The Memory Painter

Bryan stilled at the sound of the woman’s voice, felt it reaching for him through the line.

“My name is Linz. I’m a friend of Penelope and Derek’s, from the gallery. I made it to your show tonight.”

He knew this voice. It was the woman from the park. Bryan grabbed on to the counter, unable to believe this was happening.

“Hello? Are you there?” she asked.

“Yes. Go on,” he whispered.

“There’s a painting I’d like to ask you about. Maybe we could meet?”

“Yes.” He wanted her to never stop talking.

“You signed a painting Origenes Adamantius. Isn’t that the priest who watched the woman burn?”

Tension began to coil in his body. “You know that?”

She didn’t say anything.

“How do you know that was his name?” Bryan waited, holding his breath.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Like I said, we need to meet.”

“When?” He was ready to hang up and go now. Instead, she suggested her place in the morning. He agreed and wrote down the address, his hand shaking. This was why the painting had to be at the opening—he had brought it to the gallery for her.

He hung up and stared at the phone in disbelief. He now had her name, address, and phone number, and he was going to meet her tomorrow. He wouldn’t have to wait until next Friday for their paths to cross again. They were already entwined.

He looked at his turquoise ring and, on impulse, kissed it for luck.



EIGHT