.”

  Stunned, Annie turned to face her fully. “You’re Siobhán Murray.”

  The Quinn Gallery in the Charlestown area of Boston had put together a show of local, female artists. Annie had begun to think the night was a wash until Siobhán’s work caught her eye. She’d spent a while lingering over her paintings.

  “I am.” A smile quirked up the corners of her lush mouth. “I’m impressed that you pronounced it correctly.”

  Siobhán was a challenge for American tongues, but the lilting of an Irish voice saying Shi-vonne sounded so beautiful.

  “Oh, I spent a semester in Dublin in college,” Annie explained. “I met several Siobháns there.”

  “Well, that explains it.” They exchanged smiles.

  “Ann Slocum.” She held out her hand.” Or Annie, if you prefer.”

  “Annie.” Her name rolled off Siobhán’s tongue in a way that sent a shiver up her spine. “And a Slocum at that. English heritage?”

  “Yes. Hopefully, you won’t hold that against me.”

  Siobhán laughed. “I try not to let national rivalries get in the way of talking with a beautiful woman. Well, except for rugby. You don’t root for the English rugby team, do you?”

  “I don’t root for anyone. I don’t watch any sports at all unless I’m forced to,” Annie explained with a smile. She was starting to think she and Siobhán might bat for the same team, however. The compliment and heady eye contact hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Siobhán stepped closer. “So what brings you to my showing?”

  “Oh, I got an invitation from Gabriel. He knows I like art and try to support local female artists.”

  Siobhán tilted her head. “You know Gabriel personally then?”

  “We go way back.” Annie’s laugh was a touch uncomfortable. She never really knew how to explain her relationship with Gabriel.

  An odd expression crossed Siobhán’s face. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have run my mouth off then.”

  Chuckling, Annie waved off Siobhán’s concern. “Oh, I’m certainly not about to go tattling to him about what you said. It isn’t my style, and we aren’t that close. We went to school together, and he dated my roommate at the time. Gabriel and I stayed acquaintances. He’s a nice enough guy, just pretentious.”

  “We’re in agreement about Gabriel then.” Her laugh was throaty, and the timbre sent a tingle through Annie. Damn. It had been a long time since she’d found a woman this attractive. Siobhán tilted her head toward the canvas Annie had been examining. “What do you think of it?”

  “I love it,” Annie answered honestly, turning to look at the piece again. It was a painting of a woman in profile with rainbow washes of color and an intriguing crackle technique. Now that she’d met the artist, Annie realized it was a self-portrait.

  Siobhán’s upper arm pressed against hers as they stood there in silence for a moment. Annie suppressed a shudder at the contact. Summers in Boston were usually quite warm, and Siobhán’s dress and Annie’s shirt were both sleeveless. Siobhán’s bare skin was soft and cool from the over-air-conditioned gallery.

  “In the market for art?” Siobhán’s tone was light, but it occurred to Annie that the attention could be because Siobhán was hoping to sell her work. Perhaps the flirtatious looks had been nothing but a sales tactic. The thought left Annie feeling strangely deflated, but she plastered a smile on her face and answered honestly.

  “I’m
afraid not. Your work is worth far more than a journalist’s salary would allow.”

  “Oh! You aren’t here to critique the show, are you?”

  “No. I’m not an art critic. I do freelance work for various sites. Mostly fluff pieces. It’s a far cry from the investigative reporting I studied in college, but it pays the bills.” More or less, Annie thought. “My interest in art is entirely amateur.”

  “I’d love to hear more about what you think of it. No pressure, but I’m quite curious.” If Siobhán had been flirting with Annie to make a sale or get a good review, learning that Annie would be no use to her would have been her cue to leave, but to Annie’s surprise and pleasure, she didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

  Annie studied the painting for a few moments. “At first glance, it seems vibrant, but the colors are actually rather subdued. Deep, but not bright. She, well, you”—Annie corrected—“seems contemplative. Not sad, exactly, but like you’re lost in thought.”

  “You have a good eye,” Siobhán said with a smile.

