He nodded toward the paintings. “What do you see?”
He turned the easel toward her. It was not his mother this time. It was Olivia—sitting just as she was, legs crossed, book in hand, the last of the day’s light catching the side of her face and the small, quiet smile she hadn’t known she was wearing. olivia met art
“Can I stay?” she asked. “Just for a little while. Until the rain stops.” He nodded toward the paintings
It wasn't a slow introduction. It was a collision. It was Olivia—sitting just as she was, legs
The rain began to slow, the drumming on the skylight fading into a gentle patter. The clock on the wall ticked past 4:30. She missed her call. She missed her schedule.
The gallery was never supposed to be a destination for Olivia. It was merely a shortcut, a glass-walled corridor she used to escape the sudden, slashing rain of a gray Tuesday afternoon.