Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
R ather than make the long drive to Pebble Beach after last night’s family mastermind, then all the way back again for the Maverick birthday party on Sunday, Dane and Camille stayed at the Nob Hill flat. As did Gabrielle.
Fernsby’s thoughts had buzzed all night.
Clay was immersed in his relationship with the lovely Saskia. Of which Fernsby wholeheartedly approved.
But the larger question was, who exactly was Saskia Oliver?
The precise answer came to Fernsby in the sleepless hours just before dawn.
He’d gone immediately to the warehouse. After he’d served breakfast, of course. He had standards and would never leave his employer in the lurch even if he had a mission.
When he arrived, however, Saskia Oliver wasn’t there, and Clay had rushed off to some important meeting.
Bollocks.
But he knew, because he was Fernsby and knew everything, that the woman would show up sooner or later. He waited on the corner for his first sight of her, wanting to speak to her before Clay did.
There she was, almost running, head down. She would have barreled right into him if he hadn’t been so quick on his feet.
Fernsby steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. “Dear Miss Oliver. The very woman I wish to speak with.”
She tried to wrench out of his grasp, saying in a near frenzied voice, “I have to talk to Clay.”
He held tight and said to her, when she finally looked him in the eye, “I know who you are. And it’s not San Holo’s assistant.”
Her lovely mocha-with-a-hint-of-cinnamon eyes went wide, and he saw clearly what he hadn’t realized the other day. She had artist’s eyes, taking in every detail of his worn and craggy face.
He said what had to be said. “You’re San Holo.”
She didn’t gasp. She didn’t faint. But with his hands on her shoulders, he was sure he felt the flutter of her heart. “Wow,” she said. “You’re good.”
He dropped a hand to her elbow and started walking, guiding her. “Shall we have coffee and a biscuit and talk?” He smiled down at her. “Before Clay returns.”
They said nothing until they were seated inside the coffee shop, their cups on the table between them. He’d passed on the biscuits, however. They didn’t look up to snuff. Even Gabrielle’s vegan biscuits would be preferable.
The steam vented on the espresso machine, the barista yelled out names, and people talked, laughed, even shouted to be heard over everyone else.
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.
He couldn’t get to his loft fast enough. If she wanted to talk, she’d be waiting for him there.
But as he passed Dylan’s studio, the young man stepped out. Clay had the awful desire to swat him aside as if he were a fly. But of course he wouldn’t do that to Dylan or any of the artists.
Dylan didn’t give him a chance to get a word in. “Have you seen this?” He held up his phone.
“Seen what?” Clay didn’t care. He only wanted Saskia.
But Dylan got right in Clay’s space and punched Play on the video he’d queued up.
Before he even registered the words, Clay recognized the man.
In the video, his face bloated and florid, the man spoke in the rough voice of a two-packs-a-day smoker. “You all know me. Hugo Lewis. I’m also the famous street artist Lynx.”
Though Lynx was a famous street artist, his work had gone downhill over the last five years.
Lewis continued in that smoke-laden voice with a definite Cockney edge. “I’m holding this press conference out of the goodness of my heart.” He held his hand over his heart for emphasis.
“I know everyone in the world—” He spread his arms to encompass the globe. “—wants to know the real person behind the artist San Holo.”
Clay sucked in his breath, held it, until he saw spots before his eyes. But it didn’t stop Hugo Lewis’s words.
“Until now,” Lewis said, “only her agent has known San Holo’s identity.”
Clay dimly registered the pronoun. Her . Not him .
Lewis once more reached out to the world.
“I have recently learned that her agent is right here in San Francisco. Adrian Fielding. She’s been keeping San Holo’s secret for five years.
I believe the public deserves to know. I believe that keeping her identity a secret is a marketing ploy to raise the value of her paintings. ”
Her, her, her . Why did Lewis keep saying that?
But Clay’s stomach was in free fall. He imagined he heard it splatter on the concrete floor at his feet.
“That is why I, myself—” Once again his hand went to his heart.
“—revealed my identity five years ago to be Lynx. Because it wasn’t fair to keep you all in the dark.
It wasn’t fair to make the value of my paintings rise simply because I didn’t tell any of you who I was.
Even Banksy speaks to his public. He might gray out his features, but he talks to us.
But not San Holo.” He wagged his finger in front of the microphone, accidentally touching it and setting off ear-splitting feedback.
“So I made it my mission to find out who this mysterious San Holo is. For you. The public. The art world. For all the people who deserve to know.”
Clay didn’t think he could breathe, and yet, he sucked in a gulp of air that almost choked him.
Just as he choked on everything Hugo Lewis said.