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Clay dug in. “She lied when she said she wasn’t an artist. That her art wasn’t good enough. That she gave it up to be an assistant.”
“That’s because Saskia Oliver doesn’t paint. Only San Holo paints. San Holo is the artist, not Saskia.”
“It’s not like she has a split personality,” Clay scoffed.
Fernsby turned the tables. “Have you shared absolutely everything with her?” Fernsby paused only a beat, not giving Clay a chance to say that of course he had. Especially when he hadn’t. “Have you told her about your parents? Have you told her they are why you’ve never had a long-term love affair? Why you date only arm candy? Because your parents’ exclusive kind of love was too much for you to handle?”
Clay stopped in the middle of the path, a bike’s bell clanging as the rider veered around him. He could only stare wide-eyed at Fernsby. “How do you know that?”
Fernsby flapped an airy hand. “I am Fernsby. I know everything.”
Of course he did. That’s why Clay had called him.
“Allow me to tell you a story, sir.”
“Is this anything like the mille-feuille story?”
“No,” he said. “This is a love story.”
A love story? Fernsby? Impossible. Then again, Fernsby did love his mille-feuille.
“I once knew a woman when I was a very young man.”
Clay tried not to gape. Fernsby had never been young. He’d hatched just as he was.
“She didn’t lie to me.” The staid man walked on as he spoke. “But she held back an important bit of information. When I learned of this omission—” He used the word purposefully. “—I couldn’t forgive her. Like you, I was young, and I thought it was a lie. That omission broke me.”
Clay recognized the pain in the man’s voice, even after thirty or forty or fifty years.
“At the time, I believed I would never forgive her. It was only later, after many, many years to ponder, that I forgave her in my heart. I finally accepted why she hadn’t told me.” He put a hand to his heart. “I hold no animosity. If she were here today, I would tell her that.” He paused for another long moment. “If she were here today…” He trailed off.
Clay heard the unspoken words. If this mystery woman were here today, Fernsby would have been on her like San Holo’s paint on an empty wall. “You’re saying I shouldn’t waste years? I should forgive Saskia now?”
Fernsby’s touch of melancholy fluttered off into the breezy day. “Exactly, sir. Get over yourself and don’t waste precious time.”
Clay knew what he had to do. Right now. Without wasting another minute.
As she turned onto her block, Saskia saw Clay pacing outside her cute Victorian in Haight-Ashbury. She didn’t even question how he’d discovered where she lived.
After her night out, spray paint covered her clothes. All she wanted to do was run into his arms, not caring whether anything got on him.
But her feet seemed planted in concrete, her Doc Martens nailed to the ground. All she could say was, “You’re here.”
That gave her such hope.
Until he said, “I canceled the mural.”
Everything in her—the guilt, the fear, the love, the hope—all fell to the sidewalk, smashing to pieces as though they were made of glass.
“Of course you did.” A shudder ran through her entire body. “I’ve already thought over my list of good—” She air-quoted. “—reasons for what I did. But there’s another thing I should have said.”
A pair of lovers skirted around them, releasing their hands only to entwine them again once they’d passed. Clay stared at her, waited.
That made it all the harder. But she had to tell him. “I love you.” Her heart crumpled like a piece of paper balled in her fist when he remained silent. But she went on. “Not just a little. All the love there is in the world—that’s what I feel for you.”
Was that the slightest uptick of his lips? Or her imagination? “True love?” he murmured. “Is that what you’re talking about?”
Everything inside her came back to life because he hadn’t walked away. He’d come looking for her.