Page 89 of The Single Dad

I blink, startled. “How did you know him?”

“It’s… complicated.” She thinks for a moment, then slumps her elbows onto our table. “Actually, you know what? It’s not that complicated. My mom worked for his family as a housekeeper when we were kids.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well… why didn’t you say hi, or something?”

“I was hoping not to run into him.”

“Did something bad happen between you guys?”

“Not exactly,” she admits. “Either way, though, he didn’t seem to remember me, so…”

She trails off. I know Olivia well enough to recognize both relief and disappointment in her tone. She shakes herself as if trying to remove the encounter from her memory.

I glance back over at Cole’s table, and he catches my eye. Across the crowded room, he gestures to me.

“I’m gonna take Archie back over to Cole’s table,” I say to Olivia. “If they’re about to start the bidding, I want to get a look at some of the pieces. You coming?”

“I don’t know,” she says, shifting her weight uncomfortably. Her gaze keeps darting over to Reed, whose back is now to us. “I think I might just stick around by the bar. I don’t want to get roped into a conversation.”

“Fair enough.” I shrug, a little mystified by Olivia’s behavior. She said that nothing bad happened between her and Reed, but it’s still pretty clear that she wants to avoid him like the plague.

I take Archie’s hand and lead him back to Cole’s table, wondering what could’ve possibly happened between them that has affected her so deeply—but that Reed doesn’t even remember.

When we get back to the table, Cole gives me a nod. “Do you want to go around and look at the artwork with me?”

“Sure,” I say, grateful for the distraction—and the opportunity to get a closer look at some of these paintings. There are more than a few that have caught my eye.

Cole hoists Archie into his arms, which is a relief for me; I was hoping he’d be able to get a better look at the paintings, since he’s been so interested in artwork himself, but I definitely didn’t have the strength or energy to lift him up.

We go around the outside of the ballroom counter-clockwise, pausing at each easel so that we can examine the piece. I don’t say much except to comment on the brushwork here and there, or shrug when it’s not to my tastes.

Eventually, though, we stop in front of a canvas that takes my breath away.

It’s abstract: a series of jagged lines in shades of blue, black, and white. They travel down from the top of the square canvas to the bottom, the colors bold.

The strokes are bold at the top, the lines clear, but as they reach the midway point, they begin to blur into each other, overlapping in streaks of dry brush. By the time the lines get to the bottom of the painting, they’ve blended together entirely into a haze the same color as Cole’s eyes.

The tag at the bottom of the easel dubs the painting Things Change.

“Oh,” I say, before I can stop myself. “I love this one.”

I can feel Cole’s eyes on me. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s gorgeous.”

“What do you like about it?” he asks. I wonder for a moment if he’s making fun of me, or just indulging me, but his question seems genuine.

“Well… for one thing, the use of color,” I say. “It feels like the entire piece is built around a blending of colors, so the choices of color are pretty much perfect for that. And the brushstrokes are beautiful, too. They start out so smooth and invisible at the top, and then when the lines start to blur, you can see the strokes.”

Cole leans closer to the painting as I speak, examining it for himself.

“It feels very intentional,” I go on. “It’s hard to get the strokes to disappear like that. This artist knew exactly what they were doing.”

Cole straightens. He’s wearing that strange expression that sometimes crosses his face, his classic almost-smile. “Well, we are at an art auction,” he says. “You could bid on it.”

I snort a laugh. “Right. Sure. Let me just…” I pick up the clipboard lying on a table beside the easel, holding it up for his inspection. “I’ll go ahead and drop two hundred thousand dollars on it, I guess.”

Cole nods, understanding, and takes the clipboard, setting it back down on the pristine tablecloth.

---