It was tedious, frustrating work. Checking every painting, every sculpture, every pedestal and objet d’art. Going over the stairs tread by tread, crawling along the trim.

Malory took herself off to the storeroom. It was both painful and thrilling to come across newly acquired pieces, or to see others that had been sold since she’d left The Gallery and were waiting to be crated and shipped.

Once she’d been privy to every step and stage, and had been granted the right to acquire items and negotiate a price. In her heart The Gallery had been hers. She couldn’t count the times she’d been inside it after hours like this. No one would have questioned her presence then. There would have been no need to beg the keys from a friend, or to feel guilt.

To question her ethics, she admitted.

She wouldn’t have felt this awful grief, she realized. Grief that this part of her life had been taken away from her. Maybe she was crazy for refusing the offer to take it back. Maybe she was making a huge mistake by deviating from the sensible, the tangible. She could go back and speak to James, tell him she’d changed her mind. She could slide back into routine again, have what she’d always had.

And it would never be the same.

That was the grief. Her life was changed, irrevocably. And she hadn’t taken the time to mourn the loss. She did so now, with every piece she touched, every minute she spent in the space that had once been the most important part of her life.

She revisited a thousand memories, so many of them part of the day-to-day routine that had meant nothing at the time. And everything once it had been taken away.

Flynn pulled open the door. “Where do you want to—” He broke off when she turned toward him. Her eyes were dry, but devastated. She held a rough stone sculpture in her arms as she might a child.

“What is it?”

“I miss this place so much. It’s like something’s died.” Very gently, she replaced the sculpture on a shelf. “I acquired this piece, about four months ago. It’s a new artist. He’s young, with all the fire and temperament you’d expect from the feel of his work. He’s from a small town in Maryland, and he’s had a little local luck, but no major gallery showed any interest. It felt good to give him his first real break, and to think of what he might do, what we might do in the future.”

She ran a fingertip over the stone. “Someone bought this. I didn’t have anything to do with that part, don’t even recognize the name on the invoice. It’s not mine anymore.”

“It wouldn’t have been here or have been sold if it wasn’t for you.”

“Maybe, but those days are over. I don’t have a place here anymore. I’m sorry for what I said before. Very sorry I hurt your feelings.”