Her gaze drops to the jeans and pink sweater she’s wearing. “No, but I’ll take the compliment.”
“Take it.” I tug her hand closer. “Keep it.”
That sends her off toward the kitchen with a giggle.
I make my way around the room, stopping to offer my greetings to everyone there. Cornell takes the opportunity to ask a question related to work. As I answer, I catch sight of Champ on the approach with a smile on her face.
My chest feels like it’s caving in from happiness.
If this is love, I never again want to feel what I felt the moment before I met her.
“Here you go.” She grabs my hand to place a glass tumbler in it. “I made spaghetti, my mom’s super secret meat sauce, garlic bread, and a big salad.”
Cornell rubs his stomach through the T-shirt he’s wearing. “It sounds delicious, Callie. Lee loves spaghetti.”
Her gaze darts to where the little boy is playing on the floor with a few wooden blocks. “I found a booster seat in the hall closet. Grady has it for when my niece comes over. We can set that up so Lee can sit at the table with us.”
I stare at her. How can one person radiate so much goodness?
“Callie,” Mr. Durkman calls out her name. “Tell me where these came from.”
She walks over to where he’s standing a few feet from us. “The photographs?”
He nods, tapping a finger against the corner of one of the frames. “This one in particular. I took my love to this restaurant on our first date many years ago. It shut down a few months ago, so we don’t have anything but our memories. I need a print of this for our apartment.”
I scan the photograph. It’s of a diner that anchored a corner on Broadway. The word ‘restaurant’ is glowing neon red in the image against the rain that is falling. The reflection of the building on the puddled rain on the street only adds to the allure of the image.
“I gave those pictures to Grady as a housewarming gift. I’ll get a print to you tomorrow,” Calliope says. “I know someone who can frame it for you. They’re very affordable. They frame all of my photographs.”
The question I’m primed to ask leaves Durkman’s lips before I can get it out. “Your photograph? Did you take this picture, Callie?”
She nods. “I took all of them.”
Silence settles over the apartment as the other guests listen in.
Mrs. Sweeney is the first to pipe up. “You’re a brilliant photographer, Calliope. The one of the Empire State Building with the full moon as its backdrop is simply beautiful.”
“I can get you a print of that one if you’d like.”
“I’d like that very much,” Mrs. Sweeney responds to Champ. “How much, dear?”
A bubble of laughter escapes Calliope. “No charge. They are only a few dollars.”
“If you handle arranging framing of the one I want and you sign it, I’ll pay five hundred,” Mr. Durkman injects himself back into the conversation.
“Five hundred dollars?” Champ shakes her head. “No. I can’t accept that.”
“I’ll pay a thousand for mine.” Mrs. Sweeney one-ups our neighbor. “I’ve paid twice that for some of the photographs in my apartment. Not one is as beautiful as that one.”
Calliope’s gaze jumps to my face. I see something that I can only label as shock there.
I’d outbid everyone and offer one hundred thousand for the lot, but that would tarnish this moment for her.
Her bottom lip quivers as she glances at Mrs. Sweeney. “I can’t accept that much.”
“You can and you will,” she insists. “There’s a beautiful little tea store that my grandmother used to own. It’s in Brooklyn. Multi-colored lights rim the windowsills. It’s a dream to see in the evening when the sun is about to set. I’d love a photograph like that. It would be a treasure. Can I commission that?”
Calliope swallows hard. “I would love to take a picture like that for you, but I don’t have a camera right now.”
“That’s a shame.” Mrs. Sweeney’s hand darts to her chest. “Did your camera break, dear?”
She shakes her head slightly. “I sold it.”
That admission slays me. I drop my head because I’ve witnessed how hard she works. There’s no doubt in my mind that she sold that camera because she needed the money. She needed it for her goal.
Freedom. That one word has haunted me since she first said it.
An alarm sounds in the distance. Calliope glances toward the kitchen. “The garlic bread is done. I need to get that out of the oven before it burns.”
I reach for her shaking hand. “I’ll help.”
She squeezes my fingers. “I just need a minute to catch my breath.”
“Of course,” I whisper.
I stand in place watching her walk away, wishing I could chase after her, gather her into my arms, and never let her go.