Eliana lifted the napkin from her lap and stood. “I appreciate you watching out for me, Marsha. I’m just not ready. I’ll come around someday.”

Marsha’s cell phone rang over the last of her words. “Just a minute,” Marsha said. She dug through her handbag and pressed the receive button as she lifted her Nokia to her ear. “Hello. Oh, hi, Boyd. We were just talking about you. Ellen and I. Well, I’ll let you ask her.”

Eliana shook her head emphatically.

“No, you’ll have to wait, Boyd—she was just running off to the ladies’ room. Listen, hold on just a moment, my waiter’s here. No, don’t go, I need to talk to you. You can wait, honey, I’ll only be a second.”

She looked up at Eliana, shaking her head. “Someday doesn’t always come, sweetie. I’ll see you before I go. I’m coming up to the gallery to talk with Carolyn about your next show.”

“Ci vediamo,” Eliana said.

“Whatever that means. Ciao.”

Marsha lifted her cell phone. “I’m here, honey, talk to me.”

Eliana slung her purse over her shoulder and walked to the curb. She waited for a passing car then crossed the street and walked the two blocks north to the gallery. The gallery was housed in a restored mining shack, narrow, rising three stories above the street. Its wood-paneled exterior was painted rust with orange-yellow trimming. A carved wooden sign that read “The Linton Gallery” hung from chains over its etched front door, blending in with the old town motif. The interior was crowded with art, Western bronzes and antiques, the rooms lit by rows of slim, black track lighting. Carolyn, the gallery’s owner, was seated on a leather couch in the foyer as Eliana entered.

“Well, Ellen, you better get on back to your studio and start painting. You’re sold out.”

“Everything sold?”

“Everything and then some. This place was a zoo a half hour ago. There were a couple gentlemen who purchased the last two of your paintings and were very interested in buying one of the portraits you brought in to exhibit.”

“Which portrait is it?”

“The one of the man holding the book.”

She shook her head. “It’s not for sale.”

“Oh, I told them. But between us, I think you should reconsider. You could always just paint another one, couldn’t you?”

“Not of this one.” Her brow furrowed. “You didn’t promise them anything?”

“No, of course not. But they were pretty insistent. They wanted to speak with you personally.”

“They’re still here?”

“One of them is. The other had to leave. I told them I expected you back any minute, so I think he went back to covet the portrait some more. It would be good for you to personally thank him anyway.”

“All right.”

Eliana walked to the back room. There was only one person there, a man, a little older than she. He was balding and broad-shouldered, and wearing a tweed jacket, Calvin Klein jeans and snakeskin boots. He stood looking at the portrait with his hands in his pockets. His back was to the door she entered from.