47. Restored Canvases
Samantha
The fact that Alexander restored my canvases shakes me to my core.
I can easily imagine the number of evenings he devoted to them. He doesn’t need to tell me—I know exactly what that represents.
The hours spent delicately removing the wrinkled canvases from their stretchers. Flattening them, millimeter by millimeter. Mounting them onto new supports before stretching them again. The patience required to learn the gestures, to start over when they fail.
The work of someone who truly cares.
I picture him bent over my paintings, night after night, in the golden light of his penthouse. A gentle warmth spreads through my chest as my fingers brush over the barely visible scars.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tight. “Thank you for doing this for me.”
“I loved every minute of it.”
His gesture, his restraint, the love I hear in his voice—it all stirs me deeply. The urge to throw myself into his arms, to hold him, surges through me, but I hold back. I’ve learned my lesson. This time, I want to take things slowly, to repair what we broke and rebuild on healthier ground.
“I could really use a hot chocolate,” I say as I set the paintings aside, trying to dispel the emotion threatening to overwhelm me. “Would you like one?”
A dazzling smile lights up his face. A smile that moves me more than I want to admit.
“With pleasure.”
Mara and Emelyne join us to enjoy the creamy drink, and that’s when I drop the news.
“My exam will be on May 30th… at the Richelieu Library.”
Emelyne nearly chokes on her hot chocolate.
“The Richelieu Library?! Holy shit! Do you have any idea how many people would kill for an opportunity like that?”
“It’s going to be incredible, Sam,” Mara breathes, her eyes shining.
“You’re going to crush it—I’m sure of it!” Alexander adds.
Their support washes over me like a warm wave.
“Yes, but the hanging has to be flawless,” I admit nonetheless. “And I don’t know how I’m going to manage it. Framing each painting is going to cost a fortune.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Mara and Emelyne exchange a worried look. We all know I don’t have the means.
“Let me help you,” Alexander offers immediately. “Money shouldn’t be an obstacle.”
His generosity touches me, but something inside me stiffens.
I spent too many years depending on my parents, begging for their approval, their financial support. I refuse to repeat that pattern with Alexander, no matter how well-intentioned he is.
I smile to soften my words.
“Thank you, Alexander, but I don’t want to take the easy way out.
I can’t afford traditional frames, but I’ll find another solution.
You’ve already saved me an incredible amount of time with the seven canvases you restored.
I now have thirty-one, which exceeds the minimum requirement.
I can even afford the luxury of slowing down and choosing the strongest ones. ”
He nods. Disappointment flickers briefly across his face, but he doesn’t push, respecting my choice.
“What if we go to the flea markets?” Emelyne suddenly suggests. “I’m sure we could find old frames! We could go this weekend, all of us!”
The idea is tempting, but…
“Finding thirty frames in the right sizes? That’s impossible. And then we’d have to clean them, fix them. No, we don’t have the time.”
“What if we ordered very simple frames from a carpenter and painted them ourselves?” Mara proposes. “We could give them a chic, aged look with paint and varnish.”
I frown, weighing the pros and cons.
“That’ll take time too. Between the primer, the paint, the aging effects…”
“Yes, but it’s doable,” Emelyne insists. “We’ll ask for help. It could even be fun.”
“I could invite Matthieu and his friends,” Mara adds with a mischievous wink. “Just imagine all those cops painting frames for an art exhibition.”
We burst out laughing at the image.
I think it over again. Thirty frames, it’s manageable. And anyway, I don’t have another option.
“Alright,” I concede. “Let’s do it.”
Alexander watches our exchange in silence, a discreet smile on his lips. As if he’s admiring our ability to turn constraints into opportunities.
Later, when I walk him to the door, he turns back to me in the dim light of the landing.
“Let me help you with the frames.”
I hesitate. I need him in my life, but I don’t want us to fall into the same patterns again.
“As a friend,” he adds softly.
Our gazes lock.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His hand lifts toward my face, then stops, suspended in midair. As if he suddenly remembers that he no longer has the right.
Regret passes through his eyes.
“Good night, Sam,” he murmurs.
“Good night.”
I close the door and lean against it, short of breath, aware that this closeness is as precious as it is dangerous.
As necessary as it is impossible.