"I want you to start painting again, Sam," he said, breaking the silence that lingered between us. "That is, if you are the same Sam that signed this painting."

"I can't," I whispered.

"Why? Is something wrong with your hand?"

"No."

"So you won't," he said.

"I can't," I said. "I won't. I mean, you don't even know who I am."

"I know you painted this picture," he said. "Or am I wrong? Did someone else paint it?"

"No! I mean, yes, it's my work. And no, someone else didn't paint it. I did." The words tumbled from my mouth before I could stop them, a knot forming in my stomach. The sensation took me by surprise and I turned away from him and the painting, forcing myself to look out at the Strand before me.

Erik stood next to me by the window. I wrapped my arms around my chest, afraid that he'd see my hands shaking. "How did you know it's my painting?"

"Your friend, Rosie, told me," he said. "Last year."

"You expect to believe that my best friend knew all about this painting existing, and never told me?" I asked. "This was never even supposed to have been sold. How did you even get this?"

"Rosie wanted to surprise you with that answer during one of her famous match-making dinners. I was at her memorial, but I don't think you noticed me. Or anyone else for that matter."

"You could have put Michael Fassbender in front of me and I wouldn't have known it," I muttered.

"Grief can do that to people," he said.

"How did you meet her? Rosie?" I asked, my eyes still glued to the view of the beach in front of me. I could not let myself look at him, too afraid I'd burst out crying. I focused my gaze on the lifeguard tower in the distance.

"I met her and her husband, Chuck, at one of the talks I did at the country club for my clinic," he began. "Afterwards, they attended a silent auction here at the house to help raise money for an X-Ray machine. When she saw the painting, she couldn't stop looking at it. Then she wanted to know where I'd bought it and for how much. She wasn't even curious who the artist was."

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I bought it at an art gallery in Beverly Hills, Sarkissian's. I saw it one day, bought it and had it packed that afternoon," he said. "It wasn't till she invited me over for dinner a month later that she told me I was going to meet the artist. Only you couldn't make it that first time."

"Michael was sick. He's my son," I said. It was a lie, of course. David had found out about the dinner, angry that I dared to meet other men even before the divorce was finalized.

"She arranged for another dinner, so you and I could at least meet, but she-"

"-died, I know," I said. "What a small fucking world this is. Not only do you buy my painting, but you also turn out to be one of my best friend's candidates for her usual Mr. Right competition."

This time, Erik shook his head. "No, she arranged it so that I'd get to meet you, the artist of the painting that I love. She warned me it would be a gamble, that you might want your stolen painting back."

"And would you really give it back to me if I wanted it?"

"I probably would, yes," Erik replied. "She told me what happened - or at least, what she knew about it. And that was enough for me. I don't have any right to keep a painting that was never meant to be sold."

"If this is your way to get me to start painting again, it's a pathetic attempt. Like I said, I don't paint anymore. I can't, and I won't. I'm sorry I wasted your time." I retrieved my purse from the couch. "And next time, if you want to meet someone, don't lie or use your sister to lie for you."

"I'm sorry about that, Sam," he said. "Olivia assumed I needed you to set up some social networking accounts for me because that's what she saw on your website. All I wanted was for you to come over so we could talk."

"Well, we've talked," I said. "And I don't want my painting back. You bought it, it's yours. I also can't paint anymore. That's...that's gone for me. Anyway, I have to get going. I have to pick up my son."

I began to head for the door, but his next words made me stop.

"What if I were to offer you a studio where you could paint? Would that help you change your mind?"

I shook my head. This was like a dream, I thought. It couldn't be happening. "Why the hell would you do something like that? You don't know a thing about me."

"Because I like the way you see things, Sam, and how you translate what you see onto canvas for those of us who've forgotten how things really are," he said. "Like Strands, for example. I see these very same people walking, running, cycling right in front of me every day, only I stopped seeing them as people - I only saw them as bodies moving across the periphery of my vision. Yet you, you took the time to paint every nuance on their faces, even if they're captured in profile. You pick up on the very things that make people so unique."

He exhaled. "After I bought this painting and had it packed and delivered, I returned to the gallery to purchase another one of your paintings. Only the gallery owner told me you'd taken them all away, that they had been exhibited against your consent. The only reason this didn't get returned to you was because I had my own guys come and pick it up."

"It's a lucky painting then," I said. "All the others are gone."

He frowned. "What do you mean, gone? You mean sold?"

