Page 105 of Dante

I open my portfolio and take out my worn sketchbook. “Let me show you the evolution of my idea before I show you the final piece.”

I hand him the book and scoot closer to his desk.

“You saw this group of five chefs when we first met.” I point to the page in question. “That was my lightning bolt. The image that came to me first.”

“Yes. I remember it well,” he says.

“Then you suggested reducing the chefs to three. Since I’d created the original five as a single unit, I had to start from scratch. The first two new chefs came to me at once, but the third I couldn’t pin down. Until last night.”

I point at the sketch I made of the last chef.

“When this chef spoke about food, his whole body showed his enthusiasm. I think I’ve finally captured the facial expression I was after.”

Professor Washington takes my sketchbook to take a closer look.

“Good intuition. The chef is fantastic. His expression shines. You’ve caught his essence. His passion. Your hard work paid off.”

Next, I carefully extract the large sheet of sketch paper that holds my final vision.

“I stayed up until four in the morning getting the proportions right. Can you see how they’ll look on the restaurant wall? The middle chef will be almost life-sized—about six feet tall in the mural.”

He takes it in his hands and looks it over closely.

I knew it was risky to arrange them the way I did, but I couldn’t help myself.

The first chef stands near a wood-burning oven, his hands floury from kneading dough.

The second chef is at a prep station, knife poised over vegetables.

My new chef, the one I found in Little Italy last night, stands slightly forward. He gestures with a wooden spoon like he’s conducting an orchestra.

They’re not lined up side by side, but their bodies angle toward each other, creating a triangle of energy that moves the eye around the composition.

“Gina, this is a fabulous creation.”

I glow with pride as he studies every nook and cranny, seemingly every stroke of my charcoal.

I swallow. “I’d like this to be my formal submission. And then I’d like to meet with the mural installer as soon as possible.”

“Yes, as you wish. From what I’ve seen, the restaurant business is all rush, rush, rush. Which mural installer did you decide on?”

“Eugene Dureff,” I tell him. “I have a meeting with him scheduled, but I’ll try to move it up.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“Until the wall design is finalized and the mural transferred to the restaurant, we can’t move forward with the other aspects of the interior design.”

He nods. “Ah, then consider the first submission of your thesis project approved. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I say, hesitating. “I brought a replica of my submission with me, along with an application for the art competition. May I officially enter?”

“Of course! And I’ll help you find a place for it now, as I’m walking out for another meeting,” he says, taking his jacket from the back of the door.

I follow Professor Washington down the hall, watching as he unlocks the room where submitted work is held. I feel like pinching myself to make sure this isn’t a dream.

Like Angie has said, I have everything I could want. A handsome husband. A cute puppy. And an artistic talent that’s turning into a full-fledged career.

But what good is any of that if a knife or bullet can destroy this hard-won happiness in an instant?