An Ounce of Hope(123)

Max laughed into his hand and shoved Riley toward a collection of paintings titled Bask in Death. Practically giggling like schoolchildren, the two of them came to an abrupt halt, eyeing the dark splashes of color against the whitewash of the gallery walls skeptically.

"Talk about a joy killer," Riley uttered while simultaneously grabbing two glasses of orange juice from a passing waiter.

Max nodded, not voicing his views about the work even though he quite liked them, and glanced around discreetly. He couldn't spot Grace amid the crowd of about one hundred people, and the anticipation built ever higher. He figured he may as well try to relax while he had the chance. He sipped the juice and meandered around the paintings, stopping at a couple and quietly losing himself in the colors, themes, and messages of each one. He'd never been one to really stop and appreciate art, despite his affinity for painting, and soon found himself enjoying it. Riley, meanwhile, tilted his head this way and that, trying to make heads or tails of the numerous canvases they passed, much to Max's amusement.

"I don't get it," Riley grumbled, after staring hard at a canvas that was bare but for a single orange circle in its center.

Max cocked an eyebrow, equally puzzled. "Yeah, I'm with you on that."

"Now these I like," Riley said, disappearing around a corner.

Max followed to find him standing in front of a wall covered in photographs. Some were small, no bigger than the size of a postcard, while others were at least three feet wide. Max immediately recognized the forests, the mountains, and the rocks that resided by a small cottage back in Preston County. Max looked at the title plaque. Mind, Body, and Soul by Grace Brooks. He smiled before he even felt the desire to do so; at the same time a swell of pride gathered in his chest.

"These are hers," he whispered.

The colors were extraordinary. Grace's eye for textures and light was glaringly obvious in each shot. The angles were precise and thought out, leaving the viewer disoriented in some and calm in others. This was definitely the mind part of her work. She'd had that effect on Max from the moment they met, all baffled and off kilter.

"They're great," Riley said after a quiet moment, gradually making his way around the next corner of the exhibit, where the lighting, Max noticed, was duller, and less like the harsh, bright white of the rest of the place.

Above this particular collection of photographs, painted directly onto the wall of the gallery in black cursive lettering, were the words "Hope for the Soul." The swelling in Max's chest receded as his gaze wandered over the black-and-white images littering the wall, replaced with the crushing weight of his guilt.




 

 

"Oh, Jesus," he mumbled, crossing one hand and arm over his stomach while cupping his mouth with the other.

"What?" Riley asked, looking up from one shot that Max remembered Grace taking as clearly as if it were yesterday.

"It's me," he croaked.

Riley frowned. "Are you serious?"

Max nodded and moved closer to the wall. The shots were taken the day he'd met her at the cottage, the day they'd sat on the overturned log and he'd touched her for the first time, his hands on her thighs. There were pictures of Max's face, arms, hands, but, to anyone else, including Riley, it was just some random man. Grace was right. No one would know it was Max but the two of them. Astounded, Max looked at every one, noticing some he didn't remember her taking, some that, from the wrinkles next to his eyes, he could tell he was laughing. In the few shots that showed his eyes, Max noticed, even in black-and-white, how happy he looked, how young and relaxed and, dare he say it, in love.

"I'm such a fucking fool," he murmured.

Riley smiled sympathetically before his gaze drifted from Max to something over Max's shoulder. "Dude."

Max stilled, knowing from Riley's expression who it was he'd seen. "Is it her?"

"Well, I've never seen her," Riley replied, moving closer to Max. "But I remember Tate's description just fine."

"Fuck," Max gasped as his pulse began to race.

Riley placed his hand on Max's shoulder in silent encouragement. "Be prepared, man," he said softly. "She looks fucking amazing."

With that comment, Max turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was Grace and, sweet Jesus, Riley was right. Her hair was fastened in a tight bun at the top of her head, leaving soft curls that appeared crafted to the side of her face. With her hair up, her neck looked impossibly long, wrapped in a stunning necklace that glinted and sparkled under the bright gallery spotlights. Her dress was . . . unbelievable. It was a canary-yellow strapless number that reached the floor and pulled in at her waist, accentuating all of her glorious curves and the exquisite warm tones of her skin.