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But Fernsby wasn’t finished. “As long as it’s honest criticism, one can always glean a helpful tidbit. I’m not saying you should accept maltreatment on your amazing platform. That is unconscionable. But criticism can be useful.”
Clay eyed him. “You learned from criticism? But I thought you already knew everything.”
The man almost seemed to preen, growing taller in his chair. “Everyone has something to learn. Right now, sir, you need to learn from the lovely Saskia.”
Dane grimaced. “I actually have to agree with Fernsby.”
Troy pointed out, “Look what happened after your friend Saskia told Dylan he had to suck it up if he wanted to be a great artist. He turned around and cleaned up the mess he’d made. Now his work will be even better.”
Clay saw it all then, as he looked from one mastermind to the next. Then finally to Fernsby.
He couldn’t baby the artists in his warehouses. Not anymore.
“Maybe my job is to provide ways for my people to deal with the harsh realities out there. Counseling. Classes. Lectures.”
“Let’s brainstorm it,” Dane said.
Clay had come to the right place. To his family. To the ones who always found answers for each other.
Fernsby watched the young man master the char siu, mapo tofu, scallion pancakes, and sticky rice, expertly using his chopsticks. He was a goner, as young people were wont to say, hooked on the girl right and proper. Snared. Smitten. Head over heels. There were so many clichés, Fernsby couldn’t think of them all. And look at how quickly the couple had become close. This was probably their first argument. If it could even be called an argument. Rather, this was a difference in viewpoint.
The boy had blinders on where she was concerned. He saw what he wanted to see—a beautiful, wonderful, amazing, selfless woman.
But Fernsby recalled what she’d said about The Discus Thrower, that he wasn’t throwing away his art, he was throwing all his energy and creativity into it.
Then there was her advice to young Dylan Beck, that artists needed to grow a thick skin and use criticism rather than become a slave to it. If it were taken in the right way, it could work wonders for creativity.
That girl didn’t think like anyone’s assistant. She thought like an artist.
He said to Clay, “Sir, tell us more about the lovely Saskia Oliver.”
The young man seemed suddenly to shine like a ray straight from the sun. He told them everything he knew. Except the prurient details, of which Fernsby was sure there were many.
But what Clay knew wasn’t all there was to the girl. Certainly not.
How much more was there? And just what would the young man do when he finally discovered what that “more” truly was?
Chapter Seventeen
It was late, darkness had already fallen, and Saskia wasn’t back.
But Clay had so much research to do to find the right people to help his artists.
She arrived quietly, so as not to disturb him perhaps, that he didn’t realize she was there. Not until her sensual scent wafted over him, and she whispered against his ear, “What are you doing?”
How she’d managed to walk so softly in her heavy Doc Martens, he didn’t know.
He held up a finger until he’d hit Send on another email. Then he turned to her.
God, how she affected him every moment he was with her. So beautiful, this time in a long hoodie that reached her thighs and black leggings that hugged her calves. He wanted to tear off the hoodie and bury his face between her breasts.
He explained his plan. “I’ve approached several therapists in order to add counseling as needed for the artists. I’m also looking at guest lecturers who are brilliant in their fields. Harvard.” He flapped a hand one way. “Stanford.” He flourished the other. “Oxford. I want them to give video talks about the philosophy of art and the headspace artists have to live in. About the challenges of the artistic life. The talks will be recorded live so people can ask questions, then they’ll be available in the archives.” He swirled his hand around his head, trying to encompass all the ideas. “I’ve also ordered copies of Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Big Magic. Enough stock for all my warehouses and all the artists.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at him. Then said in a breathless voice, “That book is all about how once you’re done creating a work of art, and you put it out there, it’s no longer yours, and you have to let it go.”
He’d read the book long ago and didn’t know why it hadn’t struck home at the time. “She’s saying that everyone will have their own take on your piece of art based on who they are. You can’t control what they’ll think or say about it.”
This was what Saskia had been trying to tell him. He’d been so devastated by what Dylan had to face that he hadn’t thought of the book until this evening. He hadn’t thought of anything but getting rid of the bad reviews.