  “The crackle technique is interesting too,” Annie commented. “I’m curious though; does it have a deeper meaning?”

  “Not particularly; I was just experimenting with new ideas. It doesn’t represent ‘my crumbling self-esteem’ like Gabriel suggested when I first showed the piece to him.”

  “No wonder you called him a pretentious twat,” Annie murmured. They exchanged wry grins. “So that little smudge of red there”—Annie traced her finger in the air over the spot on the painting—“doesn’t have deeper meaning either?”

  Siobhán snorted delicately. “Hardly. I probably just needed to add a bit of color for contrast or balance and happened to have red on my brush at the time.”

  Annie’s laugh was genuine. She loved art—always had—but she’d met a few too many artists in her life to believe all the pompous bullshit some of them spouted. She’d found that the ones who spoke the most about their own art had the least to say about anything else in life.

  “Would you like to grab a drink?” Siobhán laid a hand on Annie’s arm. She had to suppress another shiver. “I’d like to talk to you more.”

  “Here?” Annie glanced around the bright, contemporary space. There were wait staff wandering the gallery with drinks and appetizers, but it wasn’t ideal for having a conversation.

  “There’s a hotel next door.” Annie’s surprise must have shown on her face because Siobhán’s smile widened. “With an excellent restaurant and bar. Have you eaten? I haven’t had a thing since lunch.”

  “I had a light dinner a few hours ago,” Annie admitted. “But I could have another bite. Should you leave your show before it’s over though?”

  “Probably not.” Siobhán sighed. “I’m trying to decide how much I care right now.”

  Annie glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist. “It’s supposed to wrap up at nine, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s less than half an hour. Why don’t you finish up here? I’ll take a final look around the gallery while you wait,” Annie offered.

  “You don’t mind?” Siobhán’s glance was searching.

  “Not at all.”

  “If you finish before I’m done, you can always head over to the lounge. I can meet you there.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Annie said, catching Siobhán’s gaze.

  “I am too,” she said huskily. “Very much.”

  ***

  It was nearly nine-thirty when Siobhán flew into the hotel lounge, breathless and apologetic. “I am terribly sorry, Annie. I’m so relieved to see you’re still here. I was afraid you’d left.”

  Annie had been less than five minutes from paying her tab and leaving. She smiled at Siobhán. “I was contemplating it, but I’m glad I stayed.”

  Siobhán unwound a crimson scarf from around her throat and dropped it and a black leather purse onto the far side of the circular booth before sliding in next to Annie.

  “I’d love to blame it on Gabriel.”

  Annie chuckled. “Is he to blame?”

  Siobhán’s blue eyes sparkled. “He is, but it was for a good cause. He introduced me to a couple interested in commissioning a piece. I rarely work on commission, but this sounds very intriguing. I may pursue it. I hope you’ll forgive me. I hated to keep you waiting.”

  Annie smiled at her. “I can hardly complain about an artist making a potential sale at her own gallery show.”

  Siobhán waved off her comment, her amber bracelet sliding down her slim forearm. “Still, me ma raised me better than that. I’m glad you stayed. It occurred to me I didn’t have your mobile number to let you know I was running late.”

  “Is that your subtle way of asking for my number?” There was a flirtatious note to Annie’s voice that she hardly recognized. God, she’d been in a rut lately. She’d forgotten how much fun flirting was.

  Siobhán propped her left elbow on the table, put her chin on her hand, and leaned in. “Haven’t I already made it clear how interested I am?” She skimmed the fingertips of her right hand along Annie’s forearm.

  The touch raised gooseflesh on Annie’s arms, and she again suppressed a shiver. “I wanted to be sure.”

  Siobhán leaned even closer, her lips barely brushing the shell of Annie’s ear. “If I haven’t made it crystal clear, I am very interested in you, Annie Slocum.” She continued stroking Annie’s arm, her fingertips tracing little patterns as she moved toward the inside of Annie’s wrist. Hyperaware of Siobhán’s touch, she let her eyes drift shut. She held her breath as Siobhán’s thumb rubbed the sensitive spot. “I want to get to know you. Every single bit of you.”

