Page 15 of Finding Forever

By the time I finished lifting the catches, Riley was ready to take the cover off the truck.

“Where do you want the topper?” I asked.

He looked behind him. “Over there will be okay.”

We each took a side, carefully maneuvering it onto the ground.

Riley walked back to the truck and unhooked the packaging from the screw.

I waited by the tailgate. “I’ll help you take them inside.”

“I’ll be all right. The canvases aren’t heavy.”

There’s no way he’d be able to lift them into the cottage on his own. “It’s an awkward size. Where are your house keys?”

Riley reached into his pocket and held up a key ring. “Here.”

“If you open your back door, I’ll carry it inside. Tell me if I’m going to hit anything.” I lifted one side of the wrapped canvas and balanced it on the bed of the truck.

Instead of unlocking the back door, Riley didn’t move. “You don’t need to help me. I’m perfectly capable of moving it inside.”

“Maybe I want to help.”

“Why?”

I took a deep breath. Telling the truth had never been so hard. “Because I feel guilty. I know who you are and what happened in Italy.”

Riley’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“Two of your paintings were stolen from your apartment in Venice. A third painting had already been sent to Denver for an exhibition.”

“How do you know what happened?”

“Alex read about the burglaries on the Internet. Did you know the police think the mafia is involved?”

Riley nodded. “They said something about that.”

“Were they involved?”

“I don’t know, and I probably never will. Why were you looking for information about me?”

I relaxed my hands. Poking holes in the packaging wouldn’t help anyone. “I wanted to make sure you were here for the reasons you said you were.”

“Why?”

I looked at the canvases. I couldn’t tell him the whole truth. Not yet. “I had a bad experience with the media. When my second book was published, everyone wanted to know who I was. Some people who I thought were my friends spoke to a reporter. Before I knew it, stories about me started appearing in magazines and newspapers. What the reporter didn’t know, he made up. I came here to get away from all that.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s hard making new friends when you don’t know who you can trust.”

I studied Riley’s face. “You have the same problem?”

He nodded. “When I first lived in Europe, I didn’t know anyone. After my third or fourth exhibition, I met a couple of people who seemed genuine. Six months later, one of them sold a story about me to a magazine. I try not to let that experience change how I interact with people, but it’s hard.”

“How do you keep your personal life and public profile separate?”

Riley shrugged. “I don’t let myself get close to people, but that creates other problems.”

I didn’t say anything. I’d done the same thing, and it wasn’t easy. Loneliness sneaks up on you so slowly that by the time it’s there, it’s too late to do anything about it.

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