Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
“I’m taking a break from my studio. The thing is...” I knew he’d talk me into going if I didn’t tell him everything, confess all the drama. “The thing is, Price and I have broken up, and my studio’s in the same building as his office.”
Vinod studied me, his lined, bronze face an inscrutable mask.
“So I just feel, you know, too nervous to go there. I don’t feel comfortable being so near him. I need to find a new place to work.”
“A new place? You have a studio on Park Avenue, in a magnificent building. Where else will you go?”
“I don’t know.” I pressed my hands together, feeling defensive. Jino watched us with his large, dark eyes.
“My dear, are you so terribly afraid of running into him?” Vinod said. “What did he do to you, to make you feel this way?”
“He didn’t do anything,” I lied. “I just don’t want there to be a confrontation. An argument or something.” He might touch me then. He might try to win me back.
And I might go back to him.
I spread my hands in apologetic finality. “I just can’t. I won’t feel safe there.”
Vinod tsked. “It’s your studio, yes? You have a right to work in your own place.” He gestured toward his hulking sidekick. “Jino can go with us. He can protect you from any confrontations. He’s very good at keeping people in line.”
I tried not to notice the salacious look my elderly mentor exchanged with his much younger bodyguard before he turned back to me.
“Jino won’t let anyone interfere with you if you don’t wish it. I promise, you’ll be safe as can be. Look at him. He loves beating people up if he gets the chance.”
Jino nodded and tapped his fists together. I rolled my eyes.
“I don’t want Jino to beat up Price.” The image didn’t please me. I didn’t feel spiteful toward Price, I just felt numb. And confused. And lonely all the fucking time.
“Can you give me one more week to get some samples together for you? Please?” I asked Vinod. “I’m going to handle everything and get back in the studio. I just need a little more time.”
“I can give you two weeks,” said Vinod. “A month, you know, whatever. I can give you as long as your inspiration needs. But I am worried about you, my dear. An artist must be in the studio, submerging herself in her art. You cannot only be here in this empty room, drawing up plans.”
“I know.”
He took my hand and squeezed it. “My buyers love your work. I see it now in the advertisements, on billboards. On people. You are successful, but you are not happy. This upsets me. Does it upset you, Jino?”
His stone-faced companion responded with an almost half-nod. For Jino, it was enthusiastic agreement. Vinod looked at me as if to say, See?
“Happiness takes time,” I muttered. “Happiness is something you have to work at.”
“No,” he said, drawing himself up in his impeccably tailored suit. “Happiness lives inside you. Where is your happiness?”
He asked in such a demanding tone that I thought I should answer, but I didn’t understand the question. Did he mean where in my life? Where in my mind? Where, geographically? My mind darted like a reckless kid in front of a car, straight to Bleecker Street.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been happy,” I said peevishly. “It’s not that easy for everyone. I’m happy if you’re happy—”
“And I’m unhappy that you’re unhappy,” he snapped back in his crotchety-old-retail-magnate tone. “You make beautiful things, Chere. If you were happier, think how much more beautiful they might be.”
“Sometimes you annoy me,” I said, closing my sketchbook.
“I assure you that you annoy me much more. Isn’t that right, Jino?”
This time Jino gave a full nod. Traitor.
Vinod sighed and began to gather up his things. “I’ll give you the time you need to find more happiness, Chere. I’m going back to India for a while, at least for the next few weeks. That is where I am happiest.” He gave me a very sharp, direct look. “And so, you see, that is where I always return.”
* * * * *
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed the muscles at the base of my neck. I was supposed to be finishing a bridge design for the City of Vancouver. Instead I had two computer windows open, one to Chere’s studio camera feed, and the other to the guest room feed at our apartment.
Not that I would have gone after her if I saw her. I just wanted to be sure she was okay. She’d been gone a week now, and I didn’t know where the fuck she was, which kept me in a constant state of uneasiness. She hadn’t gone to Andrew’s. I’d called him, and he said she wasn’t there, but that she’d gone someplace safe. He said I had to leave her alone, and I agreed, or I would have put a tail on him by now to find out where she was holed up. I was sure Andrew had visited her at some point. That little shit didn’t respond to any of my other texts pleading for information.