I shook my head, not knowing why I was about to tell him the truth about the rest of the paintings. I didn't even know the guy. "No, destroyed."

Erik exhaled, shaking his head. "How could you destroy them?"

"I would never destroy my own work," I said, this time really heading for the door. "Anyway, I don't paint anymore, and that's that."

Erik walked me to my car, neither of us talking. He held the door open for me and I could feel myself shaking as I got in and slipped the keys into the ignition. I wished he'd just leave and let me sit for a moment on my own and gather my thoughts. I really did not want to say no to painting again.

But silly me had to say no, only because I was too scared to say yes.

"Would you like to see it?" Erik asked.

"See what?"

"The studio," he replied. "I mean, aren't you the least bit curious?"

If the studio had already been completed, I'd have freaked out. But it wasn't. It was actually Erik's workout room - or used to be his work out room. The carpet had been torn out, the hardwood floors beneath it just as beautiful as the rest of the house. There was a stepladder in the middle of the room, along with a tool bucket and some loose boards piled next to it. Workout equipment had been pushed into one corner - a treadmill, an upright stationary bike, and an elliptical climber. Pushed against the wall was a free weights rack.

The vertical blinds had been drawn, revealing a wooden deck just beyond the sliding glass doors. I couldn't help but smile. It was heaven on earth, I thought, though how anyone could paint with the beach in front of him, I had no idea.

"Why would you want to build an art studio if you don't even paint?" I asked.

He shrugged. "It can be any room at this point, if you don't want it. It was just something that came to me after Bella pulled out your card a few days ago. I'd give anything to be able to paint something as good as Strands, but I'm not the type who has to be good at everything, most especially painting. I leave that to the ones who have the gift for it - like you."

"So you're willing to give a stranger access to your house so she can paint something as good as or better than Strands?"

"You're not exactly a stranger, Sam," Erik replied. "Your painting speaks volumes about your character - well, in addition to Rosie's glowing referral, of course."

At least the tension that had been present between us just minutes ago was gone. In its place was a more fun and easygoing Erik - and more laid-back me. There was something about standing in a room that was meant to be a studio - if I wanted it. Even if he was just pulling my leg, it felt good to feel important. To be noticed.

"So what are your terms?" I asked, curious.

Erik pushed open the door and the ocean breeze flowed into the room, ruffling the drop cloth laid out on the floor. "You can paint whatever any time you want."

"And what do you want in return?"

"Nothing."

Maybe he didn't hear me, I thought, so I kept on going. "I can't pay rent, but I have to —"

"I don't want you to," Erik said. "I just want you to paint again. But at the same time, I don't want to force you into doing something you clearly don't want to do."

"But I don't get it," I said. "You must want something back. Everyone does."

"Michelangelo had benefactors. As did Da Vinci and most all painters in history. Even now, contemporary artists have their benefactors. I hear that there's even Kickstarter, or whatever that is," he said, grinning. "But what I'm really trying to say is that, I have this room that you can use as your studio. You can paint whatever you want. You'll even have a separate entrance that only you can use, and no one will bother you."

"As long as I paint?"

He shrugged. "It's not like I'm opening the place up so you can live in it and have wild parties or anything. But it's here if you need a place to paint. Besides, you came with good references - Rosie and Chuck. I hear he moved to Phoenix but you can call him if you don't believe that I know them."

I bit my lip. "What if I say no? Is there someone else you've got in mind for the place? Another painter?"

Erik shook his head. "No, but I wouldn't worry about it, Sam. This room was due for a renovation anyway."

I said nothing, my attention back on the beach outside. I didn't know what to think.

"Look, Sam, I don't know what else you want me to say," he said.

"You don't have to say anything," I said. "But thank you for thinking about me. No one has ever done anything like this for me before, especially when they don't know anything about me. But I'm afraid I've wasted your time."

"Well, at least think about it, Sam. Sleep on it," he urged. "I know it's sudden-"

"The answer would still have to be no," I said, tears threatening to fall down my face. No one had ever done anything like this for me before, I thought, and the realization made my chest tighten. "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

Erik followed me towards the door. This time he didn't walk me to my car, and I was grateful. That way he wouldn't see just how much I hated having to say no, for it was just too good to be true. To justify my decision, I told myself that there had to be some catch somewhere though I could not see it beyond the tears that clouded my vision. You see, such things didn't happen to people like me.

David happened to people like me.