Page 4 of His Vow

I was. The luck of it sat so deep inside my bones I couldn't tell where it ended.

I was about to excuse myself when Margaux gripped my elbow from behind and pulled me backward, which nearly made me stumble.

"What are you — "

"Shut up." Margaux's fingers dug into my arm. Her eyes were locked on the gallery entrance. Her mouth was hanging open. "Look."

I turned.

A woman stood just inside the door. Silver hair — whiter in person than in the photographs I'd studied online, cut bluntly at her jaw. Black linen dress. No jewelry except a single ring on her right hand. She was small, barely 5 ft. 3 in, but she held herself like someone who'd been in rooms full of important people.

Eleanor Voss.

"Oh my god," I breathed.

"She's here," Margaux whispered. "She's in your gallery. Eleanor Voss is standing in your gallery right now. Go talk to her."

"I can't just walk up to her."

"Why not? It's your gallery."

"Because she's Eleanor Voss. She doesn't get approached. She approaches you. Everyone knows that."

"Well, she's approaching your wine table, so maybe start there."

I watched Eleanor move through the room. She didn't browse. She walked slowly, pausing at each painting for a few seconds, her head tilted, her lips pressed together. She said nothing to anyone. People stepped out of her path without being asked.

She stopped in front of the grandmother's kitchen. My heart was beating in my throat. She stood there for a full minute. Then another. Then she moved on.

Margaux poked me between the shoulder blades. "Go."

I smoothed the front of my dress and crossed the gallery, weaving past a cluster of guests, and stopped a few feet from where Eleanor was studying one of Rafael's smaller pieces — a window frame with a cracked pane, a bird sitting on the ledge, the São Paulo skyline blurred behind the glass.

"Ms. Voss." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Thank you for coming. I'm Soleil Lattimore. This is my gallery."

She didn't look at me right away. She finished with the bird, the window, and whatever private assessment she was conducting, then turned. Her eyes were pale gray, sharp, and they moved over my face as if someone were reading the first page of a book, deciding whether to continue.

"You have a good eye," she said. "Someone told me about this space. I'm glad I came."

I was smiling so hard my face hurt. "That means a great deal. Really."

She nodded once and turned back to the paintings. I stood there for a second, floating, then walked back to Margaux.

Margaux was already on her phone. "She wants to discuss pricing," she whispered, her eyes enormous. "On three pieces. Three, Soleil." Her hand was trembling around the phone. "I need to sit down. I think I'm going to pass out."

"Don't pass out. We need you conscious for the negotiation."

"Right. Right. Conscious. Professional. I can do this." She fanned herself with a cocktail napkin and walked toward Eleanor, trying very hard not to scream.

I didn't notice the hours slipping away. The room thinned in waves — first the people who came to be seen, then the people who came for the wine, and finally the people who came for the art, lingering longest, speaking quietly, leaving with Rafael's card in their pockets.

Four paintings sold. One of the streetscapes went to the young couple I'd been speaking with earlier. Rafael stood beside me while they signed. When I looked at him, his eyes were glassy, and his lips were pressed tight together. I put my hand on his shoulder and left it there until he could breathe again.

Rhys kissed my cheek on his way out. "Proud of you, Sol." His eyes were glassy too, but for different reasons. The collar of his shirt was looser than when he arrived. He'd had four drinks that I'd counted, probably more that I hadn't. I smiled and squeezed his arm and didn't say anything about it.

I let him go.

The gallery was nearly empty now. My heels sat abandoned behind the front desk. Margaux was in the back room, doing the final numbers. Rafael had left twenty minutes ago, hugging me so tightly I felt his ribs through his shirt, whispering "thank you" against my hair until I told him to go home and sleep.