Sam hurried and shoved the camera back into her bag, feeling guilty that he’d startled her and grateful that she hadn’t caught him.
“Sorry to wake you up,” he said. “It’s time to go.”
Sara sat up, rubbing at her eyes with a loosely curled fist like a child might after a nap. A faint pink line creased her cheek from where she had leaned against his shoulder. The pattern matched exactly the black stripe that ran down the sleeve of his hoodie.
He felt a strange and sudden flash of pride at seeing it. Even though he knew it would fade—it was already fading—for a moment, they were connected, like halves of a whole, and that made him happy.
“The elevator’s leaving, and we need to be on it,” he said.
“Oh, okay.” Sara reached for her bag and rubbed her eyes again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. How long was I out?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. An hour, maybe? It’s almost midnight.”
Sara’s face paled a shade whiter. She set her mouth in a grim line. “That’s it, then.”
“That’s what?” Sam asked. He carefully unfolded his legs, wincing as the blood rushed all the way down to his toes.
“I failed Piper’s challenge. I had until the end of the day, and now it’s gone. I missed it.”
“Somehow I don’t think Piper is waiting by her door with a stopwatch, counting down the seconds to midnight. In fact, now that she’s dealt with Paul, she’s probably forgotten all about her”—he cleared his throat delicately—“request.”
“Still.” Sara pushed herself to her feet and swung her bag over her shoulder. She reached down her hand for Sam and leaned back, levering him to his feet. “It would have been nice to have done
something
right today.”
The bottoms of his feet burned; it was definitely past time to be moving again. He took a tentative step forward, testing his weight on legs that still tingled and itched as the numbness wore off.
“Can you walk okay?” Sara asked.
Sam tried not to notice the small dimple that appeared next to Sara’s mouth as she frowned, but failed. Taking her picture seemed to have brought all his senses to life. He couldn’t stop himself from noticing everything about her. The way the spotlights above the doors cast a halo of white around her face. The way the hem of her left pant leg was folded up in a crooked line. The way she held her breath while waiting for his answer.
“Yeah,” he managed. “I’ll be okay.”
She narrowed her eyes to green slits as though suspicious of a lie, and then looped her arm around his elbow. “I can help. It’s not far.”
Together they made their way toward the glass doors and then to the waiting elevator.
As they descended back to street level, Sam leaned against the wall, stretching and flexing his toes inside his boots as best he could. It hurt, but in a good way. He felt like not only were his legs waking up, but his whole body was too.
“Thank you for visiting Top of the Rock,” the elevator operator said with a cheerful grin as the doors opened and the passengers filed out. “Enjoy the rest of your stay here in wonderful New York City.”
“How can he have so much energy this late at night?” Sara asked as Sam pointed her toward the exit doors. “He’s probably said that a thousand times tonight.”
“Maybe he just really loves his job,” Sam said as they pushed through the doors and out into the warm spring night. “It’s been known to happen.”
Sam’s cell phone rang. He checked the number; it was one he recognized. What’s more, it was the one he’d been hoping to see.
He stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, tugging Sara after him.
“Vanessa? I’m so glad you called,” he answered.
Sara’s eyes brightened.
“Hello, Sam.” Vanessa’s warm voice poured through the connection like honey. “You said not to worry about the time, but I’m surprised you’re still up. I was expecting your voice mail.”
“I’m surprised
you’re
still up.”
Vanessa laughed, low and throaty. “Oh, honey, art
never
sleeps. And when the muses call . . .”
“What is it?” Sara whispered, stepping closer, as though trying to hear the conversation. “Can she help?”
Sam breathed in the scent of her hair, her skin, and swallowed hard. His stomach flipped as though he were still falling in the elevator from seventy stories up.
“ . . . the artist must answer,” Vanessa finished. “Tell me your tale, sugar. Your message said it was important.”
“It was,” Sam said. “I mean, it is. A friend and I could use your help with an art project. I know it’s kind of a strange request, and I know it’s way late, but I don’t suppose we could come by your studio? Tonight?”
Sara, listening to his side of the conversation, rose up on her toes in hope.
Vanessa hummed into the phone. “Tonight?”
“It would only take a few minutes—I promise.”
