I examine my reflection within the rearview mirror. The final time I used to be in Bangor, I used to be carrying rubber boots, a flannel shirt, and had bloodshot eyes as I boarded a airplane with a trash bag. Now, I stand in a creamy silk shirt, fitted gown pants, leather-based ankle boots, and pink lipstick.

Ethan most likely received’t even acknowledge me.

Nope.

Ethan is tomorrow’s drawback.

I’ve negotiated with myself if I can hold my cool via the afternoon assembly, I’ll enable myself to have a correct meltdown the second I get again to my resort.

I’ll keep in Bangor for the evening and drive to Bethel tomorrow. What I’m going to say to him, I don’t know. However I’ve loads of time to over-analyze that plan tonight.

The empty brick warehouse stands on the fringe of town and appears like a human hasn’t entered it in a long time. Piles of plowed muddy snow sit across the parking zone whereas patches of ice fill within the cracks of the pavement. Summer time in Maine had been lovely, however the way in which the freezing wind cuts throughout my pores and skin in winter is totally depressing.

I twist on the previous knob, and a number of the peeling paint that covers the wood door flakes off because it creaks open. A stunning rush of heat blows out to greet me, together with the loud hum of a furnace.

“Good day?” My voice echoes across the large, empty room.

No response.

I’m shocked by how completely different the within is from the out. Exterior, it seems deserted, however inside, it has the potential to be spectacular. Uncovered brick covers each wall as partially damaged bulbed ropes of lights drape haphazardly throughout a excessive uncovered beam ceiling. The ground is concrete, which I think about will pop if refinished.

My boots click on towards the ground as I stroll. There’s a small bar that may perhaps seat six, lined with mud and chairs. No matter this constructing initially was, somebody transformed it into some kind of leisure area afterward.

I click on throughout the room and push via a set of doorways that surprisingly result in a small and really outdated kitchen. I chunk my lip. A kitchen reno could be costly, making me marvel if it could be smarter to deal with an upscale bar expertise with a restricted menu of small plates versus a conventional full-blown restaurant.

The door creaks open from the entrance of the constructing, and a wave of hysteria washes over me. I’m assured in what I can carry to the desk, however it is a large venture, my largest one but.

As I make my approach towards the door of the kitchen, a big stack of familiar-looking canvases leans towards a nook and makes me cease.

I crouch down subsequent to them—recognition hanging like a bolt of lightning.

I thumb via them. Shiny colours cowl mountainous landscapes, one an identical to the outsized piece that now hangs in my front room, and cityscapes that I assume are of Bangor. R. Donalds is scribbled on the underside nook of every.

Wait—what?

The artist is opening a bar? It doesn’t appear proper. She was near seventy once I met her. Not that she couldn’t deal with the venture. It simply appears so… large. Possibly a relative? A daughter even?

I look on the papers for the assembly, Rhonda Donalds’ title on the paper clear as day. I missed the connection.

Footsteps develop louder as they cross the large room towards the kitchen, the place I’m nonetheless kneeling, consideration again on the work. I can’t transfer. I’m hypnotized and confused as I let my arms hint the acquainted colourful strokes of every one.

Rhonda, from little Bethel, Maine, has a stack of work in a warehouse in Bangor owned by somebody with the identical title.

How?

“She sends her regards,” a well-recognized voice says from behind me.

Time stops proper together with my coronary heart as I slowly stand and switch round.

I see the eyes earlier than the smirk. “Ethan,” I whisper shakily, taking him in.

Ethan is standing in a swimsuit wanting like each girl’s fantasy, and I’ve zero phrases. I’m dumbfounded. And, towards my delusional considering, the thick hair on the highest of his head, sharpness of his jaw, and exhausting traces and angles that make him him are nonetheless simply as engaging.

“Penelope,” he drawls.

After not listening to his voice in so lengthy, the depth of it makes me lightheaded.

He leans towards the brick wall casually, like this isn’t one of the jarring experiences of my life, because the file of papers I’ve been holding falls to the bottom and scatters like confetti.

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