PENNY MEETS REMBRANDT
(PEALE, THAT IS)
PENNY MEETS REMBRANDT (PEALE, THAT IS)
Penny slid past her father behind the bar, wrapped her hands around a stoneware jug. Still cool. Good! And carried it toward a customer sitting by himself in the brightest corner of the tavern. Handsome, refined, and well-kept, with interesting fashion choices. Even through his tiny spectacles, the youngish gentleman’s intense eyes followed the rapid movements of his righthand gliding over some paper.
Quietly, she came to his table. Escaping his notice, she lay a hand around the neglected tankard and sighed softly. She motioned Marci over, whispered in her ear, and gave her the tankard. Side-stepping behind her customer, she could see the focus of his labor. Heavens! Her eyes widened. The gentleman created a detailed sketch of herself and the tavern, with a beautiful artistic flair, no less.
Marci returned and placed a fresh tankard on the table. and scurried away to another.
Penny poured fresh cool cider into the pewter tankard while glancing at the sketch. She took a step to turn away.
“Oh!”
Penny stopped and smiled at the source of the baritone voice. “I am sorry, Mister Peale. I tried not to disturb you.” She stood beside the table, holding the stoneware jug with both hands. “You flatter me and the tavern with your sketch.”
“Miss Rollings, you and your establishment are the culprits of the flattery.” He set his pencil down, pulled a cloth from a pocket, and dusted the graphite smudges from his hands. “Dearie me.”
Stopping another staff in mid-stride, Penny whispered into her ear. The girl nodded, scurried off, returned quickly with a small bowl of water, set it next to Peale, and scurried away.
“Your staff is as amazing as you, Miss Rollings.” He continued to brush smudges from his pale blue waistcoat and white linen sleeves. “No wonder you continually garner such success.”
He dipped his fingers in the water and dried them with a napkin. “Do not fear. These are merely sketches for reference when I paint your actual portrait.”
Penny curtsied. “Why thank you Mister Peale.”
“Please.” He held up a finger. “You may call me Rembrandt.”
“Very well.” Penny’s emerald eyes sparkled. “And you may call me Miss Rollings. You may also pay your bill when you leave, Mister Peale.” She gave him a merry wink.
His baritone chuckle resonated. “Nor would I dare have it any other way.” He lifted his tankard toward Penny. “Regardless, I have a gift for the tavern. But I shall wait for the evening to present it.” He patted a three-foot tall box sitting on the floor.
She cocked her head and peered at its worn leather casing that matched his artist’s satchel. “Would this be a bribe, Mister Peale?”
“Indeed, it would, Miss Rollings.”
“I will let Mother know.” Penny laughed, shook her head, and glided away.