Vanessa’s hum turned into a laugh. “Of course you can come over. Art doesn’t care what time it is. When it’s right, it’s right.”
Sam locked eyes with Sara and nodded. She blew out her breath in relief.
“Thanks, Vanessa. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“When do you think you’ll be here?”
“We’re at Rockefeller Center now—”
“Oh, child, it’ll take you forever if you take the subway, even at this time of night. Take a taxi; put it on my bill.”
“No, I couldn’t ask you to pay—”
“I’m not asking; I’m telling. Take a taxi. Put it on my bill.” A hint of steel gave weight to her words.
Sam smiled. “I’ll be in your debt,” he warned.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Vanessa replied, and Sam could hear a matching smile in her voice. “I’ll put the kettle on. Hurry along, now. The muses are fickle mistresses; they don’t like to be kept waiting.”
Sam hung up the phone and looked at Sara, feeling more energetic than he had all day. “Still interested in going on an adventure with me?”
Her smile was all the answer he needed.
He took her hand and headed for Fifth Avenue, where he was pretty sure he could find an empty cab.
Even though the night was dark, the city was still bright and vibrant and alive around him. Walking with Sara, he felt like he’d been traveling in the dark for too long. It was time to turn on the lights and see what he’d been missing.
Chapter 35
Sara
Vanessa’s studio in SoHo took my breath away.
Unlike Paul and Sam’s apartment, which was an actual apartment with bedrooms and closets and a kitchen, Vanessa’s studio was just that—a studio. The only walls I could see were the four walls enclosing the wide open space, and one wall was floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the neighborhood. The room felt welcoming and cozy at the same time.
A four-poster bed held court in the far corner of the room, the blankets rumpled as though Vanessa had been summoned from sleep and couldn’t be bothered with something as mundane as making the bed. In another corner was a small kitchenette space. Nothing fancy—a mini-fridge, a narrow counter with a sink in the center, an old-looking stove. Next to the counter was a baker’s rack with a microwave on it and a few pots and pans. A table made out of an old door stood nearby, surrounded by four mismatched but still oddly complementary chairs.
Most of the rest of the room was filled with easels, boxes of paints, jars of paintbrushes bristle-side up, empty picture frames and mats of all sizes, shadow boxes, and stacks and stacks of paper. Every flat surface was covered with some kind of art supply or image. A tall cabinet stood to one side, lined with a number of small, square drawers, but it was a toss-up if it held jewelry or shoes or more art supplies. My attention snagged on something familiar in the happy chaos around us. Between the cabinet and a workbench was a desktop computer with a huge monitor. A mammoth printer sat on the floor.
“Wow,” I breathed out next to Sam as I turned in a slow circle, taking in the room. The photographer in me fairly drooled with delight. I wanted to take pictures of everything. If we couldn’t find something for Piper here, then we weren’t going to find it anywhere. “This feels . . .”
“Overwhelming?” Sam suggested.
“Amazing?” Vanessa said. She gestured for us to take a seat at the table, the sleeves of her paisley dressing gown fluttering like colorful wings over her white silk pajamas.
“Like home,” I finished. I tucked my bag under my chair and ran my fingers over the table. Sam sat across from me, the polished hinges of the door gleaming like splashes of gold set into the dark wood.
Vanessa smiled as though I’d said something delightfully profound and bustled around the kitchen area, selecting three mugs from small hooks hanging beneath a cabinet and tending to the kettle on the stove. “Hot chocolate?” she asked me.
“Please,” I answered.
Humming a low tune, Vanessa poured a stream of dark chocolate into a mug decorated with alternating purple and green stripes and handed it to me. The mug was warm in my hands and I inhaled the scent of melting sugar and chocolate.
She nodded to Sam. “I already know what you like.”
I raised my eyebrows in anticipation. For all that I felt connected to Sam, he was still a mystery to me. I may have stolen his soul outside the bookstore, but that didn’t mean I understood him yet.
“Classic Southern iced tea,” Vanessa said. “I brewed up a batch as soon as I heard you were coming.” She filled his mug almost to the rim and set it down on the table.
