“’Morning,” I said as I passed her, and then I laughed. And despite the fact that I was wearing a dress and heels for the first time in well over a year, I ran the last block to the gallery.

Although Lisa’s sedan and Oliver’s van were parked in the small lot, and the catering company’s van was parked at the curb, I found myself alone when I walked into the foyer. Winded from the run, I stood in the middle of the room and saw that the information counter, laden with brochures, had been moved into place, and above it, stapled imperceptibly to the stretcher and high on the wall, hung the mural.

Damn, I thought. That is one beautiful, crazy painting!

The lump in my throat surprised me. I loved the painting in front of me. I loved all I’d done to return it to the intriguing composition Anna Dale had intended.

“It’s beautiful!” I yelled into the echoey air of the gallery, and soon Lisa and Oliver joined me in the foyer, along with a young guy from the catering company. To my surprise, Lisa gave me a hug—and not a baby, half-assed hug, either. She held me a long time, wrapping me in the scent of jasmine.

“Thank you,” she said, drawing away, yet still holding me by the shoulders and looking intently into my eyes. “You saved my house. I know I’ve been a bitch to deal with.” Her smile was rueful. “But I’m very, very grateful to you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, although I thought Lisa had it backward. Lisa had saved me, whether she’d meant to or not, and in more ways than one.

I saw Oliver leaning against the wall by the wall text, arms folded across his chest, a smile on his face, looking sexy as hell in a black shirt open at the collar, and I wondered how I could have ever thought of him as anything but.

“Dynamite job, Morgan,” he said.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I said, remembering his help the night before, and he winked.

Lisa looked at the catering guy. “Are we squared away now?” she asked. I heard sounds coming from the small kitchen and guessed the servers were setting up for the opening.

“Good to go,” the man said. He looked at me. “You paint that?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the mural.

“I restored it,” I said.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means she brought it back to life,” Oliver said.

The man looked at the mural again, then gave me a confused-looking smile. “Cool,” he said. He headed for the foyer door, speaking to Lisa over his shoulder as he left. “I’ll be back to pick up the servers at five,” he said.

“Fine.” Lisa was already looking past him to the gallery’s first visitor: Andrea Fuller.