That night, after I tucked Michael into bed, I called Chuck.

It had been a month since I last spoke to him and I hoped he was still awake. He and the kids had moved to an private community next to a country club and so far, Trevor and Lindsay were loving it. The club had everything they needed, and it reminded them of the one they left in Manhattan Beach. Trevor got to play tennis while Lindsay enjoyed doing laps in the Olympic sized indoor pool. Chuck, who found a job similar to the one he had in El Segundo, worked on his golf game.

Like Chuck, it was painful for me to remember the times I spent with Rosie. A year after her death, her memory often came to me when I was doing the most mundane things, like scrubbing the bathroom or knitting a shawl. Sometimes I'd start crying when I'd see a rerun of a movie we'd both watched together. Sometimes it would be a whiff of her perfume, Chanel No. 5. I could only imagine how it felt for Chuck.

So we tried not to talk about Rosie as much as we could. Our topics were usually on the weather, surf conditions (even though I or Chuck didn't surf), or what Michael was into now. But that night, after talking about the weather, surf conditions and that Michael had discovered Chuggington, all I wanted to talk about was Erik Maystrom.

"If you've been to his house, then you know about my painting?" I asked. "The one on his wall?"

There was a long sigh at the other end of the line. "I promised Rosie I'd never say anything about it to you, but since you apparently have already seen it, then yes, I saw the painting."

"Yet you never told me?"

"Rosie made me promise not to, Sam. She told me she'd talk to you about it during those famous dinners of hers, only it never happened because you cancelled at the last minute." He paused for a few moments. "But I guess you finally met him then."

"What does he want from me, Chuck?" I asked. "I mean, why would he want me to paint again?"

There was a pause on the line, but I was willing to wait.

"The same reason Rosie and I wanted you paint again, Sam, because it's part of you - like your hand. If someone chopped it off, you'd know," Chuck replied softly. "But he really loved that painting. Strands. Wasn't that the name you gave it?"

"Yes, it was. I'm relieved that at least one piece survived David's tantrum." This time my voice was barely a whisper as I fought to control the tears from falling.

"You and I know that was no tantrum, Sam," Chuck said, his voice clipped. "Look, I'm so sorry you had to find out about Erik this way, Sam," Chuck said. "I hope you can forgive Rosie for not telling you, but she did try to get you two together-"

"It looked so beautiful up on his wall, Chuck, that painting. It was just perfect. I couldn't have wished for a better home for it."

"Then it's where it needs to be," Chuck said softly. "That's what matters, right?"

I nodded. "He asked me to paint again, Chuck. He even has a room planned out where I could paint if I wanted to. It faces the ocean."

"And are you?"

"I don't know. I don't even know what to think about his offer. Why would he do that? He doesn't know a thing about me."

Chuck sighed. "He knows you through Rosie, Sam. And through your painting." I heard him stifle a yawn but it came out anyway. "I remember hearing him say that to Rosie when we first saw the painting, that he liked the way you see things."

"Which is?"

"I'm sure he must have told you."

"Tell me again. He could have said something totally different to you, guys, and for all I know, he's just trying to get lucky."

He chuckled. "All guys try to get lucky, Sam, though I doubt he has any problem in that department. He's a doctor, for crying out loud, and he lives on the Strand. On the Strand, mind you. Anyway, this is what I remember, so don't hold me to it. You know how I am remembering things."

"I don't care, Chuck. I want to hear it from someone else. Because sometimes some things are just too good to be true. And things like that are either just wishful thinking on my part, or something I must have misunderstood. It's been awhile since anyone other than you or Rosie has spoken of my work. It's almost as if I never painted at all sometimes."

"He told us how he found the painting at the gallery, along with eight others. He said he fell in love with the Strand painting so much because it was as if the painter were sitting right on his deck, painting things he knew were there but never noticed. He loved it so much that he bought it right there and then and called for a packing company to have it delivered himself. He didn't even bother waiting for the gallery people to do it."

"Chuck, I can't paint like that anymore. I'm afraid whatever I had then - that talent, whatever you guys called it - is gone."

"He called it a light," Chuck said. "He said that you had a light about you that was evident in your paintings. Hope in each brush stroke."

I giggled. "Was he drunk when he said that? I've never heard anyone say, oh there's hope in every stroke of your brush, Sam."

"It's not funny," Chuck said. "Anyway, it's a decision only you can make. I can't help you with that. Besides, if you're worried that he's only after you because he can't find a date, think again. He didn't strike me as someone desperate to get laid. Besides, he wasn't alone at that dinner party. There was a woman there with him, practically all over him. No woman who was single could get within ten feet of him - at least that's what Rosie said."

"A girlfriend?"

"I think so," Chuck replied. "Anyway, if all he wanted was to get laid, Sam, I don't think he'd have bothered to pay as much as he did for that painting."

"How much did he pay for it?"

"If he didn't tell you, then I'm not telling you either because I sure as heck have no idea. It is the biggest one you've ever done."

"I know it is." I sighed, remembering how it filled the wall of the garage. "But I said no to him, Chuck. I can't see myself painting on demand."