His brown eyes were warm as he smiled and shrugged his bag off his shoulder. With one hand he drew the mug closer. “Vanessa introduced it to me last year. Can’t get enough of it.” He pulled out a pink packet from his bag. “But I like it with just a hint of sugar.” He tore off the top and poured the white crystals into his mug.
I almost asked him for one; I was sure the small granules would taste like wishes.
“There’s something about having a sweet beverage while the world is sleeping that is comforting, no?” Vanessa said, relaxing into her chair like it was a throne.
I took a sip of my drink. Pure heaven.
Vanessa took my breath away too. She was tall—taller even than Sam—and thin, with dark hair and light-brown, caramel-colored skin. Her large eyes seemed to be full of laughter and secrets, and I suspected she could see right to the heart of me. She’d piled her hair up into a tidy mess and pinned it with two carved wooden hairpins. Even in the middle of the night, she looked flawless and beautiful.
“I really appreciate you letting us come over,” I said.
“It’s been a long time since Sam has asked me for a favor.” Vanessa wrapped her long fingers around her mug and curved her lips into a circle, blowing on her hot chocolate. “How could I say no?”
“You have in the past,” Sam said mildly, looking down as he took a sip of his drink.
Vanessa laughed. “And I might again in the future. But today the answer was yes. Don’t you love ‘yes’ days?”
“What’s a ‘yes’ day?” I asked.
Sam set down his mug but kept his hands curled loosely around it. “It’s a day where you find ways to say yes.”
“
To what?” I looked from Sam to Vanessa.
“To goodness,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “To life.”
“To things you might otherwise say ‘no’ to,” Sam added. His eyes flickered up to mine, the brown as warm and dark as my chocolate.
“Like saying yes to a damsel in distress?” I asked with a lift of my lips.
“Exactly.” Sam matched my smile, and I felt my heart flutter in my chest.
“Then I’m glad today was a ‘yes’ day,” I said.
Vanessa looked between us and her eyes sparkled. She leaned forward. “Sam’s message said you needed a Mardi Gras mask. You’re a little late for the party this year.”
“It’s not for me,” I said. “It’s for Piper Kinkade.”
Vanessa leaned back in her chair and pressed her hand to her chest. “Ms. Kinkade asked for one of my masks?”
“Not specifically. But I think she might like it.” I quickly explained about my encounter with Piper and how we had failed to save Paul’s job. “So you see, it’s my fault, and I promised to try to make things right. I thought this might be the answer we were looking for.”
“If this is the answer, what was the question?” Vanessa asked.
I lifted my bag off the floor and withdrew the head shot of Piper. Handing it to Vanessa, I said, “I wrote it all down on the back of this.”
Vanessa held the photo by her fingertips, her eyelids fluttering as though trying to sense something within the paper and ink itself. Then she turned it over and read the list out loud, the cadence of her voice adding a musical quality to the words I had all but memorized. “‘Original but familiar. A fresh look at something ethereal. Signed one-of-a-kind. No fakes. Nothing pedestrian. Unexpected and bold. Needs to be emotionally moving. Inspiring but not sappy. Must match décor.’”
“Kind of crazy, right?” I said.
“Not at all,” Vanessa said with appreciation. She smoothed her hands over the glossy page. “I believe that art prefers rules. For some artists, the worst thing you can say is ‘Do whatever you want.’ Such permission can be terrifying. I know it is for me. Often it’s better if you impose rules or restrictions on a project. Requirements can force you to be creative in unusual ways.”
“Well, Piper’s requirements seemed a little extreme to me,” I said.
“But they have led you here, haven’t they?” Vanessa countered. “An unanticipated destination, perhaps, but you must admit, all the best journeys take unexpected detours.” She clapped her hands together a single time. “Come. We will take this journey together.”
She swept back from the table and glided across the room to the cabinet.
I watched her as she swayed in front of the drawers, her hands dancing in small circles as though she was conducting music only she could hear.
“She’s . . .” I shook my head, at a loss for words. “I mean—wow.”
“I know,” Sam said, grinning. “I thought you might like her.”
Vanessa suddenly darted forward, opening the drawers two at a time, her hands flashing and moving, gathering up supplies. The frame of a mask. Sequins. Feathers. Ribbons and glitter and glass beads.