Page 137 of After We Fall

“This is the piece I want to buy.”

I beam at Julia’s creation. “The artist will be ecstatic. However, this one’s not for sale. It’s showcased here to explain tonight’s fundraiser and the services offered at Twelve Bluebells.”

He squares himself to me and crosses his arms. “I want to pay you the asking price of the other painting we looked at for this piece here.”

I snap my eyes to his. “What?”

He smiles for the first time in our interaction.

I don’t get the impression this assertive man offers his smile often, and wow, what a shame for the rest of the world. Lines of life experience, wisdom, and a slight hint of mischief edge a set of crystal-blue eyes that light up bright and beautiful.

So beautiful that, with just one of his smiles, I wish I was something special. Something more than my thirty-four years, shoulder-length dishwater-brown hair, and murky brown eyes. Something more than my unfinished master’s degree and job that leads to nowhere. Just . . . something more.

“I have another request,” he says, as if he didn’t just declare he would pay four figures for an unknown nineteen-year-old artist. One who began painting a month ago in my creative arts program at the ranch. “I’ll be out of town for an extended period of time. I’d like this piece to be mailed to my mother for her birthday. Could you hold the painting for me and ship it in three weeks along with a handwritten note?”

My lips part, but nothing comes out. The sweet gesture for his mother surprises me.

He stares at me and lowers his head slightly, as if prompting me to answer.

I take a breath. “I would have to ask the artist for permission to sell this piece. If she agrees, we’ll count your generosity as a donation and can certainly accommodate your delivery requests, Mister . . .”

Something soft registers in his eyes. He extends his hand. “Call me Michael.”

“Michael, I’m Daphne.” I shake his hand, appreciating his strong grip. “On behalf of Twelve Bluebells, I cannot thank you enough.”

“You can thank me when the artist agrees to let go of that piece.” With his ringless left hand, he holds up a ranch brochure. “This is an impressive organization.”

“The owner wanted to create a halfway house for women who aged out of the foster care system. She reaches a population in danger of getting lost in the cracks. Gives them solid tools to live a healthy life.”

“Do you work at the ranch?”

“I work at the Broadmoor Contemporary Gallery full-time and volunteer at the ranch teaching art to the residents.” I cock my head. “I’m curious, what drew you to this piece?”

“I’ve learned in my line of work to look for the things you can’t see.” He turns and locks his eyes with mine. “Paintings are like people. They become more interesting when instead of focusing on what you see, you search for what isn’t visible.”

I tug at my dress, fighting the urge to run from this conversation and hide. He can’t see my past.

He shifts his attention to the picture. “Did you teach this artist?”

“No.” I clear the nervousness out of my throat. “I wouldn’t call it teaching. I supplied her with a little paint and some instruction, but she doesn’t need me.” As I think of the magical afternoon when this piece took shape on her canvas, my voice quickens with enthusiasm and my hands become animated. “She’s a force to be reckoned with, but she doesn’t know it yet. What’s displayed here is pure, natural talent.”

On the last word, I throw my arm out to point to the magnificent painting. And knock an appetizer off a passing tray, sending it flying toward Michael.

The eggplant topped with spicy tomato sauce hits his pristine white shirt and plunges to the marble floor, leaving a red stain splattered across the left side of his chest. As if Cupid’s arrow went very, very wrong.

“Oh no,” I breathe.

Without hesitation, the waiter says, “I’ll be right back with a towel.”

“I’m sorry, Michael.” Heat hits my face, bringing with it, I’m sure, a severe blush. I never could hide my feelings, something I’ve lamented my entire life. “I am so sorry.”

Michael looks from the splat on the floor to the splotch on his shirt. He glances around the room, something working behind his eyes. He takes two steps and commandeers a stack of napkins from a nearby server. Upon his quick return, he wipes the appetizer off the ground, dragging crumbs into the napkin with efficient movements. He completes the cleanup procedure with an effective swipe over his shirt and deposits the trash into a receptacle.

The entire process takes approximately two point five seconds. Time I spend fixed in place, utterly unhelpful, with a gaping mouth.

“Are you always this good in a crisis?” I gawk at the bright red stain slashed across his heart.

He chuckles, a low rumbling from his chest. “I’m paid to be this good in a crisis.”