Tell Me Your Dreams. Sidney Sheldon

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СКАЧАТЬ took it and said, “Thank you, Alette. You have a great gift, bringing so much beauty into people’s lives.”

       Did you hear that, Mother?

      When Alette was in San Francisco, she spent hours visiting the Museum of Modern Art, and she haunted the De Young Museum to study their collection of American art.

      Several young artists were copying some of the paintings on the museum’s walls. One young man in particular caught Alette’s eye. He was in his late twenties, slim and blond, with a strong, intelligent face. He was copying Georgia O’Keeffe’s Petunias, and his work was remarkably good. The artist noticed Alette watching him. “Hi.”

      His voice was a warm yellow.

      “Hello,” Alette said shyly.

      The artist nodded toward the painting he was working on. “What do you think?”

      “Bellissimo. I think it’s wonderful.” And she waited for her inner voice to say, For a stupid amateur. But it didn’t happen. She was surprised. “It’s really wonderful.”

      He smiled. “Thank you. My name is Richard, Richard Melton.”

      “Alette Peters.”

      “Do you come here often?” Richard asked.

      “Si. As often as I can. I don’t live in San Francisco.”

      “Where do you live?”

      “In Cupertino.” Not—“It’s none of your damn business” or “Wouldn’t you like to know?” but—“In Cupertino.” What is happening to me?

      “That’s a nice little town.”

      “I like it.” Not—“What the hell makes you think it’s a nice little town?” or “What do you know about nice little towns?” but—“I like it.”

      He was finished with the painting. “I’m hungry. Can I buy you lunch? Café De Young has pretty good food.”

      Alette hesitated only a moment. “Va bene. I’d like that.” Not—“You look stupid” or “I don’t have lunch with strangers,” but—“I’d like that.” It was a new, exhilarating experience for Alette.

      The lunch was extremely enjoyable and not once did negative thoughts come into Alette’s mind. They talked about some of the great artists, and Alette told Richard about growing up in Rome.

      “I’ve never been to Rome,” he said. “Maybe one day.”

      And Alette thought, It would be fun to go to Rome with you.

      As they were finishing their lunch, Richard saw his roommate across the room and called him over to the table. “Gary, I didn’t know you were going to be here. I’d like you to meet someone. This is Alette Peters. Gary King.”

      Gary was in his late twenties, with bright blue eyes and hair down to his shoulders.

      “It’s nice to meet you, Gary.”

      “Gary’s been my best friend since high school, Alette.”

      “Yeah. I have ten years of dirt on Richard, so if you’re looking for any good stories—”

      “Gary, don’t you have somewhere to go?”

      “Right.” He turned to Alette. “But don’t forget my offer. I’ll see you two around.”

      They watched Gary leave. Richard said, “Alette …”

      “Yes?”

      “May I see you again?”

      “I would like that.” Very much.

      Monday morning, Alette told Toni about her experience. “Don’t get involved with an artist,” Toni warned. “You’ll be living on the fruit he paints. Are you going to see him again?”

      Alette smiled. “Yes. I think he likes me. And I like him. I really like him.”

      It started as a small disagreement and ended up as a ferocious argument. Pastor Frank was retiring after forty years of service. He had been a very good and caring pastor, and the congregation was sorry to see him leave. There were secret meetings held to decide what to give him as a going away present. A watch … money … a vacation … a painting … He loved art.

      “Why don’t we have someone do a portrait of him, with the church in the background?” They turned to Alette. “Will you do it?”

      “Of course,” she said happily.

      Walter Manning was one of the senior members of the church and one of its biggest contributors. He was a very successful businessman, but he seemed to resent everyone else’s success. He said, “My daughter is a fine painter. Perhaps she should do it.”

      Someone suggested, “Why not have them both do it, and we’ll vote on which one to give Pastor Frank?”

      Alette went to work. The painting took her five days, and it was a masterpiece, glowing with the compassion and goodness of her subject. The following Sunday, the group met to look at the paintings. There were exclamations of appreciation over Alette’s painting.

      “It’s so real, he could almost walk off the canvas …”

      “Oh, he’s going to love that …”

      “That should be in a museum, Alette …”

      Walter Manning unwrapped the canvas painted by his daughter. It was a competent painting, but it lacked the fire of Alette’s portrait.

      “That’s very nice,” one of the members of the congregation said tactfully, “but I think Alette’s is—”

      “I agree …”

      “Alette’s portrait is the one …”

      Walter Manning spoke up. “This has to be a unanimous decision. My daughter’s a professional artist”—he looked at Alette—“not a dilettante. She did this as a favor. We can’t turn her down.”

      “But, Walter—”

      “No, sir. This has to be unanimous. We’re either giving him my daughter’s painting or we don’t give him anything at all.”

      Alette said, “I like her painting very much. Let’s give it to the pastor.”

      Walter Manning smiled smugly and said, “He’s going to be very pleased with this.”

      On his way home that evening, Walter Manning was killed by a hit-and-run driver.

      When Alette heard the news, she was stunned.

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