Page 7 of Remember Me

“Of course, I’ve been instrumental. I represent the estate.”

Before I can respond, the waiter comes by again. At the sight of Kayla, his expression warms. His eyes light up. What a kiss-up.

“So good to see you again, Ms. Phillips. Will you be having your regular?”

“Yes, and please, Chad, bring my Bellini with the salad.”

“Of course,” says the server as I peruse the menu. Everything sounds delicious and I ultimately decide on a gourmet cheeseburger with fries. Nothing to drink. I’ll stick to water.

As soon as the waiter dashes off with our orders, Kayla resumes our conversation. She obviously doesn’t like to waste time.

“So, Finn, I must say I was very impressed by what I saw. And you are very prolific.”

“Thanks,” I say humbly.

“How long have you been painting?”

“I think I was born holding a paintbrush.” My early years are ones I’d like to forget. I’m grateful she doesn’t pursue them.

Instead, my attractive companion laughs. Her laugh is throaty. And sexy.

“And what about professionally?”

I sold my first painting at twelve. I peddled it outside the Midtown Tunnel. Manhattan. I’m thirty-two now. I quickly do the math in my head and answer, “About twenty years.”

“That’s quite a long time. Have you ever exhibited?”

“I sell on Etsy and have had friends come down to my studio. I also sell at the Fairfax Flea Market every Sunday.”

“Seriously?” There’s contempt in her voice. Haughtiness. Nervously, I take a sip of my water while she continues.

“Andy Warhol once said, ‘Making money is art.’ He’s right. You’re totally wasting your time. You need to think big.”

As I ponder her words, our waiter returns with our orders. A roasted beet and goat cheese salad along with a flute of peachy champagne for my companion and a cheeseburger with parsley fries for me. Kayla immediately takes a sip of her tinted bubbly.

“Are you sure you don’t want one? The Fig makes the best Bellinis in Los Angeles.”

I’m tempted but decline and instead take a couple more gulps of my water.

“Bon appétit,” she chimes.

“Bon appétit,” I repeat before biting into my burger. It’s delicious. Perfectly grilled, medium rare the way I like it.

Kayla picks at her salad, her acid green eyes on my hands.

“Finn, you have extraordinary hands. I bet your long fingers are talented in more ways than one.”

I almost choke on my next bite. Did she just hit on me? I falter for a response.

“I play the guitar and I’m very handy. I can fix just about anything.”

A smug smile lifts the corners of her full red lips. “Oh, I bet you can.”

Her eyes don’t move. She notices the gold band on my ring finger.

“So, I see you’re married.”

“Yeah.”

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