Page 23

I tell myself I don’t care. That our near kiss meant nothing. That I merely appreciate his observational style: composed, deliberate.

I close the browser before succumbing to rereading.

His online persona reveals nothing about his real life. He essentially confirmed his mob ties. He acknowledged certain topics remain off-limits. One needn't be exceptionally perceptive to deduce the implications.

My cell phone rings. I answer quickly when the librarian glares reproachfully.

"Hello?" I whisper.

"Sienna, my dear. Have I interrupted something important?"

"Give me two seconds."

I log out of the computer and step into the spring sunlight, not quite hot enough to render me instantly sticky, but sufficient enough to get a person sweating even in the shade. Across the street, a grocery cart lies overturned beneath a mesquite tree. A car creeps down the street, bass reverberating through the air, moving suspiciously slow. Probably a drug dealer.

"Hello?" I say, leaning against the railing. In the distance, a train rumbles past. It prompts thoughts of new beginnings. Cheesy? Undoubtedly. But it does.

"Sienna... your work, it's simply wonderful."

"Thank you," I respond.

"No, you don't understand. It's sublime. It's transcendental. You possess extraordinary talent. When did you begin drawing?"

My pulse quickens. If this lacked any mob connection, I'd be ecstatic right now. I've received compliments before, but nothing of this magnitude. And never with eight thousand dollars—she included extra as a tip—deposited in my account.

"When I was a little kid. Pencil sketches initially. They’re cheaper. But Mom would save and buy paint for me."

"Oh—how lovely. And she, your mother..."

"She's gone."

"I'm so sorry, Sienna. Truly."

I swallow a knot of grief. I've kept it buried deep for years, but the conversation with her son has shaken it all up.

"She would be proud of you, I'm certain," Gianna continues. "Your work has rekindled my passion for art. I want—need—to commission you for a project. Portraits, pencil and paintings: of people, of objects, of moments. Can you do that?"

"I..." My dreams are materializing before my eyes. I've imagined conversations precisely like this in my wildest fantasies. I've rehearsed my response should a wealthy benefactor ever present such a life-altering opportunity.

"I..."

I'm faltering, knowing what the right choice is. My original plan. One job. But this represents the most tantalizing offer I've ever received.

"Do you need some time to consider it, Sienna?"

"No," I interject quickly, before my dreams can talk for me.

I cannot overstate how desperately I've yearned for this. I'd discuss with Mom not merely surviving as an artist, but thriving—establishing my own gallery, perhaps even teaching at seminars. She always encouraged me. Yet we both recognized these as distant fantasies, not practical foundations for my future.

Now, here it is.

"I don't need to think about it. The answer is no."

"Pardon me?"

Naturally, she didn't hear me. I whispered the words. I close my eyes.

"What sort of mood are you envisioning?"