If I Were You Read Online Free PDF Page B

can’t help but notice the man is incredibly good looking and
I’ve never been one to be easily impressed. I know too well that beauty is too
often only skin deep.
    “You're late,” the man says as if he knows me, a friendly
smile touching his lips, his green eyes crinkling at the edges, mischief in
their depths. I figure him to be about thirty-five. No. Thirty-three. I am good
with ages, and good at reading people. My kids at school often found that out
when they were up to no good.
    I smile back at the man, feeling instantly comfortable with
him when, aside from my students, I’m normally quite reserved with strangers.
“And you forgot to pick up your tux, I see,” I tease. In fact, I wonder
how he pulled off getting in here dressed as he is.
    He runs his hand over his sandy blond, one-day stubble that
bordered on two days. “At least I shaved.”
    My smile widens and I intend to reply but a screech from a
microphone fills the air. A man I recognize from photos as Ricco Alvarez claims
the stage and stands next to the sheet covering a display, no doubt his newest
masterpiece. Suave and James-Bond-esque in his tuxedo, he is the polar opposite
of the man next to me.
    “Welcome one and all,” he says in a voice richly accented
with Hispanic heritage, as is his work. “I am Ricco Alvarez, and I thank you
for sharing my love of art, and children, on this grand evening. And so I give
you what I call Chiquitos , or in English, Little Ones ."
    He tears away the sheet, and everyone gasps at the
unexpected piece of art that is nothing like anything he’s done before. Rather
than a landscape, it is a portrait of three children, all of different
nationalities, holding hands. It is a well-executed work appropriate for the
occasion, though secretly, I had wished for a landscape where his brilliance
shone.
    The man next to me leans an elbow on his knee and lowers his
voice. “What do you think?”
    “It’s perfect for the evening,” I say cautiously.
    “Oh so diplomatic,” he says with a low chuckle. “You wanted
a landscape.”
    “He does beautiful landscapes,” I say defensively.
    He grins. “He should have done a landscape.”
    “And now,” Ricco announces, “while the bidding begins, I’ll
be circulating the room, answering questions about my many works displayed
tonight, and hoping to have the pleasure of meeting as many of you as possible.
Please feel free to walk to the stage for a closer look at Chiquitos .”
    Almost instantly, the crowd is standing.
    “Are you going for a close-up?” I ask the man next to me.
    “Not much on crowds,” he said. “Nor Ricco’s attempt at
portraiture.” He winks at me. “Don’t stroke his ego when you meet him. It’s big
enough as it is.” He starts moving down the row toward the exit. I stare after
him, feeling this odd flutter in my stomach at his departure, curious about who
he is. 
    I frown as I repeat part of our conversation in my mind. Ricco. He’d called Ricco Alvarez ‘Ricco’ and spoken of his ego as if he knew him. It’s
too late now to find out how he knows Ricco, and portrait or not, I am eager
for an up-close look at the featured painting. I have not met Ricco and it is
disappointing, but I am still thrilled at the opportunity to see his work.
    Sometime later, I am enjoying a lingering walk through the
gallery, exploring the full Alvarez collection on display, when I spot a
display for Chris Merit, whose work I studied in college. He too had once been
a local, but I seem to remember him moving to Paris. Excitedly, I head toward
his work. His specialties are urban landscapes—-mostly of San Francisco, both
past and present-—and portraits of real subjects with such depth and soul they
steal my breath away. 
    I join an elderly couple inside the small room, where they
debate over which of several landscapes to purchase. Unable to stop myself, I
join in. “I think you should take them all.”
    The man scoffs. “Don’t go giving her ideas or