The imagery was intoxicating. The way the shadows folded over the couple entwined in the bed, the leaves along the edge of the window that hinted at a forbidden tryst. The way the vines crept over the glass in strategic places kept it from being tawdry and gave it a dreamy quality. She had been trying for almost two years to track down all of her grandmother's work, and finally she was about to bid on the last piece—what was probably the best work she had ever done. Her uncle, may he rot in Hell, had sold off the family legacy to pay his gambling debts. She and her mother had been doing all they could to find the paintings and purchase them. Some had slipped through their fingers, held in a private collection, but a few months ago they had come back into the market with the owner's death. This last painting, created for a former lover of her grandmother's almost fifty years before, was being sold at auction by his estate. She had been hesitant to approach the aging gentleman about purchasing the painting, since it was one of the few that had been given, not sold away.
