If I Were You(15)

Suddenly, I’m not sure we are talking about art and my throat is dry. I swallow hard and though I hadn’t decided I was really going through with it, I blurt, “I’m taking a summer job at the gallery.”

His light blond brow arches. “Are you now?”

“Yes.” I know it is the truth as I say the word. I know I’ve already decided I am going to take the job. “I’m filling in for Rebecca until her return.” I search his face for a reaction, but I see none. He is unreadable--or am I just too affected by his nearness to see one?

His hands are still on the lapels and he doesn’t move for a long moment. I don’t want him to move. I want him to...I don’t know...but then again, yes I do. I want him to kiss me. It’s a silly, fantastical moment, no doubt brought on by the journals, that has me blushing. I cut my gaze, feeling as if the heat in his will scorch me inside out. I motion to my car, shocked to realize it’s only one parking meter down. “That’s me.”

Slowly, his hands loosen on my--or rather his--jacket. I immediately walk to my car, willing myself not to dump my purse again. I click the locks open and I stop by the curb before opening my door. I turn to find him close, so very wonderfully close. And that scent of his is driving me wild, pooling heat low in my belly.

“Thanks for the walk and the jacket.” I shrug out of it.

He reaches for the jacket and takes it, and I hope he will touch me, and fear that he will, at the same moment. I am so out of control and confused.

His eyes burn hot like green fire before he softly says, “It’s been my pleasure...Sara.” And then he just turns and starts walking, without another word.



***



Hours later, I sit on my bed in a pair of boxers and a tank, legs crossed, with that box and a screwdriver in front of me. I have no idea why the idea of taking the job at the gallery makes opening it seem imperative, but it does, and it is. Rubies trim the lid and an etched, abstract design is in the center. The latch holding it closed looks old and easy to break, and just as beautifully designed as the rest of the box.

“How very artsy,” I murmur, tracing the design with my fingers. The idea of destroying the box doesn’t sit well with me, nor does invading Rebecca’s privacy. So why, why, why do I know I am going to open this box? Why do I have to know what is inside? “Curiosity killed the cat, Sara.”

It doesn’t seem to matter. Of their own will, my hands go to work. I slide the flat end of the screwdriver between the lips of the lid and base and apply pressure. The latch pops easily.

My adrenaline surges and my heart thunders in my chest. I have no idea why I am hanging on a thread, why I feel like this box is so important, why I feel any of this is important. Slowly, I lift the lid, and luxurious red velvet is the first thing I see. I suck in a breath at what is cradled by that velvet and my heart thunders all over again.





Chapter Five





I blink at the unexpected contents of the box. A paintbrush and a picture that has been torn into two pieces, so that only a woman is left. This is Rebecca. I don’t know why it didn’t seem odd to me that I hadn’t seen any pictures of her in the many personal effects I studied in the storage unit. There hadn’t been a picture of her on the gallery website either. Perhaps I didn’t notice these things before now because I didn’t want to know what she looked like.

Reaching for the photo, I hold it between my fingers and study it, study her. She is beautiful and petite with long, sandy brown hair, and a brilliant smile that tells me that at the moment this picture was taken, she was immensely happy. Her image mesmerizes me and I wonder why she tore the picture. I wonder who was in it with her and who took the photo. Even more so, I wonder why she kept the picture after she tore it up.

My brow furrows as my attention shifts to the paint brush. It’s such an odd thing to save, but then, so is half of a picture. I pick up the brush and run my fingers over the bristles that have a hint of a yellow paint at the tips. The wood bears no marks or logo. It’s clearly a sentimental item, which isn’t so unexpected really, considering she worked at the gallery. So was the man in the journal an artist? The prospects of who he might be are far reaching. My stomach knots as I think of Chris. I keep thinking about Chris and those greener than green eyes.

I seal the picture and the paint brush back inside the box and set it on my nightstand. My laptop is also on the bed with me and I power it up before typing ‘Chris Merit’ into the search bar and clicking on images. Almost immediately I get photos of two different people and realize that one is an older version of Chris. His father had been a famous classical pianist who’d lived in Paris. I don’t know how I forgot such a thing, or how I tied the image of father with son, though the resemblance is uncanny.