Tuck is a thousand times the man Edward is.
He’s honest and up front. Authentic.
“I don’t give away details,” I say.
“You’re a secretive one.” She looks at my locket, her eyes widening. “Oh, your necklace looks fabulous with your dress. I noticed you wore it at the shop. Do you always wear it?”
My fingers brush over it. “I guess. It’s not your typical heart or oval locket.”
“Hmm. So why are you here? Tell me all the things.”
I tell her about my new job and the client I’m here for, a Wall Street couple who don’t have time to shop for their new apartment. She tells me about her fiancé, who’s currently out of town, and how she’s lookingforward to her wedding next year. She hooks her arm through mine as we walk through one of the hallways in the gallery.
She grabs a glass of champagne, and I pick up a club soda with lime from one of the bars.
“I’m actually here with my sister. She needed a plus-one, so I came along.” She leans her head down conspiratorially. “You must meet her. She’s not nearly as fun as me, but try to like her. There she is!”
She pulls me toward a petite woman in a floor-length red flared dress. It’s the kind of dress that makes you gasp when you see it—over the top for a gallery, yet she wears it like a princess. Her hair is brown and cascades down her back. Something about her is familiar, making me rack my brain, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“Valentina, this is the tattoo artist I was telling you about,” Gianna says as she introduces us.
Valentina’s flawless face is expressionless as she looks me up and down. Her eyes are the same color as Gianna’s, blue, and her face is similar to her sister’s, rather square with high cheekbones, but that’s where the resemblance ends. She looks around my age.
“I’ve heard about you.”
“Good, I hope?” I ask with my brow raised.
She shrugs, then points to the piece she was looking at before we arrived, a bronze of two little girls on a bench. “You’re a tattoo artist. What do you think of this?”
“I’m anartist,” I say smoothly. “Not just tattoos.”
“Of course,” Valentina replies with narrowed eyes as she waves her hand at the statue. “Your thoughts?”
Gianna huffs at her sister. “Can we at least chitchat before you ask for her opinion?”
“Oh, it’s cool. I love to talk about art.” I study it. About the size of a watermelon, it reminds me of something you’d put in a garden, perhaps at a school or library at the entrance—only it would be a shame to leave it outside. I tell her this, then: “You can see the work the artist put intoit, how the older girl’s leg is crossed, the stitching on her socks, the bow of her tennis shoes, the ruffles of her dress, how they lean toward each other, the small bird on the bench. One of the girls is taller, so older, and I’d guess they’re sisters.”
I back up and eye the two ladies, and it dawns on me. I recall Gianna’s comment at the parlor about her sister being an artist. “It’s yours,” I say, pointing at Valentina. “I see the resemblance of the little girls. The smaller one is Gianna, and you’re the older one holding her hand. Yes?”
She nods.
“Amazing,” I say. “Making a bronze is an intricate process. It’s beautiful.”
Gianna claps. “Isn’t Francesca awesome?”
Valentina crooks her arm with Gianna’s as she nods. “Thank you. I made it as a memorial for our parents. They passed away last year. It’s not for sale, of course. A friend owns the gallery; otherwise it wouldn’t be here.”
She glances at my locket, a gleam I can’t decipher in her eyes. “That’s a pretty piece. There’s a bird engraved on the front?”
“A wren, yes.” A wren symbolizes peace and rebirth. I’ve done my research on my locket. “I believe it belonged to my mother or was in her family. I’ve had it cleaned a few times, although it rarely tarnishes.”
“Interesting. Have you had it appraised?” Valentina asks. “It looks expensive.”
“It’s nineteen karat gold, the chain and locket.” I had its value checked at three different jewelers, and they all said it was worth several thousand. I’m lucky I never lost it or had it stolen.
Gianna takes a sip of her champagne. “Youbelieveit belonged to your mother. There must be a story there.”
I shift around, fidgeting. A story? Ha. It’s the only link to my mother. I picture her placing it in my car seat.