Page 67 of Savage Prince
The woman reaches out but draws her hand back before it touches the metal.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “You can touch it if you want. It’s sturdy.”
Both of them jerk their chins sideways to face me.
“Is this the artist?” the man asks Valentina, his attention still on me.
When she doesn’t answer right away, I realize she’s giving me the option of deciding how to play it.
“I’m Temperance ... and yes. That’s my piece.” It feels soamazingto admit it.
The man rushes toward me and holds out a hand. “I don’t know why Valentina hasn’t found you before now, but this isexactlywhat we need for the loft. It’s perfect. Tell me, what other pieces do you have? I need ...”
* * *
When I walkout of Noble Art with a check in my purse, I may as well be walking on clouds.
Instead of waiting until she had the time to put together a proposal, Valentina launched into negotiations with the couple, starting off with, “Did you know that one of her pieces recently sold for fifty thousand?”
When the couple didn’t even blink, Valentina went to town. She got forty thousand for the piece, and less her commission, I now have a check for more money than I make in over half a year.
From my artwork.
Something created out of scrap metal. Based only on the image in my brain and the skills I taught myself.
How crazy is that?
I’m practically bouncing in the seat of my Bronco, unable to contain my excitement. This issurreal.
I pull out my phone to call Rafe because he’s never going to believe it. When the call goes directly to voice mail, a little of my enthusiasm gives way to fear.
Where are you, Rafe? Are you okay?
Our father left the house one day in a boat and never came back, and my deepest fear, other than failure, is that I’ll lose my brother the same way. That he’ll leave one day and disappear, leaving me with too many questions and no answers.
He’s all I have.
I call back and get his voice mail again, and this time, with the tremor of threatening tears in my voice, I tell him what I did. How proud I am. How proud I hope he is.
When I hang up, a tear tips over my lower lid. I pray my brother gets to hear my message, and I beg everything that’s holy to let me see him tomorrow.
Please don’t miss my birthday, Rafe.
* * *
DoI go or don’t I?
Of all the thoughts circling in my head, most of them a million times more important, that one keeps bubbling up to the surface.
The business card is on my coffee table, next to the folded coffee-splattered newspaper, and I’m trying to figure out what the two things have in common—besides one mysterious man whose name I don’t even know.
Who probably bought my artwork.
Who the hell are you?I pull out my work computer and find the auctioneer’s email address, then fire off a quick note as I curse my crap memory. The questions don’t slow.
Was he sitting at the café for me? Or was he waiting there for a meeting? Because that’s definitely what it looked like.
Does he work for Mount? Or was Elijah completely wrong?
