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“I think I’d like that,” Rose said.
They went out to a French restaurant that evening and ordered escargot—which Sean had never enjoyed nor even thought to order. Rose showed him how to eat them properly; she refilled his glasses of wine; she laughed at his jokes and little stories. By the end of the evening, their hands were interlaced over the table, and they were gazing into one another’s eyes.
It was eleven thirty at night. They’d already been at the restaurant for four hours. Only one other couple remained, and they were looking at their phones, ignoring one another.
It was as though the magic of the restaurant was only for Rose and Sean.
“I wish I could take back what happened all thoseyears ago,” Rose breathed. “I wish I would have gone out with you instead of him.”
Sean raised his shoulders as though to sayit is what it is.
But Rose got out of her chair and pressed her lips against his. Her heart raced; her ears rang. His hand found the divot between her neck and her shoulder, and his thumb traced her collarbone. It surprised her. His touch was wonderfully tender.
When their kiss broke, their eyes were swollen and filled with tears.
It was clear to both of them that they wouldn’t need two hotel rooms. Not tonight. Not for the rest of the week.
Rose thought,I’ve never fallen in love as an adult before. Not really.
It’s better than I ever could have imagined.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sean insisted on being there for Mrs. Walden’s portrait. “It’s not safe,” he said. “If she figures out who you are at some point during the portrait painting, she’ll flip out on you.”
Rose was grateful for Sean’s honesty and support. Her heart sang when he was around. At the breakfast table of their hotel restaurant, they held hands and ate bagels, gazing into one another’s eyes. They’d been a “couple” for just a few days, and Rose felt as though she floated from room to room, as though everything she said and did was extra magical, as though New York City had opened its arms to them.
Of course, everything could turn on a dime. Rose was always aware of that. It was the nature of time.
But she found herself trusting Sean more and more as time went on, rather than less. She wasn’t used to that, either.
Rose and Sean walked to Rose’s makeshift studio and arrived an hour before Mrs. Walden was set to. The fact that she’d agreed to come to Rose’s studio, rather thanforcing Rose to come to her home, was proof that she really, really wanted her portrait painted. She really, really wanted to be in the MOMA. Rose chortled. Mrs. Walden’s self-obsession would never fade.
But maybe it would take a hit this week. Rose hoped so.
Rose had set up a little area for Mrs. Walden to sit in the corner of the studio, where light spilled in from the window and would illuminate her face. Rose planned to paint Mrs. Walden as beautifully as she could as a way to get on her good side. With the skills she’d gleaned during her years as a professional artist, she felt sure she could get the painting done in a matter of six or seven hours. She’d let Mrs. Walden go after four and finish up the rest after she’d left.
That was the plan, anyway. Rose hoped it would work.
Mrs. Walden arrived just on time. Sean pretended to be a studio employee and led Mrs. Walden up the elevator and into the studio, where Rose wore a pair of overalls and had her hair in a high bun. Rose braced herself. Maybe Mrs. Walden would look at her and immediately recognize her. But it had been so many years since they’d seen one another. Rose knew she didn’t look the same.
Mrs. Walden, of course, looked remarkably the same as she had thirty-one years ago. She’d thrown money into her face, and it had paid off. She glistened and glowed. She also looked slender yet powerful, a result of Pilates or yoga or some secret third thing rich people didn’t let poorer people in on yet. She raised her chin and inspected the artist before her.
“Barbara Sparrow,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
Rose smiled and shook Mrs. Walden’s hand. She hadn’t recognized her. Good.
“Thank you for coming all the way here,” Rose said. “Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”
Mrs. Walden had opted to wear a regal-looking ocher dress. It suited her skin color divinely. It also made her look straight from the seventeenth century. She sat and adjusted her shoulders, then put her hands across her lap and raised her chin.
It had been years since Rose had painted anyone’s portrait. But this was exactly how she might have positioned Mrs. Walden’s face and body, given the chance. She dove right in.
Something was magical about painting someone’s portrait. It was a little bit like digging around in someone’s soul.
It was the closest two people could possibly be. But the person who sat for the painting was blind to that closeness. All they could do was be observed.
It was another two hours of painting before Rose got up the nerve to ask Mrs. Walden a question. “You’ve really done remarkable work for your organization. Tell me. When did you start?”
