Hasan, tastemaker of the New York art world, broker of some of the most lucrative deals for artists today, wore Levi’s, a white T-shirt and Converse sneakers and somehow outclassed me by a thousand points. I owned the same outfit many times over. Should’ve worn it so we could bond over our matching look.

In the week since he’d e-mailed, I’d worked twenty hours a day, making seven more flower paintings. Iris, rose, peony, carnation, tulip, poppy and maple leaves (to show my range). At six this morning, I’d finished drying the last one with my blow-dryer, put them in my portfolio, left Brianna a note about Pepper’s new propensity to eat worms, and drove down here two hours early, killing the remainder of time by sitting in my car, sweating with nerves and pressing tissues into my armpits.

I’d never been at this kind of meeting. Never been that chic woman who had something New York wanted to see. This was it. I was, as they say, having a moment.

If only my father could see me now. The thought made my throat tighten with emotion.

He wasn’t getting better. I pressed my lips together, hard. I’d think about that later. He’d want me present, to soak it all in. I wanted that, too, but somehow, I felt hollow. Maybe because he wasn’t quite here to share it. Juliet had wished me the best and hugged me, and Mom said she thought the paintings were “real pretty,” but the hollow, fake feeling remained.

After all, I wasn’t even wearing my own clothes.

I should’ve come in wearing one of my teacher dresses, which were invariably flowered or striped, because my students were little kids, after all, and loved bright colors.

I missed them. I missed St. Catherine’s and Sister Mary and Carter and the gang, but it seemed more and more that my New York life was a light post on the highway that I could only see in the rearview mirror. A life left behind.

I missed Noah.

Last night, he’d knocked on my door at ten o’clock, stood there awkwardly as Pepper pounced on his shoes.

“Listen,” he said the second I opened the door. “I’m really sorry for what I said. I know how much this means to you, and I’m pulling for you. Okay?”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He nodded. “Knock ’em dead tomorrow.”

“Did Mickey send you?”

He laughed at that, but his eyes were sad. “No,” he said. “All my idea.”

“Thank you, Noah,” I said. “It means a lot.”

He nodded once, then left before either of us made things more complicated.

So here I was, lunch planned with Hasan afterward.