“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, trying to get up the guts to ask her something that had been on his mind for weeks. “Can I ask something about your painting?”
Naomi smiled up at him. “You want to know why I don’t paint anymore, don’t you?”
“I do. Is that alright?”
“Of course it is. And the truth is that I was drinking alcoholically the whole time I was painting professionally.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Confession time, OK? I don’t recall painting any of my most successful pieces.”
King stared at her, stunned. “How’s that possible?”
“Easy. I’d get smashed off my face at my studio, then paint all night. I’d pass out eventually, and then I’d wake up on the floor to discover a finished painting that I had no memory doing. But my work was good, and I got this twisted idea that it was good because
