Reaching the desk at the far end of the building, Bennett dropped her coat on a chair, and opening a drawer, she pulled out four wide strips of red ribbon. She backtracked down the aisle, tugging along a rolling ladder until stopping in front of a section halfway down. She locked the wheels, ascended the steps, and opening the sliding glass panels, Bennett admired the two Jacob Epstein bronze sculptures in her possession. One was the bust of a woman and another the face of a child, and after deliberating for a moment, Bennett decided she wasn’t in the mood for an Epstein. She closed the glass and descended the ladder, dragging it behind her for a few steps before trotting up the stairs again. Bennett slid open the glass to view the three bronze sculptures by Constantin Brancusi in her inventory. The faceless, smooth bust of a woman was perfect for the southwest corner of the gallery. Tying one red ribbon loosely around the sculpture, Bennett closed the glass and draped the other ribbon through the handle.

Bennett climbed down and walked across the aisle because her other choice was easy. Behind the glass were dozens of paintings by a still unknown and underappreciated artist named Sylvester Honeycutt. The man’s name always brought a grin to Bennett’s face. Hardly one that could easily be forgotten, yet names didn’t make the artist…talent did.

His work reminded her of Jackson Pollock’s. His creations were abstract and intense, holding in their slashes and splotches of color both the vitality of life and the anguish of an artist struggling with his own inner demons. Bennett knew the feeling.

Draping a ribbon over a frame, Bennett placed the other on the door handle before retrieving her coat. On the way, she remembered something Lisa had said, and Bennett moved to another rack. She slid the glass open to reveal her extensive assortment of watercolors, drawings, and original posters by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Yes, there was something to be said for having lived as long as she had.

***

“Right on time, as always,” Gus said as Bennett climbed into the car.

“Did you enjoy your dessert?”

“Yeah, and here,” Gus said, reaching back to hand Bennett a paper cup. “They just brewed it. Thought you might like some.”

“Thank you,” Bennett said, taking the coffee. “That was very considerate of you.”

“Yeah? Well, then you’re gonna love this,” Gus said, pointing at the seat next to him.

Bennett looked over the seat to see a white box tied shut with thin white string. “Why did you—”

“It’s lemon meringue. I know it’s your favorite, and I figured you could take it home and have yourself a snack later on. Just call it a thank you.”

“We’ve exchanged that sentiment quite enough over the past eleven years, don’t you think?”