Nina tore at the rest of the brittle paper, looking for anything that would explain why his name was on her father’s painting. She found nothing. She rubbed the back of her neck. A sharp smell hit her. Masculine and energetic yet jarring.
Nina stepped away from the painting. The odor dissipated.
Cautiously, she approached Paris Bench, eyes fixed on the canvas. Bracing herself, she breathed in. To her surprise, the smell had vanished.
She splayed a hand above the painting. Did she dare touch it again? She thought of her mother’s fingertips tracing signatures in the guest book at the memorial. Were the sensations and smells Nina experienced similar to Tisha’s? Nina never considered she had the gift because she didn’t believe in it.
Holding her breath, she touched the smooth edge of the frame, braced for a reaction, but there was none. Gingerly, she carried the canvas into the living room, where the vaulted ceiling allowed a wealth of light through the windows. She had bought the condo for the east-facing exposure. Bright sunlight flooded her place in the mornings. The perfect time to paint. Doused in that light now, she examined every inch of the back side.
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