I’M PACING THE gallery when a woman opens the door and makes me stop in my tracks. She smiles as she lifts her sunglasses into her hair. She’s older—probably the same age as my mom—and carries herself with the grace of a prima ballerina.
“Are you the owner?” she asks, looking around once before settling on me again.
“Yes,” I respond, and walk to her. “Estelle Reuben. Have you been here before?” I ask. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her. In the past, Wyatt and I hosted painting reveals in our gallery, so I figure maybe she came to one of those.
“Actually, I haven’t. I think we may have met once in New York,” she says, tilting her face to examine mine. “You’re Wyatt’s . . .”
“Fiancé.” I fill in the blank. Fiancé, ex-fiancé, fiancé before death, I never really know what to say to a stranger who knew of me.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she says, smiling sadly. Her face muscles don’t move much when she smiles, and it makes her look a little more grim than it does compassionate, but I return it nonetheless.
“Thank you. Do you collect?” I ask, figuring she must, if we met in New York.
“Yes. I’ve had my eyes on that one for a very long time.” She lifts a delicate hand and points at my main attraction, the eye that watches over the gallery.
“Oh,” I say in a whisper.
“How much for it?” she asks. “I’ve tried to buy it in the past to no avail.”
My eyes widen as realization washes through me. “Priscilla?” I say, turning to face her. Priscilla Woods has been calling—and has had her husband’s assistant call—for almost a year now. I keep turning down their offers, although they’re big sums, because she wants my two favorite paintings, and I haven’t been ready to give them up.
“You remember,” she says smiling. “I’m in town for a couple of days, so I figured I would stop by to see if you’re ready to sell these pieces to me.”
“That one isn’t for sale,” I say, clearing my throat to make sure I’m heard.
“And the other? The shattered hearts with wings?”
I look away from her, toward where the painting hangs on the opposite wall. “It’s called Winged Kaleidoscopes,” I reply, suddenly feeling a lump settle in my throat. Wyatt painted it shortly after we got engaged. He painted three, sold two, and kept one for the gallery. I was never sure if he would sell it, even though the meaning behind it always made me tear up and smile. Ultimately, it was his painting to do with what he pleased.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, and she walks to stand before it. “It reminds me of a rebirth of some sort.”
I nod and swallow, hoping to stay put together enough to get through a conversation. “It’s very much a rebirth.” It’s a rebirth of my heart, of my hopes of love, of my love life, and the birth of our relationship.
“It doesn’t have a price tag,” she says.
“Some things don’t have a price.”
She turns to me and tilts her head. “Nothing tangible is priceless.”
“Maybe not, but the memories behind them are.”
My response makes her nod in understanding. Her eyes dart away from mine and look back to the painting. “So you’re not willing to let go of the memories it holds?”
I stare at the painting in silence. I know that no price will ever be enough to cover those memories, but they’ll forever be embedded in my brain, so maybe I should stop thinking about his paintings in terms of that. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve managed to turn over a new leaf. I feel like I’m headed in the right direction, yet when I’m faced with something like this—the reality of letting go, really letting go, of the past three years of my life—I stall like a car switching gears. I take a long breath, inhaling the ever-present smell of wood and paint, and when I let it out, I have my mind made up.
“I’m ready to let go of it,” I say, my voice steady and determined.
Priscilla turns around and claps her hands in front of her with a happy squeal—the exact opposite of everything she looks like—with her fine pearls and perfect bob. It makes me smile a little, and I feel less sad about selling the painting.
“I can deliver it to your house,” I say, knowing it’s sold, because when somebody with money sets their eyes on something, they don’t walk out without it.
“I live in New York,” she responds. “I wouldn’t expect you to fly all the way over there to deliver something.”
“We do it all the time. I wouldn’t feel right shipping it to you. Not this one.”
She offers me a small smile. “I’ll be taking it myself. We own a jet, so it wouldn’t even fly in a closet. It will be well taken care of.”
The way she speaks about it—as if it was a child—makes me feel slightly better about the sale.
“I’ll draw up the paperwork for you.”
“Do I have time to run across the street? I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend for lunch,” she says, looking at her watch.
“Of course. I just need some information from you. I’ll have it ready and packed up by the time you finish.”
“Perfect. I can’t wait to hang this on top of my fireplace and show off my new painting,” she says.
Her painting. I try not to let the words puncture me, but they do anyway. When she leaves and I finish the paperwork, I take down the painting, gripping the edges of the canvas as I set it down on the floor. I fold my legs beneath me and let my fingertips graze each shattered heart, colorful and beautiful, and the wings that lift them up. Tears slide down my face as I touch each one and say my goodbyes. I begin to cover it, one layer, two layers, three . . . stopping to wipe my face with each wraparound I make. I think about the serious look on Wyatt’s face as he’d mixed the watercolors . . . the look of elation as he’d gotten to the ivory wings when his vision came together on the canvas.
“Do you like it?” he’d asked. His face had beamed when it became clear that I loved it.
“I never want to sell it,” I said, as he laughed and wrapped his arms around me, squeezing me into him.
“One day we will. When we get sick of looking at it.”
I hope he doesn’t think I got tired of looking at it, because I’m not. I don’t think I will ever tire of staring at his paintings, but this isn’t about that. This is my goodbye, I say to myself as I stand up and, with a heavy heart, hand a piece of my past over to somebody else. She will never know the history behind it, but she will appreciate it nonetheless.