Daniel stood on the window bay, scowling in concentration as he held one of his copper canvas abstracts by the outer edges while Margitte’s assistant, Seamus, connected the hanging wires to the hooks above.
“Got it. I’m good, Daniel,” Seamus said from his perch on a ladder. “Let her go and see how she hangs.”
Daniel eased his grasp and then let go completely. The painting swayed slightly and then stopped, held fast by galvanized steel wire and hooks.
“Perfect,” Margitte declared and gave a thumbs-up. The men inhaled and relaxed.
Seamus maneuvered the folded ladder through the gallery to the back storeroom while Daniel stepped out of the window bay and joined Margitte outside. He unconsciously mirrored her stance, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head slightly to the right, contemplating the piece as it floated in the window.
The late-afternoon sun shot across the rooftops behind them and through the gallery’s plate glass. It struck Daniel’s painting, setting fire to the Glengarriff woodlands that shimmered on a panel of copper sheeting. Over a layer of brushed-on patina, he’d painted a patch of downy birch and rowan arching over a carpet of foxglove and buckler fern. He’d created the fine detail of trees and blossoms using oils crafted just for metal canvases, and with the verdigris patina he’d brought out the shifting colors of the sky. As the sun danced with the copper, the painting glimmered like a dream.
“There, you see?” Margitte said, not moving her eyes from the window. “I said this piece would be perfect in this precise spot.”
Daniel tapped his elbow against hers and responded to her soft snort of laughter with a chuckle of his own. She’d envisioned a display of his copper sculptures in this large, light-drenched spot, and it had been a battle of wills to convince her otherwise. But as Daniel worked on the painting over the winter, he’d tracked the sun as it angled through his studio and knew this piece had to be where the rays would caress it just so.
“Your friend, Annie. Are you bringing her to the opening?” Margitte’s tone was casual, but Daniel caught the impish hint in her voice.
“Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to see her again. There’s something alive in her, trying so hard to break through. The woman is like an uncertain moth, searching for her creativity like a flame to send her into flight.”
Margitte had described Annie perfectly. An uncertain moth, fragile but determined, searching for light to show her the way. Daniel wondered if he’d ever find out the path she’d choose. If he’d see her work in a gallery someday. Or if she’d just fade from his memory. He hoped for the former, doubted the latter. “She’s leaving Cork at the end of the week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Margitte placed her long, beringed fingers on his arm. “You seemed very attached to her.”
“Did I? I hardly know her.”
“So why do you smell like her lotion?” Margitte arched an eyebrow and stepped past Daniel, her heels tapping a rapid staccato as she returned to the gallery’s bright white interior.
Daniel raised his hands to his face and breathed in. Underneath the scent of paint and copper, he could just detect lilies and the sagey musk of sweat—Annie’s scent.