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I grin at her, loving her philosophy. “Then you’re absolutely doing it right, and you’ve come to the right place. I have no time for people that only like art because of the signature or price it fetches. Why have something on your walls that you don’t even like?”
“Exactly!” She beams at me and visibly relaxes, then steps up to the first collection of paintings.
I hold my breath as she reaches up and touches the first frame lightly. She stares at it for a long moment, and I remain silent as she takes in the image of a woman, holding onto her small child as he clings to her, tears falling down his face.
“Wow,” she says softly.
“Do you like this one?”
“Yeah…it’s…” She swallows down her emotion. “It’s really moving.”
“What do you like about it?”
“I told you I’m not good at this stuff.”
“I’m not judging, I like the light on the woman’s face. She looks angelic,” I tell her truthfully.
“Like isn’t the right word, but for me, it’s the emotion on the boy’s face. It’s so real, so heartbreaking. It’s…compelling.”
“That’s a good word for it.” I cock my head to the side, considering her point of view. She’s right, of course. The painting is arresting and compelling, it draws you in, and you can’t help but stare at it, even though it feels wrong to say you ‘like’ the raw emotion being displayed. It’s painful, but it’s real.
“If they’re all like this, I’ll be a blubbering wreck by the time we’re done,” she jokes, but I can see unshed tears glistening in her eyes.
“They’re not, I promise. Shall we move on?” I hold my hand out to her, and she takes it, but stops when something on the painting catches her attention.
“Kelly?” she asks, when she sees the signature.
“Yeah, it’s mine. I painted that just after my mom died, twelve years ago.” It’s hard for me to admit. Even harder for me to share something so personal with someone I know. Only my brother knows the story behind that painting. I don’t have a problem with it being displayed for strangers to critique, but sharing it with someone like Belle, sharing it withBelle, someone I care deeply about…it shakes me.
She gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, inviting her confidence if I want it, and gently tugs me over to the next painting, which is a sunset landscape of some old ruins out at sea. I’m grateful for the distraction, not quite ready to open up fully to her yet.
“I love these colors. The ocean and the sunset are breathtaking together.”
“That was done from a photo my brother took just off the coast of Santa Catalina,” I explain.
“I’ve not heard of it.”
“It’s a small island off the coast of Southern California. Takes about an hour to get there on the ferry. My brother went to college there. They have a great photography and arts program. These ruins are just off the coast of the island, and it’s a diver’s paradise.”
“Sounds amazing. Looks amazing too. Did you go there?”
“Me? No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t go to a fancy art school after Mom died. But I made sure my little brother got to go and live his dream.”
“Always taking care of people, aren’t you? What was his dream?” Belle asks.
“Opening this gallery,” I tell her, and she laughs. “Well, this and a few others throughout the country.”
“Oh! So that’s why your art is on the walls, not because you’re good, but because you have connections.”
I can tell she’s teasing from the way her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Yep, nepotism at its finest.” We laugh together and move on slowly, only talking now and again about the artwork on the walls. It’s not all mine, and I’m more than happy to show her some of my favorite artists and my brother’s amazing photographs.
“Have you seen Linc’s picture? The one in his office?”
“Yeah.” She bites her lip.
“What did you think?”
“At first I was crazy jealous. It was…everything.”
