Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Without even a fidget, she said, “What was my tell?”
“My dear, Clay obviously hasn’t told you that I—” He placed the tips of his fingers to his chest. “—am Fernsby. I know everything.”
Her lips twitched, not quite a smile as she waited for his answer.
“It was how you spoke of The Discus Thrower. That he glowed because he was throwing everything he was into his art. Only a true artist would have seen that.” He tapped his temple. “Though I’ll admit it took me a few days to truly comprehend. But when I coupled that with what you told Clay about what artists really need, it was obvious.” Then, because he had to give credit where credit was due, he added, “Which was all very true, my dear.”
She sipped her latte, but he knew her mind was humming, perhaps pondering how to get out of this conversation.
He couldn’t let her, so he said what he had walked all the way across town to say. “You must tell Clay.”
She dropped her head to the table with a thump, their cups bouncing. She breathed so fast he was afraid she might hyperventilate. Until she sat up again. “That’s why I came to the warehouse this morning. From the beginning, Clay has wanted to know who San Holo is. For Dylan. Because San Holo is Dylan’s idol. I decided last night that I have to tell him the truth, even if he hates me.”
“Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t. That doesn’t matter. You must tell him anyway.” Then he offered her a bit of himself. “For almost sixteen years, I have considered him one of my sons. Trust me when I say he’s a bigger man than you think.”
Then she couldn’t stop talking, throwing words at him as if they were missiles. “I’ll admit that I had major reservations about him at first, but one by one, they’ve been blown apart. He’s a better man than almost anyone else I’ve ever known.” She sighed, a painful, guttural sound. “I just don’t want him to hate me. I don’t want to see that look in his eyes when he realizes I’ve been lying to him from the start.”
Fernsby laid his hand over hers. He’d never been touchy-feely, but this young woman needed soothing. “Maybe some of what you told him has been lies, Saskia.” He used her name now, offering it as another touch of comfort. “But I don’t believe it has all been a lie.” He gave her a soft smile. He actually could smile when it was necessary. “Is it a lie when you kiss him?”
She shook her head, her silky hair falling across her shoulders. “No.”
“As I thought. But back to your main concern—will he be hurt that you have lied to him?” When she winced, he added, “I understand why you did it—I know all too well that it’s a rough world out there. Tougher on some than others.”
She shot him a look of astonishment, as if he’d seen right into her soul. Which he had. Because he was Fernsby.
“But is he worth going through the pain of telling the truth?” he queried.
“Yes,” she said softly, as if fear constricted her throat. Then, in a stronger voice, she said again, “Yes, he is.”
Saskia threw herself across the table into his open arms. As though he were the wise grandfather she’d never had. With his arms around the young woman, and excessively pleased with his results, he allowed himself a grin.
His work here was done.
After leaving Fernsby, Saskia raced to Clay’s warehouse.
Her heart pounded with the hope Fernsby had given her. Clay was a good man. The best man. He might be upset. But he would forgive her.
Inside, Dylan shrugged. “He got a phone call. Then he took off in a rush.”
There was no way she could tell Dylan before she told Clay, so she stepped back into the lobby beside The Discus Thrower. And her call went directly to voicemail.
She wanted to jump up and down in frustration like a child. But this couldn’t be said in a voicemail. Her message was as brief as his text had been last night. “You told me to call when I’m ready to talk. I’m ready.”
There was nothing to do but return home. But once there, she couldn’t go into the studio, couldn’t look at the black canvas.
She could do nothing but wait.
Clay rushed home like Hermes with wings on his heels.
Saskia had left him a voicemail. She wanted to talk, and he’d been stuck in all those freaking meetings.
It had been one of those days where everything was an emergency. Dressed in sweats and sneakers, he’d been about to go for a run to burn off some of the tension when one of his investment guys—he had several, including the Maverick ventures—had called to say a deal was going south. Without bothering to change, Clay had jumped on it, even though all he’d wanted to do was ignore his work and go get the girl of his dreams.