Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“How have you explained the bill collectors?”
“He knows there are probate issues, which, knowing my mother as he did, does not surprise him.”
“So you aren’t going to lose him?”
“No. Not now. But I’m nervous about this dragging on too long and giving him cold feet.”
“I’d like to talk to him next week, if you’re okay with that?”
“Why?”
“I’m looking for any insight into your mother’s activities he might give me that, as an outsider, might stand out to me, and not you.”
“Of course,” I say. “That seems logical. I’ll tell him you’ll call, but you have your deposition, Nick. You need to focus on that.”
“I can walk and chew bubblegum at the same time, sweetheart. I do it all the time.”
Our food is set in front of us, and in a few moments, we are both holding forks, and Nick takes a bite. “Well?” I ask.
“Excellent,” he approves. “No wonder you never learned to cook when you could eat here.”
We chat a moment, and I’m struck by the easy comfort I have with this man in any setting. It’s not something I have with people, and I’ve often thought that I stayed with Macom so long because I needed a connection to another human being. Not because I needed him.
“Tell me about the show Josh mentioned,” Nick urges a few bites into our meal.
The show again. He’s mentioned it twice, and I haven’t even let the possibility of being in that show sink in yet, nor do I want to talk about it. “You listened in on the entire conversation between myself and Josh, didn’t you?”
“Unapologetically,” he says, his eyes challenging me to disapprove.
But I don’t. I feel envy instead at his ability to be frank and unapologetic about pretty much everything. Who he is. What he is. How he feels about his father. God. To be that free. What would it be like?
“You told him you painted me,” Nick says.
“I shouldn’t have,” I reply without hesitation.
“Why?”
“Because I used it to justify me being with you.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes. “I realized that,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you did.”
“Otherwise, I’m not sorry I told him. You did inspire me to paint, Nick.”
“By being an arrogant asshole you aren’t sure you can trust?”
He’s right. That is what happened, but somehow that feeling I’d had about him no longer weighs on me as it had. “I don’t trust easily.”
“Those who do get burned,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes, in his voice, that I cannot name but wish I could, and I never get the chance. He circles back to where this started. “The show, Faith.”
“The show,” I repeat, my mind tracking back to those years in L.A. “Being picked for it has always been a dream for me. For years, my work was presented to them. For years, I was declined.”
“And this time they came to you,” he observes.
That hope and dream inside me rises up with panful insistence, and I shove it back down. “An inquiry means nothing.”
“Have they inquired before?”
“No, but they may rule me out.”
“But if they want you, you’re not going to decline.”
It’s not a question. It’s a command, and while I don’t take commands well, this one is well-intended—but also ineffective for reasons out of his control. “They aren’t going to accept me. It’s a month away.”
“Don’t do that, Faith.” His tone is absolute.
“Don’t do what?”
“Downplay how big this is for you. Don’t find a way to make it not matter.”
I stare at him, trying to understand how this man I barely know can be this supportive. Is it real? Is it just a part of his temporary obsession with me? He arches a brow at my silent scrutiny, but I am saved a real answer when more food appears. But it’s not a true escape. The moment we’re alone, Nick returns to the topic. “What does the show do for you?”
“If you’re spotlighted, you’ve made it. Those are the artists people want to have in their stores and on their walls.” Unbidden, my mind goes back to the day I’d told my father I had a full scholarship to UCLA. There had been hugs. Excitement. Smiles. Then he’d said, “I can see it now. Our wine will be in every gallery in the country because you know the wine that pairs with the art.” And I’d been devastated. My art was never going to be more than a hobby to him.
Nick’s knees capture mine under the table, and my eyes jerk to his. “What just happened, sweetheart?” he asks, that tender warmth back in his eyes, and a knot forms in my throat.
“If I can get into the show, I can sell my work and save the winery.”
Nick’s eyes narrow on mine, and I swear, in that moment, it feels like he’s diving deep into my soul and seeing too much again. “When you get into the show, it’s about you, not the winery.”