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Monica just shakes her head. She looks me in the eye, an expression of sincerity washing over her face. “They’re gorgeous.” Something catches her attention, and she notices a friend calling her from nearby. “I’ll be back,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze before disappearing into the crowd.
A waiter appears, offering me a glass of champagne. I accept, knowing a bit of liquid courage can only help get me through this night. Still puzzled by Monica’s comment, I make my way through the room. Stands are positioned throughout the room, canvasses displayed on each. Most are facing inward, toward the crowd, so I can’t see what Aiden has chosen until I’m nearing the center of the large room.
I smile in greeting at a few people I recognize—workshop teachers, foundation employees. They all seem to give me strange looks. I can’t quite pinpoint what it is, but something seems … different. Or am I just making it all up?
I lift my glass of champagne to my lips, about to take a sip, when my eyes land on the first painting I’ve seen displayed tonight. The glass hovers inches from my mouth, and then slowly, I lower it.
I stare at the painting in absolute shock. Almost as if on their own accord, my legs carry me closer until I’m standing just a few feet away from it.
The sweeping meadows, the vibrant skies. My name scrawled in the corner.
I turn slowly, surveying the rest of the paintings on display all around the room. My hand flies to my mouth in astonishment as I recognize each and every one.
These paintings are mine.
“Are you the artist?” a voice asks, pulling me from my racing thoughts.
I turn to see an older woman standing next to me. Her gray hair is pulled into a beautiful low bun. And her eyes match the dark blue dress she wears.
I can only nod in silent shock.
“They’re beautiful,” the woman compliments. She extends her hand. “My name is Lenore. I was close friends with Maria King.”
“Lilly Richards,” I introduce myself, shaking her hand. “I’m the program manager at the foundation.”
Lenore smiles. “Maria would have loved these.” She gestures to the paintings around the room. “You should be doing more with them. Aiden says you’ve never pursued this.”
At a loss for words, I can only nod. Aiden has spoken with people about me?
“I have connections in Seattle, as well as other cities on the west coast.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a business card. She hands it to me. “Don’t let your talent go to waste.” With one last smile, she walks off, leaving me standing in absolute shock.
After gathering my senses, I turn and slowly start perusing the artwork. Obviously I recognize it all, but quickly I begin to realize where exactly I recognize it from. These are all paintings I’d left at the foundation. Things I’d done in my spare time, whether at work or at home, and hadn’t deemed worthy enough to hang on my wall or give to friends.
More specifically, these are all paintings that had been in Aiden’s office. It’s where I’d stored most of them.
Just then, I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of someone approaching me. I look up to see none other than Aiden King striding across the room toward me, his face a mask of apprehension and hope.
When he reaches me, he stands beside me, facing the painting I’m currently standing in front of.
I turn to meet his gaze. “You did this?” I ask quietly.
He nods. “Yeah.” His eyebrows are crinkled in an emotion I can only describe as worry. “Do you like it?”
I laugh. I can’t help myself. “Like it? I love it.” I shake my head, suddenly overwhelmed. What Aiden has pulled together is nothing short of amazing. For me. “I can’t believe you did this.”
Relief floods his features, and he smiles. My stomach tightens. God, I’d missed his smile. “Choosing an artist for the showcase was easy once I realized the obvious choice was right in front of me.” He laughs. “Literally. Sitting all around me in my office.”
I smile, looking back at the painting, a swirl of emotions consuming me. I never would have done this on my own. I would never have sought out anything more for my art other than hanging on my walls, and I certainly never would have chosen myself for this art show. And Aiden knew that. So here is he, presenting my art to the elite of Seattle, and the business card of someone who could very well change my future is currently sitting in my purse.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, despite the anger and hurt I still feel.
Aiden is silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, you know,” he finally says.
I refuse to look at him. I’m afraid of my eyes welling up with tears if I do.
“Talk to me after the show?” he asks, gently placing a hand on my arm.
Still unable to look at him, I simply nod. I owe him that at least—to hear him out. And after this—all he’s done—maybe there’s something worth hearing after all. After a few seconds, he gently squeezes my arm and walks off.
