Page 128 of Beyond the Stroke

“How can they tell it’s really a Covey?” Whitney asks.

“See the little signature on the bottom right corner.” Winnie points to the bottom of the canvas.

Whitney squints to see the small marking I make on all my paintings. “Yeah, but couldn’t someone fake that?”

My pulse quickens at the conversation. I know it’s real because I painted it, but they’re right, someone could mimic the style and try to pass it off as one. My fingers tighten around the stem of my champagne glass.

Rory must notice my nerves, because his grip tightens on my waist.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he whispers, pulling me in closer before taking a sip of his soda water with lime. “Do you like the painting?”

I swallow and nod. “Yeah, it’s…” My words trail off because it’s hard for me to talk about my art even if no one knows it’s mine. Just seeing it sitting up there in front of all these people is making it hard to breathe.

To calm my nerves, I take a sip of champagne.

“We’ll start the bidding at seven thousand dollars,” the auctioneer announces.

The champagne I just attempted to swallow sprays from my mouth. Coughing loudly, I clutch my burning chest.

“You okay?” Rory looks down at me, concern in his eyes as he rubs my back.

“Fine.” I nod, still coughing as I try to recover.

The bidding takes off fast. Rory’s mom and another woman across the room who must be Lucinda Boswell go back and forth while more paddles rise. With each paddle lift, I’m growing increasingly uncomfortable. I’d never imagined to hear such large dollar amounts associated with my art. When the bid reaches twenty thousand dollars, I want to tap Rory’s mom on the shoulder and tell her I’ll paint her something else, but that would give me away, and I’m not ready for that.

“We have an anonymous bidder that will match any bid,” the auctioneer announces while out of the corner of my eye I see Rory pocket his phone.

There’s a flurry of chatter in the room.

Rory’s mom scowls in Lucinda’s direction, but it’s clear someone wants it even more than they do.

“Twenty-two thousand?” the auctioneer calls, looking into the crowd.

We watch Lucinda shake her head, indicating she’s out. Maybe it’s the fact that her friend won’t end up with the painting, either, but Mary Ann drops her paddle to indicate she’s also done.

“Sold for twenty-two thousand dollars,” the auctioneer announces ecstatically.

I stand frozen, my jaw on the floor.

Rory leans close again. “That was fun.”

“Can you imagine?” Mary Ann says, fanning herself with her auction paddle. “Twenty-two thousand dollars for a painting by some anonymous beach rat.”

My heart stumbles.Beach rat?

“I think it’s beautiful,” Rory says calmly, pulling me in tighter like somehow he knows I need the reassurance.

“Mm,” Mary Ann hums, clearly distracted by her own irritation. “Let’s just hope Lucinda’s out of town when the next one comes up.”

If Rory’s mom knew I was the artist, would she still want it?

Rory’s father’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Son, I hope you were smart about this and signed a prenup.” He motions to where Rory’s hand is resting on my hip.

“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Shields,” I say sweetly, turning toward him with a practiced smile I haven’t used in years. “I don’t want Rory for his money. I’m here for other things, if you know what I mean.” I punctuate it with a cheeky wink.

Beside me, Rory lets out a laugh, his eyes dancing with amusement, and I can't help the rush of satisfaction that floods my chest.

But under it all, beneath the glamour and the glitter and the jokes, I feel something else.

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