Quinn gasped and put her hand over her mouth. “You never got our messages!” She pulled me into a hug. “Oh, Tara, I’m so sorry, and I wish you had said something sooner. “It was all a terrible misunderstanding. In fact, right after Pen left that message, Aine found the bracelet.”
“And the money?”
Quinn nodded. “It’s a long story, and it doesn’t matter now, but yes, it was found and, again, a terrible, horrible, awful misunderstanding. Can you ever forgive us?”
“It isn’t about forgiving you, Quinn.”
We both jumped when someone pounded on the door. “Hey, open up! Feed us more paintings.”
Quinn and I looked at each other. “Tabon,” we said at the same time.
“Your mother sent these,” said Pen, bringing a giant bouquet of orange roses into the gallery office we shared. “Aw, that was sweet,” she said, reading a card from the florist while handing me the other card. “Did you know that orange roses mean the sender is proud of you?”
“I had no idea.” I opened the envelope and pulled out the card that said simply, “I love you, Mom.”
“By the way, she did RSVP her regrets. She’s in Turks and Caicos, and with the short notice and all…”
“She wouldn’t have come anyway, you know, since my dad will be here.”
“But the flowers are gorgeous, darling!” Pen said in her best impersonation of my mother. She handed me a glass of champagne. “Ready?”
“No.”
“It’s going to be amazing.”
“Who is coming again?”
“Family, friends, the Times art critic, you know, no one terribly important. And don’t worry, for tonight, everyone knows to call you Catarina.”
Because of the scandal with Brand and my father, I’d made the decision to paint and open the gallery under a pseudonym. Deep inside, it wasn’t the only reason, not that I’d let my mind drift in that direction tonight. I rolled my eyes. Who was I kidding? Every painting that hung on the walls of the gallery would send my mind drifting in that direction.
“Pen?”
She came back over and took my hands in hers. “You’re ready. This is going to be amazing.” She pulled a roll of stickers out of her pocket. “Red sold dots at the ready.”
“I don’t even care if anything sells.”
Pen tucked my arm in hers. “I do! Come on, let’s go downsta
irs and greet your patrons.”
When we walked out onto the landing, the noisy room went silent for a couple of seconds before erupting into applause.
As I looked down at the sea of people, it was as though they magically parted, giving me a clear view of the man whose likeness hung on the wall in front of him. He turned, then, and our eyes met.
31
Halo
There she was, more breathtaking than I remembered. Her deep blue eyes were piercing, as if she was waiting for my reaction, and then she looked away.
I looked back at the painting, the one of a man in a kitchen, the broad span of his back obscuring what was on the counter top where his hands rested. Besides me, only one other person knew what—who—was behind him.
When I turned back toward the stairs where she’d stood, Tara was no longer there. I desperately wanted to see the rest of the collection, the scenes she’d chosen to paint from our time together in Italy. It had been so brief, yet the memories were that of a lifetime.
As I’d feared, my being here did not add a happy memory. When I turned toward the front door to leave, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
I slowly turned back, capturing her wrist before she could withdraw her arm. I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it. I motioned to the red dot on the untitled painting’s nameplate. “Please tell whoever bought it that I’ll pay ten times what they did. A hundred times.”