Page 5 of Theo of Golden

“Mr. Shep — excuse me, Shep — one thing I don’t understand. Why do people not buy the portraits?”

Shep grimaced, then rocked his head left to right a couple of times in search of a proper response. “That’s a mystery to me, too, Theo. I know Asher’s got plenty to do, and he probably doesn’t need any more work, but I was hoping this might create some business for him. So far it hasn’t worked out that way. Not yet. We sold a good number at Christmas last year, but I’m still waiting for a big breakthrough. I have to believe that one of these days, people are going to realize what a treasure these are. Asher did one of Addie — that’s my wife, Addelyn — and it’s one of my most prized possessions. If my house ever catches fire, it’ll be one of the first things I grab on the way out.” Shep hesitated. “We love having them here, but I wish someone would come along and buy all of them.”

Theo’s eyes widened slightly. He moved his hand to his mouth, thumb under his chin and index finger tapping his lips.

Shep looked toward the counter. A customer was waiting to place an order.

“Theo, I better get back to work. Thanks for coming in. You know, if you become a regular here, there’s a good chance you’ll end up on the wall someday. Welcome to Golden. Incidentally, how was the coffee?”

“Superb. Exceptionnelle! Maravilhoso!” Theo smiled, applauded softly, then patted Shep on the arm. He walked out of the shop, crossed the street to the median, and took a seat on a bench near the fountain.

He thought of the unsold portraits.

Of the homes that would be beautified and the lives that would be enriched by their presence.

Of the artist who would be encouraged by their sale.

It was there that the idea formed in his mind.

CHAPTER 3

On his second full day in Golden, Theo took an early morning stroll through a residential area south of the hotel known as the Boughery. “Gentrified” was a word often used to describe the area. It was a neighborhood of vintage homes and tastefully pampered lawns that, like the rest of the city, awaited the full pastel explosion of springtime. The fuse of that explosion was burning shorter and shorter as new blossoms opened each day in abundance.

From the Boughery he walked and sat beside the river, as he had done the day before. When he was confident the morning rush had subsided, he returned to the Chalice.

“Theo, welcome back. Two days and you’re already a regular.”

“Good morning, Shep. Yes, indeed, a regular, but also a man under a spell.”

Shep wasn’t sure if the spell was cast by the coffee or the portraits. Maybe both? Either way, he was pleased at the affable newcomer’s presence.

Theo remained at the Chalice until lunchtime, inching his way once again around the walls of the shop. Shep watched the old man with growing curiosity. What could possibly be so interesting?

Before leaving, and after considerable deliberation, Theo purchased the portrait of the young woman with short hair, familiar eyes, and the unsmiling but not unfriendly face.

He paid $125 cash. It felt more like a theft than a purchase.

“Why this one?” Shep asked as he wrapped the portrait in brown paper. “Do you know her?”

Theo shook his head. “I don’t know any of these faces. I would be happy to buy any of them or all of them, but this one intrigues me most at the moment.”

Shep’s curiosity about the old man was only heightened by the purchase, and he could not imagine what Theo had in mind to do. Was he a collector? A critic or a gallerist? Was he hoping to help the artist?

When Theo returned to the hotel for his midday rest, he studied the portrait yet again. The woman’s name, as Shep had told him, was printed in small letters on the back of the frame.

Minnette Prentiss.

“Yes, I believe you are the one,” Theo whispered.

He searched her name on a computer in the hotel’s business suite and learned that she was a CPA in Golden with a reputable accounting firm. More importantly for his purposes, he now had a mailing address for her.

He began to compose a letter. Over the next couple of days, he worked on and off through multiple drafts, until he was satisfied with his choice of words.

Dear Mrs. Prentiss,

We have never met, and I hope you will forgive me if it is inappropriate for a total stranger to approach you in this manner. I am an old man, 86 to be precise, and a newcomer to your town. I first saw you — actually, a pencil drawing of you — when I was at the Chalice on the Promenade a few days ago.

As I studied your portrait, Mrs. Prentiss, I had a strong sense that it belonged in your possession or in the possession of someone dear to you. After all, it only seems right that the finished work should go to the one who inspired it.