At the gallery Sammy held the door and then led Tooms through, where Callie Montrose took space on the vast white wall that ran the depth of the building.
There was a moment when Tooms didn’t speak, just stared, the painting so blinding and brilliant.
Sammy left him there for a long while, sharing a moment with a girl he had tried to save, a girl he had given his life for, certain he would do it again in a breath.
And then Tooms stared at the painting to the left, the one that many said was the true dime in a collection that would fetch many millions.
“Grace Number One,” Marty said, reading the plaque.
“Newly acquired. I made the same offer I made to you, only this time it was to a young lady in Alabama. She’ll use the money to turn her house into a home,” Sammy said with a smile.
Afterward they sat on the balcony in shallow spring warmth, Monta Clare going on beneath them.
For a long time Marty Tooms did not know what to say, even when Sammy handed him a check to go along with the house. The only work he need tend to was his land, back in his name, his memories secure.
“And the painting in the window?” Tooms said.
“The white house. I just acquired it from…from a dear friend.”
“You don’t sell them on?”
Sammy smiled. “I’m a collector, Marty. And this collection is sewn into the fabric of Monta Clare like folklore. Like a reminder that sometimes, against the longest of odds, hope wins out.”
“Thank you,” he said, finally.
“It’s not really me you need to thank,” Sammy said, and sipped cured oak bourbon.
“Joseph Macauley,” Tooms said, and finally broke a smile. “I don’t know where to find him.”
Sammy raised his glass toward the sky. “That’s the thing, nobody does.”