Page 2 of His Vow

My painting.

I bit the inside of my cheek as I stared at it sitting against the wall, face turned away. I'd carried it here a week ago, turned it around twice, held it up against the empty wall by the restroom, and imagined it hanging beside Rafael's work.

Both times, I'd turned it back.

On the windowsill, a small clay pot of rosemary sat in a square of late afternoon light. I brushed the leaves as I passed, pressing two between my fingers until the oil released. The scent followed me back into the gallery.

The front door opened. Rafael walked in with his portfolio bag over one shoulder. He was tall and lean, with deep brown skin and black hair that curled past his ears. His button-down was wrinkled. His eyes swept the gallery and went wide, then darted to the floor.

He smiled when he saw me, but his lips quivered at the edges. It eventually dissolved into a grimace.

Oh no.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he said.

I crossed the room and lifted the bag off his shoulder. "You're not going to be sick."

"My hands are shaking. Look." He held them out. They were.

"Rafael." I took both his hands in mine. His fingers were freezing. "Do you remember what you told me the first time I called you about this show?"

He swallowed. "I said I wasn't ready."

"And what did I say?"

"You said the work was ready, and I needed to catch up to it."

"The work is ready." I squeezed once. "You're ready. These people are going to walk in here tonight and see the beauty of your art. That's all this is."

He pulled in a long breath. His shoulders dropped. "Okay."

"Okay." I let go. "Now go look at your paintings on a real wall. Try to enjoy it. You earned every inch of that space."

He walked to the main gallery. My phone buzzed. I pulled it from the pocket of my dress.

"Hi, Daddy."

"How is your talent holding up?" I could hear the clink of ice against the glass. He was in his study — the leather chair by the window, the one I used to climb into when I was small enough to curl up in the seat beside him. The one that still smelled like my mother's perfume if you pressed your face into the right cushion. Not that I'd done that recently. Not that I hadn't.

"Nervous. But he'll be fine once people start arriving."

"Good, good. You tell Rafael I'm proud of him. First solo show at twenty-five — that takes guts. Oh, I had Catherine sort out that situation with the building inspector. She said it was a permitting overlap. Nothing to worry about. All handled."

My hand stilled on the frame of the nearest painting. I mentioned the permitting issue once at Sunday dinner.

I smiled even though he couldn’t see me. "Thank you, Daddy. You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did. You shouldn't be dealing with bureaucracy when you have a show to run. That's what Catherine's for." He paused. The ice clinked again. "Your mother would've been proud of you tonight, Sol."

My fingers tightened on the phone. "I know. Thank you."

We hung up. I slid the phone back into my pocket and stood there for a second, rubbing my thumb against my fingertips where the rosemary oil was fading.

Margaux appeared beside me, scrolling through her phone. "Oh, lease renewal came through. Same terms."

My eyes widened. "Really?"

"Same square footage, same rate, extended through next spring." She shrugged without looking up. "Lucky break."