The Donna Who Vanished from the Portrait Chapter 10

The Donna Who Vanished from the Portrait Chapter 10

One year later, a silver-haired woman stepped into my art studio.

She brought seven family photo albums. She flipped through page after page, yet couldn’t find a single portrait that belonged only to herself.

“When I was young, every photograph was for my husband. Later, for my children. Then for my grandchildren.”

“They always say that in family photos, it doesn’t matter who stands where. But now, at nearly seventy, I find myself wanting a portrait just for me.”

I drew a chair to the window for her. “Today, we paint no one else.”

She pulled an old pair of pearl drop earrings out of her handbag. Her hands shook as she tried fastening

them on.

I stepped over and helped fasten the clasps.

She touched her earlobes in the mirror, her eyes slowly glistening.

Once the painting was finished, she stood and stared at it for a long time. “Now I get to be the center of the

frame.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, tracing the lines etched by years of smiling.

I didn’t attempt to soothe her. I simply shifted the canvas a little further into the sunlight.

On that same day, the old master’s posthumous exhibition opened-a show he had planned in his final months, titled The Outsiders.

There were no portraits of mafia dons.

Instead, the canvases depicted mothers forever standing just outside the camera frame at family gatherings, wives half-obscured in wedding photos, and people busy adjusting other people’s clothes who missed the moment the shutter clicked.

My self-portrait hung at center stage.

I wore no wedding ring, no lavish formal gown. Behind me stood an open doorway.

Adrian arrived early.

One year had passed, and he had grown noticeably thinner. He came alone, no entourage, no Elena and Sophie.

He stood before my portrait for a very long time. When he saw me draw near, he pulled the wedding ring

from his pocket. “I’m not here to force you to put it on.”

He set the ring down beside the display case. “I’m only returning it to you.”

“It no longer belongs to me.”

His fingertips shook. “Then let it stay here.”

“The staff will clear all exhibits once the gallery closes.”

Adrian let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “So you won’t even grant me this trivial little keepsake?”

Gallery staff called everyone together for a group photograph.

Students and sponsors lined up on either side of my portrait. Matteo stood at the far end, his presence a

quiet anchor rather than a participant.

Out of habit, Adrian took one step toward me.

The photographer peered through his viewfinder and spoke politely. “Mr. Moretti, please step aside. You are blocking Ms. Margaret’s painting.”

He froze.

After a short silence, he stepped half a pace backward.

The shutter clicked.

In the finished photograph, I stood at the very center of the crowd. Only his blurred silhouette remained reflected on the glass gallery door.

Once the group photo wrapped up, I picked up the final painting the old master had left for me.

Adrian followed me to the exit, yet made no move to stop me. “Margaret.”

I paused.

“I’ll never try to force you to come back again.”

“I know.”

“The Moretti family, our marriage, everything from the past… I won’t use any of it to trap you.”

“I know.”

He gazed out at the blooming magnolia trees outside the gallery, his voice rough with barely restrained

emotion. “You once said you wanted to see spring in Ravenna with me.”

“I remember.”

“Do you still want to?”

“I’ve already seen it.”

A pang of wistful envy crossed his face. “With whom?”

“With myself.”

Adrian stood there for a very long time.

Wind drifted in from outside, stirring the hem of his coat and sweeping a magnolia petal onto the flagstones.

“Will you ever paint me again?”

“No.”

“May I stand here and wait?”

“You may wait. But don’t expect me to answer for your waiting.”

I held the wrapped painting close to my chest and descended the long stone steps.

Down at the street corner, the silver-haired old woman sat by the window, her pearl earrings catching the afternoon light, waiting for me.

I pushed the door open and never looked back.