Ingrid Weaver - Winning Amelia

“It was a landscape, a grassy hill with an old farmhouse and weathered barns. Oil on canvas. The scene looked a lot like the countryside around here.”

“How big was it?”

“I couldn’t give you exact measurements, but it was large. At least three feet wide and two feet high.”

“Do you know who painted it?”

“The signature at the bottom corner was hard to decipher. It started with an M and could have been Mather or Martin. Possibly Matthews. The name’s not important because I’m sure whoever painted it wasn’t a professional artist.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not very good.”

“But you liked it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did Jenny sell it? Did you two have a fight?”

“No. She wasn’t being vindictive, if that’s what you’re getting at. She hadn’t known how...precious it was to me. I hadn’t told her.”

“I see.”

“And what difference does it make why she sold it? It’s gone.”

“I asked because if she’d gotten rid of it to hurt you, she might remember perfectly well who bought it but just doesn’t feel like telling you.”

Amelia lifted one eyebrow. “You’ve gotten cynical.”

“No, I’m just being methodical. That’s how I operate. I need to consider every angle.”

“Jenny feels awful about selling it. She’s almost as upset as I am.”

“Was your brother at the yard sale?”

“On and off. Most of the time he was working on the rooms he’s building in the basement and keeping track of Timmy. He’s their youngest.”

“Then he didn’t see who bought the painting?”

“No. His other two boys had been at the park in the morning and played in the backyard after lunch. They didn’t see anything. None of the neighbors did, either.”

“You asked them?”

“I went to every house on the block. Not everyone was home. The people who were couldn’t tell me anything.”

It didn’t surprise him that she’d already tried to solve her problem herself. That was typical of Amelia. The fact that she’d decided to seek anyone’s assistance, particularly his, was an indication of how serious this was to her. “How had Jenny advertised the yard sale? Signs? An ad in the paper?”

“Both.”

“That means her customers weren’t limited to people in the neighborhood.” Hank tapped his pen against his notepad. “With so many tourists in town, the buyer could have been visiting and just happened to see the signs or read the ad.”

“I realize we don’t have much to go on,” she said, “but I really, really need to get that painting back.”

“I agree, there’s not much to go on. I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you.”

“You can try, can’t you?”

Hank had always admired Amelia’s intelligence. Unlike him, she’d breezed through high school and aced every course. Her brilliance in mathematics in particular had earned her a full scholarship to the University of Toronto. He’d been thrilled when he’d learned about that scholarship, even though it had meant the beginning of the end for the two of them. She was certainly smart enough to grasp the fact that her painting could be a few hundred miles away by now. For all they knew, it could be out of the country. Tracking it down would be time-consuming and expensive, if not impossible. He was about to shake his head when he met her gaze.

There were tears in her eyes.

That threw him. So did the urge he felt to leap from his chair and take her into his arms.

Whoa, where had that come from? He gripped his pen harder and stayed where he was. “I’d like you to answer one more question.”

“Okay, what?”

“What’s the real reason you want this painting?”

“I already told you. I got very attached to it. It’s important to me. Extremely important. I need to get that painting back, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs me.”

“You just finished telling me you sold most of your assets before you moved in with your brother.”

“I can pay you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I might not have access to the kind of wealth I used to have, but I’m living rent-free and I make a decent wage plus tips at Mae B’s. Name your price. Once you find that painting, I’ll pay whatever you want.”

Hank fought to keep his pity from showing. Amelia Goodfellow, their class valedictorian and girl voted unanimously the most likely to succeed, the brilliant financial advisor whose company had once been worth millions, was waiting tables at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. The urge to hug her returned. “My fee isn’t the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“I asked for the real reason you want that painting.”

Her chin trembled. She tightened her lips.

“You can’t honestly expect me to believe you would be willing to throw away the money you do have on a piece of worthless, not very good art that doesn’t even belong to you. What are you holding back, Amelia?”

She remained silent.

He used to have more patience than she had. It was a good bet he still did. He waited her out.

It took less than a minute. When she finally did speak, her voice shook. “During the past year and a half, I’ve lost my business, my reputation, my husband...” She cleared her throat. “You name it, I lost it. I lost so much, it got to the point that I stopped believing I could win.”

“I’m sorry.”

She clenched her hands in her lap. Her knuckles were white. “I don’t want your pity, Hank. I’m only telling you this to make you understand.”

“About the painting?”

“Yes. That’s where I’ve drawn the line.”

“How?”

“Losing that painting was the final straw. It woke me up. I’m through taking what Fate dishes out. This time, I’m fighting back.”

“Okay, but—”

“I want to start living again. I want the right to be happy again.”

“And you believe that finding this painting will do all that?”

She surged to her feet. “Yes!”

“Amelia...”

“I’m not asking for a guarantee because I realize it’s a long shot, but it’s possible to beat the odds. I know it’s possible. The whole key is being willing to try.”

This was the Amelia he had fallen in love with. Passionate, spontaneous, throwing herself one hundred percent into whatever she did. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her.

“Will you try, Hank?”

“As you just said, it would be a long shot. I couldn’t in good conscience take your money for—”

“Fine.” She turned toward the door. “Then I’ll find someone who will.”

He shoved himself out of his chair and rounded the desk. “Amelia, wait. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. I just said I wouldn’t take your money.”

She faced him. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll make a few inquiries, and I’ll try poking around on the internet, but it will be on my own time. I won’t charge you.”

Relief appeared to be warring with pride. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I may come up empty.”

“If anyone can find it, you will. But I don’t need charity. I can pay you.”

“It’s not charity. Consider it a welcome-home present.”

Her lips twitched. It was the first hint of a smile he’d seen. “Finding that painting would be a better gift than you could possibly imagine.” She held out her right hand. “Thank you, Hank.”

He clasped her hand without thinking. He concluded most of his meetings with a handshake. Often a handshake was the only contract he needed.

But the contact of his palm with Amelia’s jarred him. Her energy tingled through his skin, just as it had when they’d been teenagers. His pulse sped up. So did his breathing. Her scent was something else that hadn’t changed. It was earthy and inviting, like the tangy smell of new grass on a sunny spring day. Not that he’d ever said that aloud, because telling a girl she reminded him of a lawn was even less romantic than the oil slick thing.