"I don't think he'd demand you to do anything you wouldn't want to do, Sam."

"No one does things like this for nothing, Chuck. I mean, I'm sure he wants something in return for giving me a place to paint."

"So what? Then give him a painting for his trouble." Chuck sighed. "What do you want me to say, Sam? What would Rosie have told you?"

"She'd have told me to go for it," I said. "Was she really fixing us up with those dinners she loved to invite me to?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and I heard the sound of a switch being turned off. "What does it matter now? You flaked out on us twice, and that's how we got to know more about him."

He exhaled, continuing. "Look at it this way, Sam. You once told us you wanted to paint again, but you didn't want David to know. And with all his snooping around your house, he's bound to find out if you are. This way, with you painting at Erik's house, you can see if you still have it or not. Worse case scenario, you don't have it anymore, and if that's the case, then you thank Erik for his time, and move on. But at least you tried. Talent like yours can't be switched off permanently, Sam. It's always going to be there."

"I can only paint on weekends," I said. "That way, I can still watch Michael during the week."

"Weekends would be a start, yes," Chuck said, yawning. "You were a prolific painter then because Michael wasn't born yet. And you had lots of time - something you probably don't have much of at the moment. So, yes, weekends would be a great start."

"Thanks, Chuck," I said. "That's probably what Rosie would have said, too."

"I know that's what she would have said, Sam. I think I've eavesdropped on your conversations all these years that I somehow seem to channel her without knowing it." He paused, then groaned. "God, now I miss her. Didn't we agree not to mention her name?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

He chuckled. "I was only joking, Sam. Anyway, I gotta go. I've got a tournament tomorrow and I need to get to bed while it's still early."

We said good night and hung up. It always felt good to talk to Chuck. He was the voice of reason to my already confused mind. I was so scared to take that first step, of saying yes to Erik's offer of providing me with a studio, that I was desperately finding reasons to justify my saying no to him that day.

And so I went online, still looking for information about Erik and his clinic, Trinity Medical Center in downtown L.A. Surely there was a chink in his armor somewhere, I thought, and if there was, I was going to find it.

The first results that popped up when I typed Erik's name and his clinic, Trinity Medical Center, were his ratings as doctor. So far, he earned high marks for bedside manner and medical knowledge, though his ratings suffered for the wait time. According to his CV, he had graduated from USC and completed his residency at UNM.

There was an official website for his clinic as well, which included links to social networking sites. When I clicked on the links, they were all current, with the latest tweet having been sent just that morning, something about liver cleanse the natural way.

There were pictures of the clinic itself, as well as its staff, which included Olivia as co-founder. I tried looking for pictures of him but saw that most of them were of his staff, whether they were profiled independently or featured in pictures showing them at work with patients. Under their fundraising page, one picture, at the bottom of the page, stood out.

It must have been taken at the fundraiser held at his house, when Rosie and Chuck first met him. Rosie was smiling from ear to ear, and Chuck beside her with his arms over her shoulders. Next to Rosie was Erik and beside him was a beautiful woman with long brown hair and almond eyes. They had posed in front of my painting, Strands.

The caption read, "From l - r: Serena Jayne Kim, M.D., Erik Maystrom, M.D., Rosie Purnell, Donor, and Charles Purnell, Donor."

Once I had a name for the woman who must be his girlfriend, my search veered towards that direction. Maybe it was just pure curiosity, but I wanted to know what Erik was like once one took off the white coat and the title of M.D. from his name.

Serena's Facebook page listed her status as It's Complicated. There were many pictures of her and Erik in the album pages, most of them taken while on vacation on some white sandy beach that was not the South Bay, but they were from the previous years. There were no current pictures of them together at all.

When I scrolled through her Facebook wall, I could make out the deconstruction of a relationship that had once been solid. Once, she had listed her status as In a Relationship before switching it to its current It's Complicated status. Did that mean she was still with him then?

While she was prolific in the previous years, her postings had dwindled to one a month in the last two years. If anything, they probably weren't together anymore, I thought, before typing Erik's name on the search box to see if maybe he had his own Facebook page as well.

He didn't. But whatever I needed to learn about Erik Maystrom, I learned from his clinic page - and and if I wanted to be really honest about it, from Serena's Facebook profile. He was handsome, smart, and well-liked.

Too good to be true, really, and since I'd already said no to his offer earlier that day, I couldn't understand why I was suddenly disappointed. But I couldn't tell if my regret had more to do with knowing about his girlfriend or me having said no to him.

That night, sleep eluded me. I could not get Chuck's advice about taking Erik up on his offer of my very own studio out of my mind. What was the worst thing that could happen, I thought, other than me realizing that I could no longer paint like I used to? At least I tried. Still the questions continued, and by morning, I made up my mind.

I fed Michael his breakfast, snapped him into the jogging stroller and began my run along the Strand. I didn't know what I was going to tell Erik but I was going to start with the truth - that I did want to take him up on his offer after all, or at least, give it a try.

Besides, if a man like Erik Maystrom was willing to take a gamble on someone like me, didn't that say something about me? That I was worth something after all.

That maybe, just maybe, he was right.