“Should’ve seen her when I got her. Dad and I rescued her from despair when I was in my teens. Took us years to get it right and road-worthy, but she’s never let me down. Not the smoothest ride around, but it’s fun to drive.”
“You must’ve been really close. You and your dad.”
“We were. He was the best person I’ve ever known. If I can live up to him, I’ll be doing something.”
It was hard to talk over the road noise, so she simply nodded. The sincerity in his voice struck her, so that she had to hold back the threat of a tear. His comment about painting his dad into every mural replayed in her mind. What a beautiful way to keep that memory alive.
She thought she’d ask about him possibly doing a mural for Chloe on the ride, but the car was high on motor and short on quiet. She’d save that for later. Leaning back against the soft leather seats, she took in the scenery. She’d all but forgotten what a pretty drive it was outside the city. Summer was almost here, and the trees were flaunting shades greener than a St. Patty’s Day parade—in every variation you could imagine.
In the median, wildflowers in red and yellow peeked from the grasses like tiny, smiling faces that pumped her heart full of joy.
Matthew took an exit way before they reached the Colonial Williamsburg area.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, the gallery is on this side of Williamsburg. Closer to the York River. Williamsburg covers a lot of ground. It’s beautiful on this side and not nearly as built up.”
They drove down a long, quiet, two-lane road with open fields on each side of them. When they turned, the trees wereso full of leaves, heavy from the humidity, that the limbs hung across the street like a tunnel.
A sign with “York Shore” in gold letters directed them to the next turn.
Down a winding road, the terrain opened up and a white fence lined the road for what seemed like miles.
They passed a sign that showed the gallery was only a quarter mile ahead.
Matthew slowed to pull through the opulent gates. “Here we are.”
Ahead, a huge brick and glass building in an old-world style rose from the clearing. With ample parking and a sprawling, single story restaurant facing the river, it seemed odd for this kind of establishment to be so off the beaten path. The parking lot was filling up, though, and people dressed for the affair were making their way inside.
“I guess they don’t get much foot traffic here,” Whitney said.
“None, but then how many people just happen in to art galleries?” He pulled up to the gallery doors, and a valet helped Whitney out of the vehicle and then took the keys from Matthew in exchange for a shiny gold token.
Matthew escorted her inside, where the room was bright and filled with color, between the well-dressed couples and the art on the walls.
“This is amazing.” She walked with her chin in the air, gazing at the beautiful artwork that surrounded her.
He grabbed them both a glass of champagne. “To your first time at a gallery opening. Thank you for being my plus-one.”
“And to a wonderful show for you.” The crisp tone of their glasses coming together filled her with anticipation for the night ahead. “Now, show me your paintings. I want to see them.”
“They’re back here. The light is amazing, reflecting off the water.” As they worked their way through the people, someonecalled his name. He stopped and turned, recognition crossing his face as he shook hands with a very tall, silver-haired man.
“Welcome. Thank you for coming tonight,” the man said.
“I wouldn’t have missed it. Barney, this is Whitney Winters.”
“Charmed,” he said. “Please enjoy yourselves. We are so excited to open this amazing display of talent to everyone.” Barney sauntered off to the next familiar face.
Matthew leaned in and told her, “His late wife had a love of the arts. When she passed away, he opened the gallery in her memory, and as a legacy for their grandchildren.” Matthew led her to the room that Barney had put together for his work.
Whitney noticed him take a breath as they walked into the room, and she felt his eyes on her. Was he nervous? But her thoughts cleared away as she stepped into the room full of landscapes and cityscapes. “You painted all of these?”
His head slowly lifted. “I did. Sometimes I forget all the pictures I’ve painted over the years. His wife bought some of my very first paintings when I was getting started. No one knew my name back then. You can see how my style has changed over the past twenty years.”
She left his side, wanting to take her time and get lost in the colors and textures. Some were so realistic she felt as if she could take her shoes off and walk right into the scene.
As she moved through the space, she was captured by the bold, bright oil paintings and the soft touch of watercolors too.
