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But Dylan eyed her. “I’ll keep working on you. Someday you’ll tell me.”
Saskia wagged her finger at him without saying a word.
Then the boy burst out, “You have to see my studio. I never had a studio before Clay gave me one.”
Instead of saying she was too busy, Saskia gave the kid a toe-curling smile. “I’d love to see it. And your artwork.”
She enthused over every piece, bringing a shine to Dylan’s eyes. Then she turned to the easel, which Dylan had covered with a drop cloth. He never showed his work until it was finished.
But when Saskia said, “Is this your current piece? I’d love to see it,” Dylan whipped the covering away.
Clay gaped. “It’s a butterfly.” Which was not Dylan’s usual style.
Saskia stroked her chin with thumb and forefinger. “It’s a dragonfly.” She looked at Clay, killing him with her beautiful smile. “But let’s call it a butterfly-dragonfly.”
Dylan merely stared at them both and said in the driest tone, “It’s a cockroach. They can fly, you know.”
Saskia put a hand over her mouth, laughing, not at Dylan but with him. “That’s the beauty of your art. It’s whatever is in the eye of the beholder.”
The perfect thing to say, and the kid beamed his happiness.
Clay couldn’t help nudging Dylan. “I think you’re ready to put your work out there.” He’d been subtly encouraging Dylan to step out, but though he took his paint cans on nighttime sojourns, spraying walls—in acceptable places, of course—with his elegant graffiti, Dylan was still reluctant to put his real work out there. Even after their walk around the Mission District yesterday, when the kid had found San Holo’s new piece. “Take on a wall, Dylan. You’re more than ready.”
Dylan scoffed. “I tag walls all the time.”
Clay gestured to the artwork in the studio. “But you don’t put stuff like this on any of them. Not your true stuff that shows your real self.”
When Saskia said, “Your stuff is really good. It deserves to be out there,” Dylan turned a full circle, moving slowly, his gaze drifting over each piece of his artwork.
“Yeah, okay,” he said, still tentative but a little more open. “Let me figure out what.”
Saskia pointed at the easel. “What about the cockroach? What’s beautiful about it is that people will see what they want to see. A butterfly. A dragonfly. Or maybe your cockroach is actually going to turn into that butterfly.”
Clay liked her insight and the way she encouraged Dylan. Maybe that was an insight into the kid. He saw himself as a cockroach who wanted to fly. Now he’d see that not only could he fly, he could also turn into a butterfly.
Clay could have kissed Saskia then and there.
She was still encouraging Dylan, just the way Clay had, when a tall, middle-aged man poked his head into the studio. Pushing his glasses up his nose, he said softly to Clay, “Can we talk a minute?”
Clay looked at her, bowed slightly, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
Saskia liked that he hadn’t told the guy to bug off because he was too busy. He’d delighted in introducing her to so many of the artists working here today. And he obviously encouraged Dylan.
There was a lot to appreciate about Clay Harrington.
As the two men disappeared around the wall, Dylan grabbed her arm. “Clay is great, don’t you think.” It wasn’t a question. “He’s helped so many of us. I’d probably be in jail if I hadn’t found Clay and Gideon.”
Though she knew a bit of the story, she asked, “Gideon?”
“You haven’t heard about Gideon?” Dylan rushed on. “He has this foundation, and he helps foster kids like me. Because his sister was a foster kid when Gideon was overseas in the Army and he lost touch with her. But he found her again. And now he helps us all out. He helps veterans too. He’s amazing.”
She’d heard of Gideon’s foundation, Lean on Us. But the way Dylan told the story made what Gideon Jones did even more impressive.
“That’s how you met Clay?” she asked. “Through Gideon?”
Dylan nodded expansively, his hair flying. “Clay gave me this studio and helped me get all my tools and supplies. I mean, he is the absolute best.”
The man was totally amazing.