Page 145 of Love Me
After years of the emotional distance between us, these hugs feel like making up for lost time.
“Hi, Daddy,” I say as he pulls me into a hug.
When we pull apart, there’s a frown on his face. He’s looking over at Diego. Not at him, so much as the flowers in his hand.
“She doesn’t like tulips,” my father says. “I thought he was your best friend. The boy should at least know you don’t like tulips.”
Diego scoffs. “I would never buy her such a small bouquet of flowers. I’m going to throw these out.”
I don’t have time to tell him that wouldn’t be nice before he turns to presumably head for the garbage. My father follows him in, and I escort my mom and siblings inside.
Within the next thirty minutes my gallery starts to fill up with all my closest family and friends. Right before the doors open for the general public, I look around and realize how full my gallery is already.
Not just the gallery.
My heart as well.
My heart is the fullest it’s ever been.
When my eyes connect with Diego’s, tears fill them. He walks over to me and places a kiss on my cheek before lightly blotting my cheeks to wipe away the tears.
“Ready?” he asks in my ear.
My smile grows impossibly wide as I nod. “More than anything.”
A minute later, I officially open the doors of Stolen Voices Art Gallery.
The line waiting to enter is longer than I dreamed of even anticipating. I stand at the entryway to greet each and every visitor.
“Jocelyn,” I say to my friend and director of the women’s shelter where I volunteer. “You didn’t have to wait in the line.” I take her hand in both of mine.
“I know, but I have a special guest who I wanted to surprise.” She steps to the side to reveal an older woman seated in a wheelchair.
I gasp and cover my mouth as I instantly recognize her grandmother.
“Monique, I would like for you to meet my grandmother. Mi abuela, Arysilys Diaz.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I tell her grandmother in Spanish.
Her eyes lift in surprise. “¿Tú hablas español?”
I nod. “My best friend taught me.” I happen to look up and see the very man I’m talking about standing by my side. “This is him,” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He leans down and presses a kiss to Mrs. Diaz’s hand. “I’ve had the honor of seeing your paintings and they are absolutely stunning,” he tells her.
Her eyes light up, delighted. He offers to escort her in so she can see for herself the display of her artwork on the wall. I watch as he rolls her wheelchair in. He smiles at me over his shoulder, winking at me before entering the gallery with Mrs. Diaz.
“I have to say, I think he’s a keeper,” Jocelyn says.
“Don’t I know it.” I couldn’t agree more.
The night flies by. Every time I walk past someone as they admire one of the paintings on the wall, my heart soars a little more.
“The stroke work on this piece is beautiful,” a woman who owns a local bookstore says as she stops me. “Melinda Blake is the name of the artist? I can’t believe I’ve never heard of her before. I know most of the well-known artists in this area.”
A smile grazes my lips. “She’s a new artist,” I answer with pride. “It took a little convincing to get her to sell her work here, but she’s worth the trouble. Wouldn’t you agree?” I ask and turn to the painting for emphasis.
“Wholeheartedly. Is she here? I would love to meet her.”