I looked up.
“A painting?”
“Yes. A landscape.”
I frowned.
“Who?”
She smiled.
“A gentleman named Damien Blackwood.”
My brush slipped from my hand.
Patricia laughed.
“Do you know him?”
I swallowed.
“A little.”
“He said he’d like to purchase a painting if you’re accepting commissions.”
I stared.
For months, I’d been trying to build something independent.
The idea of Damien buying my work made me nervous.
Was it kindness?
Pity?
A way of helping without offering money directly?
I asked Patricia for his contact information.
Then I called him.
He answered after two rings.
“Hannah.”
I smiled despite myself.
“Hello.”
“How are you?”
“Confused.”
He chuckled.
“About?”
“You apparently want to buy a painting.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I saw the watercolor you donated to the arts center fundraiser.”
I blinked.
“You went to the fundraiser?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“I was there briefly.”
I looked down.
“Damien, you don’t have to buy my work just because you feel sorry for me.”
