Altered Views

By Michele Venne

Will her physical challenges keep her from living a happy life?

Francesca is commissioned to paint a meadow, but she struggles to complete it as her eyesight worsens. Landon meets the artist he's hired and attempts to convince her to be his wife. As Francesca struggles with the fear of not being able to create art, Landon wonders if he's strong enough for both of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: My Joy Enterprises
• Release date: Aug 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781945593314

Book preview

Altered Views

Altered Views

Michele Venne´

My Joy Enterprises

Altered Views

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

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All rights reserved

Copyright © 2020 by Michele Venne´

Cover art created by Lilly Skye at www.lillyskye.com

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First Edition

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Published by My Joy Enterprises

PO Box 73372, Phoenix, Arizona USA 85050

www.michelevenne.com

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ISBN: 978-1-945593-31-4

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Contents

Story

Questions to Ponder

Dear Reader

Acknowledgments

Titles by Michele Venne´

About the Author

Shifting her booted feet as she stood in the sunshine at the edge of the meadow, Francesca Mills felt the weight of her heavy skirts as it brushed the grass and wildflowers she attempted to include in her current painting. With her long, dark hair coiled and pinned to the top of her head, she welcomed the cool breeze that stroked her heated skin. Gripping her palette in one hand, she held her brush away from the large canvas propped on her wooden easel. Francesca studied her work. After a moment, she adjusted her glasses, pushing them further up her nose, as if that might help the world come into focus. Gritting her teeth, then shoving the frustration down below her conscious interpretation of the scene before her, she squinted. In return, a memory bubbled up.

Straining your eyes will only hasten the disease, Dr. Milford had told her. Francesca, you must stay out of the bright sunlight. No more reading. No more sewing. And no more—

Don’t say it, she’d interrupted his seemingly endless stream of activities she was no longer allowed to do.

Painting, he finished.

What, then, is left for me? She wouldn’t cry. Though it might be the only thing her eyes were good for, she refused to break down in front of him, or anyone.

There are plenty of things that can fill your days, he said and patted her arm in sympathy.

That was two months ago. Since then, her focus continued to slip, if only a little, and now the colors were fading as well. With her nose only a few inches from the canvas, she tried to decipher where the flowers in the field were on the sea of green spring grass. What she thought was bright swirls of red and deep purple stars shifted and became wavy. Yanking off her glasses, she tossed them into the weeds at her feet. Angrily, she swiped the brush against her pallet. Wielding it like a rapier, she slashed it back and forth across her work. Furious words spilled from her lips. Tears trickled down her cheeks, her painting of a May meadow, ruined. Like her eyes. Like her life. With weak knees, she crumpled to the ground, and wept, uselessly.

Later, she realized she had forgotten the fact that this was a commissioned piece. Francesca’s client had hired her through a letter. She knew he was a poet and musician who had time for printing politics and planned to start a four-town newspaper in Paso Robles, but she hadn’t met him in person.

Deciding that another cup of tea would do nothing more to settle her raw, shredded emotions, Francesca took her cup and saucer to the kitchen sink. With her water pail in one hand, she turned toward the back door and the hand pump on the well. She paused, hearing a knock from the front door. Frowning, she hesitated, and waited for a second announcement that someone had come to call before setting her pail on the table on her way to answer it.

Francesca blinked against the bright afternoon sun, waiting for the light and blurred edges of the doorframe, porch, and tree-lined drive to come into focus.

Hello, Miss Francesca.

Dropping her gaze to the small stature of Kate Turner, the ten-year-old who lived on the neighboring farm, Francesca smiled.

Hello, Miss Kate. At the mewling from the gray bundle in Kate’s arm, Francesca crouched. Who do we have here?

Mittens. Mum said I could name Grace’s kittens. And this one here, she has four white paws. Like mittens.

Stroking the kitten’s head, Francesca felt her smile slip. Though she could enjoy the softness of the fur, the prick of baby teeth as Mittens latched onto her knuckle, and hear the rumble of a purr from the creature’s chest, she could barely distinguish the white paws from the gray legs.

I think Mittens is a fitting name, she said and rose to her feet.

"And my mum