Grace tilted her head. “That’s what you do, Lucia. That’s why I love your paintings so much.”
“You love them because you know,” Lucia replied slowly, thinking about each word. “You can see.”
Marco and his mother went back and forth in Spanish again, and Marco nodded enthusiastically. After a while, Lucia said, “You understand it, Grace, what I put into my work.”
Grace was quiet for a moment. “I think I do,” she said.
Rafael wasn’t at the exhibit, and Grace didn’t know how to feel about that. She supposed she was disappointed since just the sight of him filled her with joy, but she could also do without the distraction. Keeping an eye out for him the whole night would have been exhausting. Spending the evening trying to figure out if she should change her mind all over again and what to say to him would have been even worse. Instead, she was able to enjoy the time with her students—or former students, really—to offer mini lectures on some of the different paintings because she just couldn’t help herself, to mingle and laugh and forget about everything except art and teaching and Picasso.
Lucia ran her keen eyes over every painting in the place, and Grace loved to watch her taking it all in. This was the kind of place where Lucia belonged with her talent. Maybe Christian would want to start collecting Lucia’s work and develop a secret museum dedicated to that. Probably not, but Grace certainly hoped to have some of Lucia’s work on her own walls.
For a while, she and Lucia stood side by side in the small corner with the local art from Sacromonte, both of them perhaps imagining what it would be like for Lucia’s paintings to be hanging among them.
“I like this one,” Lucia said. It was the skyline of Granada from one of the hills, a view Grace was sure she’d seen several times before, and it looked just as good as her memories. “I’m glad they included these pieces from the area. They’re very good.”
“Thank you for saying that,” said a deep voice from behind them.
Grace and Lucia both turned to find a man she recognized from the opening night. She’d been introduced to him briefly, but they hadn’t been able to talk much. “You painted this?” she asked.
“I did. I’ve painted that view a thousand times actually. I grew up looking at it, but I can never quite seem to get it right.”
“It’s lovely,” Grace said. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name. I’m Grace and this is Lucia.”
“Alejandro,” the man said. He had streaks of silver in his hair, and Grace would have called him a silver fox if anyone would have asked for a description.
“You’re from Sacromonte?” Lucia asked.
“I was born here,” he said. “I’ve traveled a lot, but this is still my home. They invited me to meet the students tonight, and I thought it sounded like fun.”
“That was a great idea,” Grace remarked as she wondered who had come up with it. Probably the person who’d put this whole thing together, the person who made sure it happened.
Just as Grace was about to ask, Alejandro continued. “You know Rafael? He has been meeting with our group of local artists and asking to see more of our work. He’s asked us for our thoughts and ideas about the exhibit as well.”
Grace stared in wonder, trying to take it all in. Not only had Rafael invited Alejandro tonight, but he’d also been meeting with a group of local artists and asking for their input? She was too stunned to speak.
Luckily, Lucia jumped in. “Do you all have a similar style?” she asked, gesturing toward Alejandro’s painting. “You and the other artists?”
“Oh, no,” Alejandro said, gesturing to a painting. “We’re actually all very different in our style and technique.”
Grace finally found her voice and couldn’t help but to sing Lucia’s praises. “Lucia is a painter as well. Her work is incredible.”
Alejandro’s eyes lit from within. “Is that so?”
They talked for a while about his work and some of the other local paintings, but as Grace excused herself, he and Lucia switched to Spanish and continued chatting. A smile passed over her face. It seemed Lucia and Alejandro were kindred spirits, both so passionate about their craft. An interesting development.
Grace ate too many appetizers and talked far too much about Salvador Dali and Frida Kahlo. Her students almost seemed to be buzzing around her, all of them excited and chatting about the art as if they were the experts, and in a lot of ways they were. They knew enough to know what they liked and why; they knew enough to articulate the merits of each piece and Grace was so proud as she stood there listening to them, so happy she was a part of it.
“This place is seriously cool,” Marco said, sidling up next to her. “I can’t believe you made this.”
“Oh,” Grace said. “Did I give that impression? I didn’t create this. I just consulted.”
“That’s not true,” a voice said from behind them. “You rambled on about all of these paintings for quite a long time.”
Grace’s breath caught in her throat. He was there. Had he been there the whole time? It seemed impossible that she could have missed him in this familiar little series of caves, but it didn’t matter. He was there, and Grace was speechless.
“Is everything going well?” Rafael asked.
Grace nodded until she finally found her voice. “It’s great, yes. Marco, this is Rafael, he’s the one who—well, he’s the one who really did all of this.”