  Someone delicately cleared their throat, and Annie’s eyes flew open to see the waitress standing near the table. “Is there anything I can get you? Another white wine, ma’am?”

  “Oh, uh.” Annie glanced at her empty wineglass, flustered. “Yes, please.”

  “And for you?” She looked at Siobhán.

  “Coffee, please. With a shot of Tullamore Dew if you have it, please. Bushmills Black, if you don’t.”

  “We do carry the Tullamore. An appetizer or a dessert to go along with it perhaps?”

  Annie shook her head.

  “I’ll just nibble on what’s here if Annie doesn’t mind,” Siobhán said.

  “No, no, of course not.” Annie wondered if the innuendo had been intentional. “I got it for both of us.” Truthfully, she’d been so nervous about Siobhán arriving, she’d barely managed a few bites of the cheese plate she’d ordered.

  “I’ll be back shortly with your drinks then.” The waitress disappeared.

  Although Siobhán hadn’t removed her hand from Annie’s wrist while the waitress was there, she let go now and reached for a cracker. “I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”

  Annie shook her head. “I don’t usually lose track of my surroundings so thoroughly,” she admitted. “But I’m not sorry I did.”

  Siobhán brushed her fingertips against Annie’s honey-blonde hair where it draped across her shoulder. “You’re out then?”

  Annie laughed. “Oh, I came out as bi in college. Which is longer ago than I like to admit.”

  Siobhán’s mouth turned down at the corners as she frowned. “You’re bisexual?”

  “Yes.” Annie raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

  Siobhán hesitated. “I’ve had a few less than great experiences with bi women, unfortunately.”

  “And I’ve had a few less than great experiences with lesbian women who look down on me for being bi,” Annie said calmly. Her heart sank. How many times was she going to have to go through this? How many times would she think things were going great with a woman, only to have her hopes dashed when the truth came out?

  The furrow on Siobhán’s brow smoothed out. “I suppose we all have our baggage, don’t we?” Her tone was light, and she resumed toying with the ends of Annie’s hair.

  “I suppose we do.” Annie smiled at he
r. Well, maybe her identity was a minor bump in the road instead of a full barrier. She could live with that. She shifted in her seat to look Siobhán in the eye. God, she was beautiful.

  “You’re a journalist, you said?”

  “Yes, but mostly freelance these days,” Annie said ruefully. “The newspaper business isn’t exactly booming. Most of the bigger papers are cutting back. And truthfully, by the time I got out of college, I was pretty disillusioned with the field. Freelance work can be very hit or miss. Sometimes I enjoy the topic I’m writing about. Sometimes I don’t. It’s feast or famine with my income. I love the flexibility of my schedule but there are certainly no traditional benefits like health insurance or a retirement plan.”

  Siobhán made a face and reached for a chunk of cheese. “There’s a lot to be said for this country, but you have a strange obsession with self-sufficiency. Even to your own detriment.”

  “Tell me about it,” Annie agreed. She opened her mouth to continue, but the waitress appeared with their drinks.

  “Please, excuse the delay. The coffee was old, so I had them brew a fresh pot.”

  Siobhán smiled at her. “Thanks, love.”

  Annie received her wine with a smile and thank you, but once the waitress was gone, she turned back to Siobhán. “So, tell me more about your art. I’m fascinated.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “How did you get started?”

  “Oh, growing up, I was always scribbling on something or other,” Siobhán said with a smile. “Me ma moved the bed once to find I’d been doodling on the walls. She made me repaint it, but I just started over again, and she finally gave up and let me do a mural on one wall.”

  Annie smiled at the thought. “Were you a bit of a hellion?”

  “I might have been.” Siobhán’s teeth flashed white as she smiled. “I used to sneak out of the house often. Then, when I got older, I’d sneak girls in.”

  “Corrupting the local girls, huh?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.” There was a soft purring edge to Siobhán’s voice that made Annie shift in her seat. “I was the cause of half the girls in our parish confessing to the priest about their lesbian sins.”