the flowers from him and scribble my signature onto the paper on his clipboard. “Thank you.”
“Is it from your hunky neighbor?” Deanna watches me open the card, hovering over my shoulder.
“How would the neighbor know my name, you idiot?” I flip open the envelope, pull out the card, and read it aloud. “To My Beautiful Daughter, I am so proud of you and all your accomplishments. I can’t wait to see the studio when I get back from my trip. Love Always, Dad.”
Things between my father and I are on the mend. I’m still angry with him, but I’ve been working on that with my therapist. She suggested I invite him to my opening as an olive branch for a new start, but he’s overseas on an important work trip. Normally, that would set me off, but he has truly made an effort to put me before work these past few months.
I don’t hate my father. I don’t blame him for Eric’s death. But I do resent him for not giving me Eric’s letter, for not telling me the truth about what happened. Letting go of that has been difficult, but it has gotten easier with time.
“It’s seven o’clock,” Mom says. “You ready?”
It feels as if hundreds of bees are buzzing through my veins. My muscles are tense, my stomach knotted in anticipation.
I nod once and flip the sign on the door to Open.
“Let’s do this.”
Ten different families come to the opening.
That’s ten more than I expected to show. They even sign their children up for my first art class on Monday. Everyone’s enjoying the refreshments and commenting on the art pieces I’ve hung on the walls.
Eric’s art.
Instead of hiding them in his old room at Dad’s, I decided to share his talent with the world. They’re full of emotion and color, and several people even asked me if they were for sale. Not sure I could part with them. At least not yet.
There’s a young woman who has been standing in front of a painting Eric made on one of our visits to Central Park. The subject is an elderly woman sitting on a bench with a bag of bird seed, pigeons scattered around her on the ground. He captured the expression on her face perfectly, the slight curve of her lips, the melancholy gleam in her eyes, a mixture of loneliness and contentment exuding off her.
I sidle alongside the girl, staring up at Eric’s brushstrokes.
“It’s a beautiful piece,” she says with a small voice.
“Thank you. My brother painted it. We used to hang out in Central Park, and he’d make friends with all the subjects of his paintings.”
“Used to?” She turns her head and flicks her blue eyes to mine.
I nod and stuff my hands into my back pockets. “He killed himself two years ago.”
The girl chews her bottom lip. “Are you angry with him?”
I pause before answering. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”
“Sorry.” Her eyes drop to the floor.
“No, don’t be. I love that you’re brave enough to ask a real question. Honestly, I’m not mad at him at all. I know he must’ve been in unsurmountable pain to do what he did. I couldn’t be angry with him for that. It wasn’t his fault.”
She lifts her gaze back to mine. “I love your studio.”
A smile spreads across my face. “Thank you for coming. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you.”
She pushes her sleeve up and holds her wrist out in front of me. A long, clean scar trails up her forearm, and my heart wrenches at the sight of it.
Unable to hold back, I wrap my arms around her shoulders and pull her into me. Her arms clasp behind my back, returning the hug. Remembering how it felt the day Graham held me with unwavering patience, I do the same for this young woman for as long as she’ll let me.
We all need to be reminded that we’re not alone.
“I’m here for you whenever you need someone,” I whisper.
Her body shakes against mine. “Thank you.”
Then it’s my turn to shake.
The front door opens and the little silver bell clangs against the glass, and in strides the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Long, jean-clad legs stretch up toward a trim waist. A tight black T-shirt clings to every ridge and cut of his broad, muscular upper body. His jawline sports a dark five-o’clock shadow, the perfect amount of stubble surrounding his full lips that are tipped up into a tentative smirk. His chocolate-brown hair is