Page 63 of Fresh Canvas
Amantha simply nodded. “Coffee?”
She swapped out the full mug and put another pod in the coffee machine for herself. The wooden chair scraped against hardwood as I sat down, and Amantha placed a steaming mug in front of me.
“So, the Vikings, huh?”
“Oh.” Amantha looked down. “Yeah, it was my dad’s. I grew up going to their games. Guess I became a bandwagon fan.” The lining of sadness in her expression implied there was more to the story. “He passed away last January.”
Her sudden declaration hung in the air between us.
The haunted expression she wore was one I’d seen many times, but only in the mirror. One of loss, grief, and an ache that would never be quite right again.
“We…” Amantha swallowed. “We weren’t expecting it—my mom and I. He had a heart attack and died in surgery.” The moisture lining her eyes looked like liquid silver. “I’m an only child, so it’s just me and my mom now. He was our everything. A stern talking-to and a hug when you needed it—” Her voice cracked.
A protective surge in my chest reacted again to the sight of Amantha’s tears. I didn’t want this woman to hurt. To cry. I felt helpless. Because more than anyone, I knew words were futile when it came to death. No amount of “sorry” could resurrect.
My hand reached for her without my permission. On a whim, I redirected it to the sleeve of her jersey. My fingers slid over the silky fabric as I inspected the embroidered logo across her upper arm. My gaze met hers, an unrecognizable emotion now accompanying her tears in those hypnotic eyes.
“He sounds like quite a man.”
Amantha nodded. “He was.”
I forced myself to let go. “Thank you for telling me. You didn’t need to.”
“Iwantedto. I wanted you to know that I get it. Well, at least somewhat. I know he was only my dad and not my spouse?—”
“Loss is loss, Amantha,” I cut in, frustrated by her self-deprecation and my inability to brush away the tear still lingering on her cheek. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“Do what?” she asked.
“Discount yourself. Your feelings. Yours matter as much as mine do.”
Amantha blew out a long breath. “How do you always know what to say? Like with Vanessa in the park. I guess I’m surprised you always seem to get it right.”
I gave her a soft smile. “I’ve spent far too long saying the wrong things to you—it’s about time I start getting things right.”
The pink flush on Amantha’s cheeks was downright adorable. The urge to cradle them both in my hands felt overwhelming.
Change the subject.
“I actually like the Vikings,” I said. “My nephews and I go to their games all the time. They completely lost their minds when we beat the Green Bay Packers.” My mouth curled into a grin as I lifted my coffee mug. “The Packers suck.”
Amantha’s eyebrows hitched, though a blazing heat in her gray eyes ignited like flint on steel. That expression rendered me senseless, and I was nothing if not a wasteland in a drought, ready to go up in flames.
“The Packersdosuck,” she murmured. “Another red flag of Ryan’s I should have noticed.”
The Keurig machine chirped and disrupted the moment. Amantha got up to get her coffee, swirling cream into it. She sat down and sipped it.
“We need to make a plan,” I said weakly.
“Yeah, but how in the world are we going to find the painting?”
“Let’s focus on the short term. There has to be a paper trail bigger than just that accession form. I can keep digging and see what I find.”
“I can watch for any suspicious activity from Blythe and Kendra.”
“It’s a start.”
“I really don’t think it’s Blythe, though,” Amantha said. “She’s no criminal mastermind.”
