Page 4 of The Art of Loving You

“Once I move into your house, can I bring my princess bed?”

I grinned. “Of course, you can. We’ll set up your princess bed, all your treasured toys, and perhaps…” I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror and continued, “Maybe even add a swing set in the backyard.”

Her eyes sparkled in wonder. “A swing set? Really?”

“Really,” I confirmed. “We’ll transform the yard into your very own castle.”

Then, with a quieter turn, her face shifted. “I still miss Mommy,” she murmured, and those simple words washed over me in a tidal wave of emotion. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, steadying my voice, “I miss her too.”

“Grandma said Mommy went to Heaven, so she isn’t in pain anymore.”

I swallowed back the heaviness in my throat. “That’s right, sweetheart.”

Bess hesitated, her gaze drifting out the window as if seeking an answer among the clouds. “Do you think she can see me?” she whispered.

I blinked back unshed tears and answered with gentle conviction, “I know she can. She’s always watching over you.”

Solemnly, she nodded, her eyes fixed on the sky beyond our reach. I marveled at her quiet strength—a remarkable resilience housed in such a tiny frame—and the car neared the preschool.

At the entrance, uncertainty arose and her small hand gripped mine a little tighter. Just then, a warm, reassuring voice cut through the nervous silence. It was a teacher, smiling broadly as she knelt to Bess’s level, welcoming us both with open arms. As Bess’s eyes brightened at the sight of a friendly face, I felt a subtle shift in the air—anticipation of new beginnings and gentle comfort. In that small moment, hope shimmered between us, weaving the bittersweet past with the promise of tomorrow, gently mending the spaces where our hearts ached.

“You must be Bess!”

We turned to see Ms. Polly, her bright smile immediately easing some of Bess’s tension.

Bess squeezed my fingers one last time before letting go, taking a hesitant step toward her new teacher.

“You’re going to have a great day,” I assured her. “I’ll be here to pick you up later.”

She nodded, then, with one last glance, followed Ms. Polly toward a group of kids painting at an easel.

I watched her for a moment, pride swelling in my chest. She was braver than she realized.

By the time I arrived at Ocean View Museum, my thoughts had shifted into work mode.

The glass doors reflected the bright Miami morning, and as I stepped inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and a faint citrusy cleaner grounded me. This place was my second home.

Marie, my assistant, appeared in my doorway before I could even drop my bag. “The team’s waiting in the conference room. Ready to wow them?”

“Always,” I said, smoothing my blazer.

Inside the conference room, the energy buzzed with expectation.

I took a steadying breath. “Good morning, everyone. Let’s dive in.”

The projector hummed to life, displaying the title slide:

Marc Chagall: Visions and Dreams.

“This exhibit is about more than showcasing Chagall’s masterpieces,” I began. “It’s about exploring the stories behind them—the works with mysterious origins, the ones lost to time, the ones that shouldn’t exist but do.”

The room shifted, initial skepticism giving way to interest.

I outlined the plan—rare pieces from exclusive collectors, interactive displays, and a narrative that questioned ownership.

Paul, our head of logistics, leaned back. “That’s a bold vision. But pulling it off won’t be easy. Loan agreements alone are a nightmare.”

I nodded, expecting the pushback. “I know it’s ambitious. But we’ve tackled big projects before. We can do this.”

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