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“Let’s go find your artist.”
I blink and shake my head, suddenly remembering what we’re actually in town for.
“Melinda Blake,” I say, naming the artist I’m looking for. “But her name’s not on the listed artists.”
Pursing his lips, Diego scans the list of artists on the fair’s program that we grabbed on our way in.
“What about this one?” He points to a name that’s just initials. “M.E.B. could stand for Melinda Blake.”
“Contemporary,” I read the short bio provided underneath the artist’s name. “Let’s give it a try.”
We head toward the other side of the fair to find the row and table where M.E.B.’s work is displayed. My heart sinks as soon as I see a young man standing behind the table.
I start to tell Diego that this isn’t her, but one of the paintings on display catches my eye. Picking up speed, I head straight for the table.
“Amazing Grace.” I point at the beautiful image of a woman cloaked in a hoodie, half hiding her face as a bright spotlight shines down on her. “Who painted this?”
I know the painting.
The blond-haired guy behind the table blinks at me. He’s young, probably early twenties. A quick scan of his hands tells me he’s not the painter. Most of the painters here have paint-stained hands.
“I’m sorry?” he asks, taken off guard.
“Amazing Grace. That’s the name of this painting, right?” I know it because it was one of the paintings I came across on Instagram by Melinda Blake.
“Yeah, that’s right.” He smiles but quickly stifles it. “How did you know?”
I observe the other paintings. Most show a young woman hiding her face in one way or another. They’re hauntingly beautiful. However, none of them have names or titles displayed the way most other artists name their work.
Also, there’s no signature on these paintings.
I turn to Diego, who’s quietly observing me. “She painted these.”
I look at the man behind the table. “Do you know Melinda Blake?”
His hazel eyes widen in surprise, I suspect. “How do you, um …” His gaze drifts off to the side before he finally replies, “These are the works of M.E.B.”
“Do those initials stand for Melinda Blake?”
He grows nervous as he glances between me and Diego.
“Did you steal this work from her?” I blurt out the question. Anger starts to rise inside of me at the idea of someone ripping such a talented artist off. How the hell did he get these paintings?
“What? No,” he insists while waving his hands in front of him. “I would never steal from my sister—” He stops short.
“Your sister?” I pounce, moving closer to the table, almost getting in his face. “Is she Melinda Blake?”
Pressing his lips together, he looks over my shoulder.
“Your sister is extremely talented,” Diego says. It’s a simple statement but it seems to relax the guy ever so slightly.
His shoulders drop a little. His gaze turns to the paintings on the table.
“She’s so freaking good,” he says, sadness lacing his tone. “But she doesn’t like coming to these types of things.” Slowly, he looks back up at me. “She doesn’t go out in public much. Something like this …” he scans the open-air space with all its hundred if not thousands of people strolling around, “it’s too much for her. But it’s one of the biggest art fairs in our area. I told her she couldn’t miss it.”
He shrugs.
Relaxing a bit, I move back a little from the table, to give him room. There’s a deep, resounding emotion in his tone that speaks to how much he cares for his sister. That instinct of mine, that is so keen when it comes to scouting out great art, piques. I believe even more now that Melinda Blake is perfect for my gallery.
