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The following days were unseasonably warm, the sun melting everything in its wake. It seemed impossible that the triathlon had only just taken place. Spring was on its way, the birds more vocal than they had been in some time. Soon the lake would be thawed, and no one would be skating on it. Diana’s car moved through the melting snow like a knife through butter as she and Aurelle left the cottage together. It was only a few days since the art show, but something momentous had shifted.
Waiting for Diana and Aurelle at the Art Den was a woman in a black jacket and jeans, sporting banged-up work boots and shaggy, messy hair. Everything she wore was curated. Her name was Tracy and she ran a gallery in Toronto’s Queen West, and she had called Diana and asked to come and see the paintings.
