She flipped open the catalogue to look at the image again.

Unfinished Love—a simple, but sumptuous image, the painting’s story was told in broad brushstrokes and bright colors, depicting a man in a white shirt and a woman in a black dress kissing under a red umbrella. The best part was the woman’s reaction. The leg pop. Ah, that got to Casey every time. The heel in the air, the one-legged kiss—the flamingo, she liked to call it. Such a symbol of the power of a certain kind of kiss, of the way it could undo a woman. To be kissed like that had always been her dream, and so this image was her quest, and she wanted it badly.

Like a gambler ready to lay down bets, she was poised to bid. She’d already registered and picked up her paddle. The clock drew nearer to the start of the auction. Another glance at her phone, another scan down the street, but still no Nate.

She reread the details, and the expected starting price for the painting: £3000. She could manage that. Extravagant, yes. But not wildly insane. Besides, art was her indulgence. Art like this made her happy; it made her heart sing. It was an uncomplicated love, one that fed her soul, and her hope for that kind of love someday. She sighed wistfully, wishing that that someday would come soon.

Until then, there was art, and that kept her going.

She thumbed through a few more pages to pass the time, then she gasped out loud. There was a new painting in the catalogue, and it called to her, with outstretched arms. Casey ran her index finger longingly over the photo. A late addition to the lot, the image was of that same man and woman, but this time without an umbrella, staring up at the sky, caught in the rain—big, buoyant raindrops that shone like stars.

She read the description.

Miller Valentina hadn’t told anyone he was working on this new painting and had simply delivered it, along with his other works, to Sotheby’s as part of this auction of modern art. Titled Big Love, Sans Umbrella, the catalogue entry contained a note from the artist: “This work took me by surprise. I hadn’t planned to paint it, but perhaps Unfinished Love truly was unfinished because I had the insistent feeling that the sky had broken open and that there was more of their story to tell. So I told it.”

She didn’t entirely connect with the kind of metaphors and art-y language that painters told their tales in, but even so, something about this work touched her. Maybe it was the unexpectedness of it—for the couple, the painter and the sky.

She read the price. It was more than Unfinished Love, but not by too much. Did she want both? Would that be too greedy? She craved the pair, but she talked herself down. They were just paintings. She didn’t have to buy both. She’d do just fine with the one she’d come for. Even though they fit together, like a perfect match.