Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

hurt worse than the bad ones.
    She would feel much better once the air got colder, the skies darker and moodier, and fall was over with. A lot of people hated the cold weather and snow it brought with it but she didn’t mind it. It cleared out the sad memories for her, froze them.
    Griffith Tavern was the first inn she’d worked at since Andrew died. Together, they’d worked at a handful over the years. There was one in South Carolina they had worked at and even stayed in together, but it wasn’t a stagecoach inn. That one wasn’t in bad shape; the owners wanted to renovate and restore it and needed some renderings for the architect, contractor, and decorator. It was a short, fast job but the inn itself was amazing and gave them the chance to stay near the beach and eat all the fresh seafood they could handle. On some nights they’d wander back to their room, stuffed and a little drunk, and would laugh and sing all the way there. Andrew couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and could get loud when he wasn’t watching it so Taryn was constantly “shushing” him and giggling at the same time. They’d fall onto their canopied bed and roll around like children, priding themselves on being able to do something they loved, and doing it together.
    She missed him.
    Sitting alone in the middle of her bed, staring out the window in the dark night, Taryn cried a little. She hated fall.
     

     
    A short burst of rain left the ground moist and knocked down the temperature by a few degrees. The wet grass tickled Taryn’s toes inside her sandals. It was easy enough to find a good, level spot to set up her easel and with several hours of daylight left she was hopeful she’d be able to get a lot done.
    It had taken her forever to fall asleep the night before. No more spooky visitors but she was still on edge. And, sometimes, the depression hit her and kept her awake. She hadn’t wasted her insomnia, though. She’d used it to study her photographs now she knew what she wanted to work on first–the porch–and had even made a few sketches. Her hands were still streaked from charcoal.
    There was nothing like a good late-summer storm to leave everything feeling fresh and clean. Soft light filtered through the dark clouds still scattered in the sky and a hush fell over the tavern, giving it a wistful appearance.
    It was a proud edifice and even with its broken windows and caved-in roof it still stood regally, unaware of its imperfections and brokenness. She could almost imagine it shouting out, “I don’t care what you do to me! I’m not going down without a fight!” There would be no white flag for this one.
    Taryn felt a sense of pride for the ragtag group and their confidence and nerve. She also felt a little bit of jealousy. She’d never had close friends like that, or even belonged to a group with a common cause. Her years at the university were spent either studying or working. She didn’t join any clubs or organizations and didn’t go out to listen to music or drink with the others (a fact that depressed her, considering the amount of good live music Nashville boasted).
    She was awkward around people her own age and always felt like she was trying too hard with them–too hard to be funny, too hard to be likable, too hard to be interesting…to be noticed.
    While she painted she listened to music. Today it was Scott Miller; his version of “I’ll Go to My Grave” got her every time. She’d seen him live several times and appreciated his wry sense of humor almost as much as his music. She’d also seen an image online of the old farmhouse he lived in. She’d love to paint it. He seemed like someone she might get along with.
    Griffith Tavern was starting to come to life on her canvas, even in the black and white stage. She was still using charcoal but the tavern was growing in front of her eyes as she filled in the holes and gaps. In her art classes, many of the other students had criticized her paintings for not