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She tipped her head, looking at it sideways. Then looked at it the other way. The painting was small, a twelve-by-twelve square in a plain frame. But the detail was phenomenal, the two angels rendered precisely. It wasn’t a print—she could tell by the fine lines in the paint that it was old. Well used, well handled, and well loved.
She wondered why such a precious piece of art wasn’t hanging on Gideon’s wall.
It wasn’t until she bent over and examined it more closely that she saw the initials.
Oh my God. It couldn’t be. Could it?
“What are you doing?”
She jumped away from the painting so fast, she almost fell backward. Gideon hadn’t yelled, his voice hadn’t even been harsh, yet she still felt like she’d been caught snooping.
“The painting. I almost sat on it. But thankfully, I didn’t. And when I looked closer at it, I—”
Her words fell away as he grabbed the painting, holding it close to his chest. Agitation had turned his eyes stormy.
“Where did you get it?” she asked softly. How long had he owned it? Did he even know what it was? Maybe it wasn’t real. But what if it was? She had so many questions, it was hard to sound casual.
“A friend gave it to me,” he said, a hint of caution in his voice.
It must have been some friend. “Can I look at it? Please?”
For a moment, she thought he might not let the painting go. Finally, he turned it around for her to see.
Good Lord. “It’s amazing,” she whispered. “Do you…” She had to take a breath before asking, “Do you know the artist?”
He shook his head. “It’s just initials. MFC. I have no idea who painted it.”
She wasn’t an expert, by any means. But she had not only studied art history, she loved art history. And she loved the work of this artist most of all.
“Do you remember Jorge’s favorite painting at the Legion of Honor?”
He nodded. “The scene in the square with the lady. I liked that one too.”
“Did you notice the signature on it?” When he shook his head, she said, “It’s by Miguel Fernando Correa. He always signed with his initials.” She pointed to the corner of the painting, barely able to contain the excitement rippling through her body. “MFC. Just like that.”
* * *
Rosie would never lie to him.
But he still couldn’t believe it was true.
They were all outside at the pool, the boys splashing around with the inflatable rafts Gideon had bought them, while beside him on a lounge chair, Rosie was typing into her iPad.
“I’d never seen your painting before,” she said. “It’s a very different style from his other work that I’m familiar with, but even when I first saw it, there was something about it that grabbed me in the same way Holy Day in Monterrey does.?
??
“When we were in the museum…” He spoke slowly, as though he was only just beginning to put several disparate puzzle pieces together. “I felt the same way. Like there was something familiar about that painting. Something I couldn’t put my finger on, but couldn’t ignore.”
Gideon had always been careful to put away the painting in the bottom cupboard of the bookshelf. Until Noah’s kindness and empathy last night had made him forget the very thing he never forgot. No one had ever seen Karmen’s painting. Not until Rosie.
She looked at her shoulder, which was turning a little red in the sun. “I think I’m burning.” Setting her iPad aside, she reached into the bag by the side of her chair and pulled out a big tube of sunscreen.
He told himself not to look as she slathered her legs. But his eyes refused to listen to his brain, hungrily tracking every move.
Gideon could feel his breath in his chest and hear his pulse beating in his ears as she smoothed lotion over her arms, her shoulders, the nape of her neck. Then dipped low into her cleavage, making sure she covered the line of the suit.
“Do you need some?” She held up the tube.
