29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Storm I Love
SAL
As soon as she arrived, Sal was in her element.
She had done her work prepping for the art show by sequestering artwork from families with private collections and sculptures of notable and emerging artists and writers from the Philippines.
She had also had shipped some of her and Claire’s work all the way from St. Stephenshire.
They trekked through Agoncillo Street and stayed at Tampuhan BnB Café.
It was the same bed-and-breakfast they had visited the first time they went there.
Willow probably knew they’d frequent this place often, so they booked their rooms there to prepare for the art show.
“Are we putting the grimoire up for auction?” Willow asked as she unloaded things from her bag.
The idea of auctioning off the grimoire came to mind; but where would they exhibit the grimoire if they would auction it? For now, she felt safe knowing Rafa had it kept in a vault at a bank nearby.
“We could auction it, but we don’t have any provenance documents. Just the appraised value of two million,” Sal stated. “Legally, this could be the place for its debut.”
“Oh my God, that book is worth two million dollars?” Willow said, mouth agape. She turned to Theola. “Did we create an announcement for this, Theola?”
“Already got that covered! I made a fun post and offered the scoop to a couple of media outlets about the grimoire being exhibited.” Theola winked. “I should hear from them within the day.”
“Sorry, Sal, but tell me again why we can’t sell it?” Willow asked as she finished unpacking and started changing her clothes.
Sal also started unpacking her books and notebooks. “Technically speaking, we can, but we can’t promise any provenance papers yet—which are documents that act like the grimoire’s birth certificate and basically prove its authenticity. The buyer will have to take our word for it.”
“Does that mean we can’t have it insured without the provenance documents?” Willow asked.
“Spot on, Will.”
Then a knock came at the door. “Excuse me, po?” said a voice from behind the closed door. It must’ve been one of the café’s staff.
“Yes?” Willow called back.
“You have a visitor, po.”
A few minutes later, both women walked down the stairs, and to their surprise, they saw Harmon and Baron seated in the café. Nervousness raked through Sal, but she steeled herself enough to walk over.
“Hi, what are you guys doing here?” Willow asked.
“We’re here to look at the place you’ve chosen,” Harmon replied, taking a sip of what looked to be tsokolate de batirol, or Filipino hot chocolate made from native cocoa beans. “This is delicious,” Harmon said, smacking his lips.
“Harmon?” Sal said, gazing at him.
“Yes?” He looked up at her while taking another sip.
“I want a word, please,” she said, tilting her head and urging him to walk with her.
Harmon took another sip of his tsokolate and set it down to follow Sal. Sal led him out of the café and gestured that they should take a walk. Harmon obliged, striding next to her with his hands in his pockets.
“What are you doing here?” She said, looking up at him.
“Aside from checking out the site you chose, a little birdie told me you have something substantial to exhibit.”
“And so?”
“You can’t be serious about exhibiting it. Not without the provenance papers.” His voice was calm, but Sal detected an undercurrent of worry in his tone.
“Technically, I can. It’s properly appraised and has customs clearance. Why are you worried?”
Harmon stopped in his tracks. “Do I really need to explain to you why I’m worried?” he said, brows furrowed under his black bangs. “Apart from the fact that this could ruin your reputation as an art curator?”
“You’re being overdramatic, Harmon,” she said, trying to sound unaffected.
“No, I am not. You need the provenance documents to prove the legitimacy of the item you’re debuting.
If you don’t have them, you risk people in the industry calling you a scammer or a hack.
This will make your art show a circus. I’ve seen it happen before,” he said in a serious tone. “I care about you a lot.”
She walked closer to him and craned her neck so she could look into his dark eyes. “I have someone else to worry for me…” she whispered. “Please stop acting like you care. And forget that we ever kissed, for both our sakes.”
Harmon’s eyes softened, half-hurting, half-yearning, and her heart felt like it was going to crack.
This is for the best. Please, just go, she silently pleaded.
The world stretched and expanded again when they looked into each other’s eyes, and Sal once forgot she was standing on the sidewalk challenging him.
“Do you really mean that? Tell me you don’t feel an ounce of this spark I feel and I’ll never bring it up again,” he said, his pain clear on his face.
Sal balled her hands into fists and willed herself to speak, but just as she was going to respond, she saw Rafa from the corner of her eye with a confused expression on his face. She took a step back. “R-Rafa…” she breathed out.
Harmon looked over his shoulder and scowled.
A silent, pregnant minute passed before anyone spoke.
“Mr. Tovar, we were just talking about the art show,” Harmon said, breaking the silence.
Sal walked past Harmon and approached Rafa. “Rafa, let’s go back to the café,” she whispered.
Rafa’s gaze never wavered from Harmon. His jaw was clenched. But he placed a gentle hand on the small of Sal’s back. “You go ahead without me,” he said, still glaring at Harmon. “I think it’s time Harmon and I got to know each other.”