With her tablet, Sage sat on our white velvet upholstered sofa near the floor-length windows and drew her pen across the screen a couple of hours after Constantino left. Expression soft, eyes light, fingers gliding her pen in small strokes, she hummed.
I grabbed a wineglass from the cupboard and opened the last bottle of Armand de Brignac Rosé that Constantino and I had bought on our trip to France last year. We had plans to go back in June, but with all this FBI nonsense, I didn’t know if we would.
After I filled my glass halfway, I leaned back against the counter and stared over at Sage. She had that same look of awe on her face that I remembered feeling while painting years ago. But I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d held a brush.
“Are you drawing?” I asked, the mere scent of
