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That’s the understatement of the year, because all I’ve done since the tall lady walked away is follow her around the room, at a distance so as not to look too stalkery or to draw attention to myself. Since our conversation a few minutes ago, the woman has been flitting around the room like she owns the place. Heck, maybe she does. She’s touched my—I mean, her necklace at least three times. Once she grabbed it and slid it back and forth over the chain, and the other two times, she just held it between two fingers.
She must like it.
“I’m, uh, just making sure everything is going according to plan.”
“Want me to keep checking things for you since you’re super spacey right now?” Molly scoffs, then giggles.
“That’d be great. Thanks, Molls.”
“Uh-huh. Let me know his name when you finally get up the courage to talk to him.” She nudges me. “Oh, what am I saying? That’s crazy talk. You won’t get the courage up to talk to him because you’re a chickenshit.”
“Uh-huh. Thank you, Molly.”
She moves close, her head facing the same direction mine is. I suppose she’s attempting to see what has my attention. When she whistles softly, she nudges my arm again. “Wow. You’ve got good taste. That man is fiiiiiine.”
That did it. “What? Who?” I look back in the same direction and see only Ann, our bartender, and an old man with a cane.
“You didn’t see him?”
“No.” I shake my head, but really, I’m searching for the tall woman again. I spot her next to the largest painting in the gallery. It’s about the size of my entire apartment.
“You’re hopeless,” Molly says with a sigh. “But I still love ya, Luce.”
“Uh-huh. Love you too.” I wave her off in the hopes she’ll go do something else. I need to get closer to the statuesque lady. I slither around the perimeter of the room and stop moving when it gets a little crowded. There are several people clustered around one of the paintings, so in order to blend in, I look at it too.
“What do you think of that one?” a man says close to my ear.
“Not my favorite.”
He chuckles. “Oh? Why is that?”
“The colors are murky. It’s darker than the others. It makes me feel—” I can’t find the words.
“How? How does it make you feel?”
Why does this guy care? I glance over at him and feel my breath stop. He’s—He’s pretty. I suppose that’s not the best way to describe a man, but it can’t be helped. He’s handsome, yes, but there’s something about his features that made me say the word pretty. Maybe it’s because of his eyes. They’re blue, but not like Molly’s eyes, which are just plain old blue. No. His are blue like the water of the Caribbean. Like an aqua ocean. Yeah, his are ocean blue. He’s got dark hair that only makes his eyes more prominent. Gah, plus he’s got all those features that make a man good-looking: square jaw, a little bit of dark scruff on his chin, and a straight, distinguished nose.
“Won’t you tell me?”
I blink, attempting to recall his question. “Oh. How does it make me feel?” I look back at the painting. Several people have moved to the left, leaving just me and this man standing in front of it. “Lots of things. Sad. Depressed.” I stare at the painting, attempting to come up with another word for it. If my grandmother was here, she’d have good words. So, I add, “Sad.” Sure. I already said that one, but it bears repeating. And then it hits me. Melancholy. My grandmother would have said melancholy, and it would have been perfect. It’s too late, though. It’s already out there.
I glance up at the beautiful man, expecting to see him laughing at me, but he’s not. He’s rubbing his chin. “Well, that wasn’t my intention. I would never want to make you sad.”
He emphasized the word you. Why did he do that?
“No worries.” I crane my neck a little to see if I can spy the woman wearing my necklace, when it occurs to me. “You painted this?” I’m pointing rudely at the painting.
“I did. I painted all of these.”
“You’re the artist?”
He smiles, and it’s a bit smug. “I am.” He reaches out and touches my upper arm, gently nudging. “Would you mind looking at this one and telling me how it makes you feel?” I move to the next painting, and I’m about to tell him, when I see her. “Will you excuse me? I’ve, uh, got to check on something.”
“Come right back, though.”
“Sure. Right.” I quickly make my way toward the front of the room, just in time to see the woman do the unthinkable. She removes the locket.
Whispering to myself, I say, “Why would you do that? That thing is priceless.”
