Page 10 of Evan

Wanting to enjoy the experience all by herself, she studied the painting closely, admiring the not so clean lines and the slash of colors that Jackson Colby was most famous for and sighed softly.

The painting was a jumble of colors and to some would seem like a child had been left to his own device with a paintbrush and several vibrant colors to play with. But to her as well as an expert – a connoisseur of the art, it was a maze of wonder.

Abstract art fascinated her mostly because one could put any interpretation one wanted, and it would not be wrong. She had studied it in college and had learned a lot about Jackson Colby and his style of creativity. She admired the man tremendously and privately wished she could meet him.

But, not to impart the gospel, and she had a moment to reflect if that was wrong. No, she wanted to meet him and tell him face to face how much his paintings meant to her. It was either that simple or that complicated.

She had moved on to the next painting, the champagne in her hand losing some of the bubbles before she noticed the man standing next to her.

“Hi.”

Jerking slightly at the male voice, she turned her head to see him standing there. He was a distinguishing looking gentleman with a full head of dazzling white hair and a pleasant smile on his lips.

“Hello.”

“I noticed that you were absorbed by the painting.” He nodded to the one she had been admiring.

“I am a fan,” she admitted.

“Who isn’t? Jackson is quite talented. My name is Isaac…” He held out a well-manicured hand to her. “Isaac Whitfield.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened in recognition. “You wrote several books on the subject.” She could not help the rush of excitement as she took his hand. “I read most of them while I was in college.”

He smiled at her, blue eyes twinkling and adding character to an unlined face. “Did it manage to put you to sleep?”

“On the contrary.” Forgetting the now flat champagne and losing interest, she set it aside on a table against the wall. “Reading your work was a source of fascination for me. The way you made clear the distinction between traditional and contemporary paintings had me awed.”

His light blue eyes studied her animated face with interest. “You are an artist.”

She shook her head with a rueful laugh. “Just an amateur. I paint when I have the time.”

“You sound more than an amateur and you were studying the paintings as if you were trying to interpret what it’s saying.” He gestured to the one in front of them. It was a stark black and white artwork, depicting an old man sitting on a porch, a pensive look on his craggy face as he stared out at the darkening landscape. “What do you think?”

Turning back to the painting, she studied it carefully. She was in the presence of an expert and wanted to get it right.

She noticed the squiggly signature of the artist’s name at the left-hand corner but could not quite make it out. “The subject is a family member, someone close to the artist, someone loved by him or her.”

She wrinkled her brow as she stared at the defining lines. Even though it was done in black and white, one could identify clearly what the artist was about. The lack of vivid colors did not take away from the idea, in fact, it gave the subject stunning clarity and a feeling of haunting beauty.

Whoever took the original photo and painted the portrait was very talented and she said as much to the man standing next to her.

“I agree completely. His name is Sylvester Greene and the man in the painting was his grandfather. Sylvester is seventy years old.” Isaac smiled at her startled look.

“I have never heard of him.”

“That’s because his photos had been buried in boxes until his grandson found them after he died a week ago.” He nodded to the painting. “This is just one of many. Shall we?”

“Of course.” She eagerly went with him to view more.

*****

Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling so down and out anymore. They were getting an influx of much needed donations in terms of a very generous donation. It was a sign that the Lord was still in his corner. That despite his sinful nature, his heavenly Father was still with him. He had been afraid that wasn’t the case.

He had not bothered to go anywhere else, but sat around his desk, imbued by energy, and was tackling some paperwork. He was about to call it a night when a shadow loomed in the doorway. His heart took a dive when he noticed who was standing there.

“Marjorie.”

“I went home and prepared some seafood salad and brought you a plate. I had a feeling you would still be here.”

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