Hello Stranger(89)

I walked out to confront him, Peanut trailing after me.

“Mr. Kim,” I called out, my voice full of both scolding and affection. “What were you thinking, bidding on my portrait?”

He and Mrs. Kim were unfolding a tablecloth together, and it fluttered in the breeze before they smoothed it down and turned to me.

They made their faces very innocent. “We like it,” Mr. Kim said.

Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Kim had each taken an auction paddle as they walked in for a premeditated plan of bidding each other up all night. But then another lady came in and started bidding them up. And then another. “It got bloodthirsty,” Mr. Kim said. “But we won in the end.”

(Later, in a fit of curiosity, I called the gallery to ask for the names of the other bidders. The receptionist looked it up disinterestedly and reported back: “Looks like it was one patron by the name of Thomas-Ramparsad, and another by the name of Ross.” Ultimately, it sold for twice as much as any other portrait in the room.) “What were you thinking?” I demanded.

Mr. Kim shrugged. “We love it. We’re going to hang it in the lobby.”

“The lobby?” I asked. “Of this building?”

Mr. Kim nodded. “Mrs. Kim says it looks a little like Korean top star Gong Yoo.”

Did it? Huh. Man, I wished I could see this painting.

Mr. Kim shrugged. “And you know how she loves Gong Yoo.”

“But, Mr. Kim,” I said, still struggling, my head just shaking itself. “All that money…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“I’ll try really hard to get famous someday so that painting will be worth something in the end.”

Mr. Kim waved me off. “It’s already worth enough.” Then he gave me a big triumphant smile. “Besides. It was for charity.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “But the North American Portrait Society is not really a charity.”

But Mr. Kim smiled tolerantly and shook his head, like I was missing his point. “Not them,” he said. Then he pointed at me. “You.”

“Me?” I asked.

Then he gave me a wink. “We just really, really wanted you to win.”

With that, Mr. Kim started to walk off—but then he remembered something and turned back around.

“Sue tells us that 515 is bothering you?”

I felt my shoulders tighten. That was Parker. “Yes,” I said. “A lot.”

“Good news,” he said to that. “Her lease has been canceled.”

“Canceled? Why?”

He gave a little shrug. “She violated the terms.”

I couldn’t resist asking. “What terms did she violate?”

Mr. Kim looked straight at Peanut. Then he smiled at me. Then he shrugged. “No pets,” he said.

“No pets?” I asked. Was that a rule? I held very still in a caught-red-handed kind of way.

“It’s right there in the contract,” Mr. Kim said, shaking his head, like, Oh, well. “Contraband pets are grounds for termination.”

I decided to just pretend Peanut didn’t exist and to nod conversationally, like, Interesting.

Then Mr. Kim said, “Good thing I’ve never seen any other pets in this building. Have you?”

Mr. and Mr. Kim had a Havanese named Cosmo. “Never,” I said.

“That’s right,” Mr. Kim said, nodding. “And let’s keep it that way.”



* * *



THE SECOND CRAZY thing that happened was that a mysterious package arrived for me. It was a large cylindrical tube with a letter inside that fell out when I opened one end.

I knew the handwriting in half a second.

It was from my dad, on his hospital’s stationery:

Dear Sadie,

I brought this with me on the night of your show to give to you—but in all the hubbub, I forgot. I know you’ll know what it is the minute you see it, but if you have any questions or just want to talk, I’m here.

I feel like our visit the other night was a good one, and I hope you do, too.

Proud of you, sweetheart.

Love,

Dad

Well, that was intriguing.

It took me a minute to pull the contents—a rolled-up canvas—out of the tube. But once I spread it out on a table, I saw he was right.

This canvas needed no introduction.

It was the portrait my mother had been painting—of me—when she died. The portrait she’d been planning to submit to her own art show.

I’d never seen it before.

I held my breath at the sight.

It was me. At fourteen. Looking straight ahead, leaning forward over a picnic table, chin resting on my hands. The whole portrait seemed to be lit from within. The dappled sunlight. The shine of the eyes. The glow of the skin. I had been so awkward at fourteen—and my mom didn’t shy away from that, or paint my braces away or try to make me something different. She just painted me exactly as I was. But glowing. As I really looked—but bathed in sunlight and warmth and a lovable mischievousness.

So lovable, this kid on the canvas.

It was like getting a glimpse of the past through her eyes.

Was this how she’d seen me? I wondered. Just like the real me—but better?

I looked at my fourteen-year-old face, so clear-eyed and bright. I remembered sitting for that portrait—how I didn’t want to stay still. How we’d gone morning after morning to the park near our house. And this was the result: she’d somehow captured all the sunlight, all the spring breezes, all my exuberance and naughtiness, and all her warm and tolerant love for me right here on this one canvas.