Page 18 of Sparking Sara

“I’m afraid not,” I say.

“Well, let me tell you about our little Miss Diva. She doesn’t simply throw paint on a canvas and hang it on a wall with a price tag. She creates works of art out of memories.”

I glance at the painting on my phone. “What exactly does that mean?”

“Say you proposed to your girlfriend on a gondola in Venice and you wanted to capture that moment forever but didn’t have a photograph. Or maybe you have one, but it doesn’t quite evoke the emotion, the surroundings, or the ambiance that you long to remember. You have the talented Ms. Francis create you a painting.”

I cock my head. “And she can do all that from a description?”

The man laughs flamboyantly. “Hardly.” He points to a table in the corner. “I was about to have my morning tea. Care to join me?”

“Uh, okay.”

He holds his hand out. “I’m sorry for being so rude. I’m Davis Martinez, manager of the gallery.”

I shake his hand. “I’m—”

“Yummy,” he says, holding on to my hand little too long. “Sorry. I’m obviously not your type. But, honey,everyoneis my type. Anyway, you were saying?”

I finally get my hand back. “I’m Denver Andrews.”

He glances at my shirt again. “Captain? Lieutenant? Ooooooh, Battalion Chief?”

I laugh. “None of those. Just firefighter.”

He waves off my comment with a quick flick of his wrist. “I’m sure you’ll get there someday, sweetie,” he says, pouring me a cup of tea.

We sit down at the table and I politely take a sip. “So, you were going to tell me about her paintings?”

I should cut to the chase and ask him about Oliver, but he’s got me so damned intrigued, I feel compelled to find out more about her. When I got home from the hospital last night, I spent an hour looking at some of her paintings on the Internet. I’ve never seen anything like them. She’s talented as hell.

“Sara has quickly become one of the most sought-after artists in the city. No, the country,” he says. “She’s a genius. And like I said, she doesn’t just paint. She researches. She experiences. Shefeelsher art.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“So, the guy who proposed in the gondola? Sara would interview him and the fiancée, then she would fly to Venice and go to the location of the proposal. She’s fanatical about getting the details correct, right down to hiring the exact gondolier the couple had hired if she could find him. She wanted to experience her paintings before she created them. That girl has traveled to every corner of the world. She has more stamps in her passport than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Damn,” I say, shaking my head in comprehension. “Her paintings must cost an arm and a leg.”

He laughs. “Well, let’s just say if you proposed on top of the Empire State Building, you might pay a wee bit less than the guy on the gondola.”

“So, if she doesn’t sell paintings in a gallery, how did you have a showing?”

“Those are from her own personal collection,” he says. “They are the only ones she displays in public. And they aren’t for sale. They are just used to display her talent and attract clients. She’s never shown a commissioned painting anywhere. Claims it’s not her right because they aren’t her memories.” He shakes his head. “That girl is a damn shrew when it comes to everything else, but when it comes to art—hers or anyone else’s—she’s got the utmost respect.”

I nod to my phone. “So this one was her own memory? Is the girl supposed to beher?”

“No,” he says. “That’s a painting of someone else’s memory. A lot of her clients will post pictures of their paintings. But she’s never done it herself.”

I find it odd to be learning so much about the woman in the coma, but at the same time, it’s fascinating. So much so that I almost forget why I’m here.

“Were you close with her?” I ask. “I mean, were you friends?”

Davis studies me and then glances down at my shirt again. His hand comes up to his mouth to cover a pained sigh. “Is she dead?”

“No,” I say quickly, wondering why he would ask.

“Oh, thank God,” he says, looking relieved. “Because the way you asked, you talked about her in the past tense. It made it sound like she was gone.”

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