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I’d thought this when I saw her in the house and during the drive, but seeing her here in this grand foyer with soft lighting and art surrounding her, she looks like a living Persephone.
Her hair is pinned half up, a pretty silver clip holding a few strands together at the center of the back of her head. It’s curled long and soft in big waves. Her dress is modest but exposes her shoulders and a large portion of her back. I can see several freckles right below her left shoulder, almost in a circle. I hadn’t noticed them before, and now I can’t look away.
My fingertips itch. I want to touch her there. I want to touch her everywhere. Anywhere.
Laura turns to me, eyes bright and sparkling, with a smile.
“Wow,” she says.
I grin at her. “Wow.”
“Okay,” she says, quickly stepping towards me. She grabs my hands, and itburnsin such a delightful way. “I’m being chill.”
I laugh. “Yes, you are.”
She wrinkles her nose at me, completely adorable, and then spins to look at the ceiling. “Wow!”
I laugh again and then place a hand politely on her waist. I’m careful to keep it appropriately positioned as I lead her to the main hall where we’ll be dining.
There was clearly no expense spared. The room is booming with delightful dance music and waiters walking around with shiny trays of drinks. I nab two flutes of champagne and hand one of the glasses to her.
Laura’s eyes brighten. “This isso nice.”
“It’s usually a bit of a bore,” I admit quietly. She slips closer to me to hear, and it fills me with something I have no choice but to callglee. “The speeches later will require far more champagne than this.”
She laughs. “But until then? Nice!”
I tilt my flute to hers. She clinks our glasses together, and we take a sip.
We walk around for a while, looking at the paintings on display. I bid on a few of the local artist ones, as that’s the whole point of tonight’s events, and Laura’s eyes nearly bulge out of her face when she sees the number I scrawl for a large oil painting of a field of daisies. She quickly looks away, cheeks reddening, and I make a note to bid on the other room—which hosts the more expensive options—when she’s otherwise occupied.
“These are nice,” she says hesitantly. “I don’t know much about art.”
I smile. “No one here does really. That’s not the point.”
She looks back at the daisy painting. “How do you know how much something is worth then?”
I consider her question as we replace our empty glasses with fresh ones. The waiter wanders away, and Laura tilts her head back to look at the ceiling again. It’s painted and very beautiful, but I don’t know that I ever looked at it for more than a glance. Even now, I don’t care to stare at the ceiling except that I want to see what she does.
“I suppose what something is worth is whatever we decide it is,” I say, shrugging. She looks at me inquisitively. “That painting, for example. Is it worth the materials? The cost of the labor?”
She tilts her head and squints at the flowers. “Yes… and the painter’s expertise, I guess. Though I don’t know how to qualify it.”
“Neither do I,” I admit. “So I don’t bother.”
Her eyes find mine. “How did you know what to bid then? Just higher than the last guy?”
“Pretty much. But at the end of the day, what it’s worth to me is different than what it’s worth to the artist or even to the next person bidding. To me, it’s a painting of Angie’s favorite flowers in colors that I think would go nicely in her room. I think she’d love to have it, and I haven’t gotten her a Valentine’s Day present yet. So the painting is worth whatever Angie’s excitement over it is worth, which, to me, is very nearly priceless.”
Laura’s eyes are warm on me. I feel almost… embarrassed. I take a sip of the champagne to hide the nerves that are likely evident on my face.
“Onlynearlypriceless?” Laura teases quietly.
I smirk. “Well, she’s only eight. Flowers are fickle loves.”
Laura laughs loudly. I grin at her.
That laughter, I know, is something thatispriceless.
