He opened the box. Inside was a bubble-wrapped package with a metal stand taped to it. “Is this what I think it is?”
“If you think it’s a piece of my work, it is. It’s the first piece you ever saw, the night we met.”
“I don’t know what to say. Except thank you.” He looked inside the box. “Does it have the title anyplace on it? I don’t remember what you called it.”
“It’s called ‘Hope’, the piece is called ‘Hope’. Which is exactly what you gave me at the worst time in my life.”
• • •
She didn’t find the small box he’d left on her kitchen counter until the next morning. In it was a glass charm on a fine gold chain. On the charm was a delicate brush painting of bamboo. The note with it said: “Amanda — This is from the Chinese Garden. You said once it’s your favorite place in the city. I’m told the bamboo represents strength, resilience, and grace — exactly what I’ve seen in you over the past months. I hope you’ll wear it occasionally and think of a beautiful place in Portland. And me. Sam.”
Chapter Two
Four and a half months later
Goddamn traffic. How did people put up with it every day? Sam hadn’t been able to leave Portland until three in the afternoon, which meant he ended up right in the middle of Seattle’s famous rush hour traffic. At the rate he was going, he’d miss the whole opening. Which, given what the past few months had been like, shouldn’t have surprised him.
Amanda’s last night in Portland had been better than anything he could have hoped for but the time since had been a goat fuck. For three months, they talked, emailed and texted while she was tucked away at the Pilchuck Glass School. Then, when she moved in with her best friend from college so she could continue her work, they began to talk about getting together in Seattle.
For six weeks, they tried to make it happen. But three of the weekends were out because of his every-other-weekend with his sons. On the weekend they’d finally nailed down plans, he pulled a seventy-two-hour shift on a messy double murder. Then she was out of town celebrating her friend’s birthday. Nothing had worked. So, when she mentioned the opening at the Erickson Gallery for an exhibit of the work of Pilchuck students that included her, he decided he’d take a couple vacation days and just show up without telling her he would be there. What could screw that up?
Apparently, the traffic, which had him at a dead stop, looking at Boeing Field, not at her or her work.
• • •
Amanda couldn’t decide which was more uncomfortable, feeling hot and sweaty or nervous and twitchy. On one hand, she was miserable from the very un-Seattle-like ninety-degree heat. On the other, her anxiety level about being on public display for the first time since her trial was too high to measure. The only thing pushing edgy-anticipation-of-catastrophe out of gold medal contention was, when it happened, at least it would be over. The TV weatherman said the heat would hang on for a few days.
For what seemed like half an hour, Amanda had been trying to get through the crowd to the back of the room where Cynthia Blaine, her best friend and current roommate, along with Cynthia’s boyfriend, Josh, were waiting with cool water and soothing words for her. But people kept stopping her to congratulate her on her work.
She envied Cynthia and the other artists with work in the exhibit. They were enjoying the evening. Of course, all they had to do was sip wine, make arty small talk and flirt. Amanda had to enthusiastically discuss her new work while staying on high alert for some unknown calamity.