I fell in love with Abraham that day.

Now I sniffed back tears and said, “Abraham, I just wish we-”

“Not another word.” He gripped my shoulders. “I admit I’ve been a stubborn old fool, but I’ve recently learned a valuable lesson.”

“You have?”

“Yes,” he said with a firm nod. “Life’s too damn short to spend time regretting or wishing for what might’ve been. From now on, I plan to live in the present and enjoy every minute.”

My throat was tight but I managed to whisper, “I’ve missed you, Abraham.”

He pulled me in for one last hug. “Ah, Punkin, that’s music to these old ears.” He let me go, but added, “We won’t be strangers anymore, agreed?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I’ll see you downstairs in a while.”

“I’ll be there.”

He walked away and would’ve vanished in the crowd, but his mop of hair was like a beacon. I watched him until he slipped through the doorway leading to the small West Gallery and disappeared.

I knew the West Gallery led to a series of smaller display rooms that finally ended at the stairway that led to the basement where his temporary studio was located. One of the perks of working on a Covington exhibit was the free use of their state-of-the-art on-site workshops-if you could find your way through the jumbled warren of galleries and halls and stairways. Of course, if you were going to get lost, this was a great place to do it.

My heart felt as though a weight had been lifted. Abraham and I could go forward as friends and colleagues instead of the distant rivals I was afraid we’d become.

Feeling lighter, I moved toward the exhibit of Walt Whitman letters and photographs. The main hall was now filled to capacity with the cream of San Francisco society. Wall-to-wall old farts, as promised.

Thinking of old farts made me think of Robin, which in turn reminded me that I didn’t have a drink in my hand.