Николас Спаркс - The Longest Ride

“Do I hear five hundred dollars?…

“Four hundred?”

And in that instant, from the corner of her eye, she saw Luke raise his paddle. “Four hundred dollars,” he called out, and the sound of his voice seemed to ricochet off the walls. Although a few people in the audience turned, they appeared only mildly curious.

“We have four hundred dollars. Four hundred. Do I hear four hundred and fifty?”

Again, the room remained silent. Sophia felt suddenly dizzy.

“Going once, going twice, and sold…”

Luke was approached by an attractive brunette holding a clipboard, who requested his information before explaining that it was also time to settle. She asked for his banking information or the form he had filled out earlier.

“I didn’t fill out any forms,” Luke demurred.

“How do you wish to settle?”

“Would you take cash?”

The woman smiled. “That will be fine, sir. Please follow me.”

Luke walked off with the woman and returned a few minutes later, holding his receipt. He took a seat beside Sophia, a sly grin on his face.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’d be willing to bet that this painting was the one that Ira liked best of all.” He shrugged. “It was the first one up for sale. And besides, he loved his wife and it was a portrait of her and it didn’t seem right that no one wanted it.”

She considered that. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were becoming a romantic.”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that Ira was the romantic. I’m just a washed-up bull rider.”

“You’re more than that,” she said, nudging him. “Where are you going to hang it?”

“I don’t know that it really matters, do you? Besides, I don’t even know where I’ll be living in a few months.”

Before she could respond, she heard a gavel come down before the speaker leaned in to the microphone again.

“Ladies and gentlemen – at this time and before we go on, per the parameters of the auction, I’d like to reintroduce Howie Sanders, who wishes to read a letter from Ira Levinson, in Ira’s own words, regarding the purchase of this item.”

Sanders emerged from behind the curtain, shuffling in his oversize suit, an envelope in his hand. The silver-haired gentleman stepped aside to make room at the microphone.

Sanders used a letter opener to slit open the top before pulling out the letter. He took a deep breath and then slowly unfolded it. He scanned the room and took a sip of water. He turned serious then, like an actor readying himself for a particularly dramatic scene, before finally beginning to read.

“My name is Ira Levinson, and today, you will hear my love story. It isn’t the kind you might imagine. It’s not a story with heroes and villains, it is not a story of handsome princes or princesses yet to be. Instead, it’s a story about a simple man named Ira who met an extraordinary woman named Ruth. We met when we were young and fell in love; in time we married and made a life together. A story like so many others, except Ruth happened to have an eye for art while I had eyes only for her, and somehow this was enough for us to create a collection that became priceless to both of us. For Ruth, the art was about beauty and talent; for me, the art was simply a reflection of Ruth, and in this fashion, we filled our house and lived a long and happy life with each other. And then, all too soon, it was over and I found myself alone in a world that no longer made any sense.”

Sanders stopped to wipe his tears, and to Sophia’s surprise, she heard his voice begin to crack. He cleared his throat and Sophia leaned forward, suddenly interested in what Sanders was saying.

“This wasn’t fair to me. Without Ruth, I had no reason to go on. And then, something miraculous happened. A portrait of my wife arrived, an unexpected gift, and when I hung it on my wall, I had the strange sense that Ruth was watching over me once more. Helping me. Guiding me. And little by little, the memories of my life with her were restored, memories that were tied to every piece in our collection. To me, these memories have always been more valuable than the art. It isn’t possible for me to give those away, and yet – if the art was hers and the memories were mine – what was I supposed to do with the collection? I understood this dilemma but the law did not, and for a long time, I didn’t know what to do. Without Ruth, after all, I was nothing. I loved her from the moment I met her, and even though I’m gone, you must know that I loved her with the final breath I took. More than anything, I want you to understand this simple truth: Though the art is beautiful and valuable almost beyond measure, I would have traded it all for just one more day with the wife I always adored.”

Sanders studied the crowd. In their seats, everyone had gone still.

Something was happening, something out of the ordinary. Sanders seemed to realize this as well, and perhaps in anticipation, he seemed to choke up. He brought a forefinger to his lips before going on.

“ Just one more day ,” Sanders said again, letting the words hang before going on. “But how can I make all of you believe that I would have done such a thing? How can I convince you that I cared nothing about the commercial value of the art? How can I prove to you how special Ruth really was to me? How will you never forget that my love for her was at the heart of every piece we ever purchased?”

Sanders glanced at the vaulted ceiling, before coming back to all of them.

“Will the individual who purchased Portrait of Ruth please stand?”

By then, Sophia could barely breathe. Her heart was pounding as Luke rose to his feet. She felt the attention of the entire audience on him.

“The terms of my will – and the auction – are simple: I have decided that whoever bought the Portrait of Ruth would receive the art collection in its entirety, effective immediately. And because it is no longer mine to offer, the rest of the auction is hereby canceled.”

33

Luke

Luke couldn’t move. As he stood in the back row, he sensed a stunned silence in the room. It took several seconds for Ira’s words to register, not only for Luke, but for everyone present.

Sanders couldn’t have been serious. Or if he had been serious, then Luke had misunderstood him. Because what it sounded like to Luke was that he’d just acquired the entire collection. But that wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. Could it?

His thoughts seemed mirrored by the audience itself. He saw baffled expressions and frowns of incomprehension, people throwing up their hands, faces showing shock and confusion, maybe even betrayal.

And then, after that: pandemonium. It wasn’t the chair-throwing variety of riot witnessed so often at sporting events, but the controlled rage of the entitled and self-important. A man in the third row in the center section stood and threatened to call his attorney; another cried that he’d been brought here under false pretenses and would be calling his attorney as well. Still another insisted that fraud had been committed.

The outrage and anger in the room began to rise, first slowly and then explosively. More people rose to their feet and began shouting at Sanders; another group focused their attention on the silver-haired gentleman. On the far side of the room, one of the easels crashed to the ground, the result of someone storming from the room.

And then, all at once, faces began to turn to Luke. He felt the mob’s anger and disappointment and betrayal. But he also sensed in some of them a pointed suspicion. In still others, there glinted the light of opportunity. An attractive blonde in a form-fitting business suit edged closer, and then all at once, seats were pushed aside as throngs of people began to rush toward Luke, everyone calling out at once.