She wore an emerald dress that complemented her dark hair, chatting effortlessly with patrons and a gallery curator. Her smile was genuine, wide, and entirely free of the tension that used to tighten her jaw during dinner.
Daniel hesitated for nearly an hour before stepping into the open gallery space, waiting until the patrons drifted toward another wall. When she turned to replenish her sparkling water at the table, she noticed him standing near her centerpiece.
She did not gasp, drop her glass, or show irritation; her expression remained serene, measured, and gracefully poised. “Hello, Daniel,” she said softly, nodding with polite recognition, as if greeting an acquaintance from a long-past chapter.
“Hello, Claire,” Daniel replied, his voice barely louder than a whisper, his hands tucked nervously into his pockets. “Your paintings are extraordinary. The one of the lighthouse in November… it captures the water just right.”
“Thank you,” she said with a gentle smile. “I spent three weeks up in Door County finishing that canvas.”
