“Good,” I say. “I hate that whole rigmarole.”
She steps into my office, almost tripping over the golf bag set directly behind the door.
“You don’t actually enjoy that game, do you?” she says.
“It’s a game of the mind, not the body. So yes, I enjoy it. You should take it up yourself. You know damn well how much business gets done on the golf course.”
“I know,” Sonia says rebelliously, giving my clubs a venomous glare. “Do you want to look over their scores for the finalists?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve already decided.”
Sonia grips the stack of folders containing all the applicants I’m supposed to review, her expression resigned.
“Let me guess . . .” she says.
“It’s going to Mara Eldritch.” I nod.
“Hm,” she says, lips pursed. “That’s going to irritate the panel. You know they like to have their say . . .”
“I don’t give a fuck what they want,” I snap. “I’m funding the grant and half their budget for the year, so they can suck it up and do as they’re told.”
“Alright, I’ll tell them,” Sonia says, amenable as always. She knows that the primary points of her job description are obedience and discretion.
Still, she lingers in the doorway, her curiosity too powerful to restrain.
“For what it’s worth, I would have picked Mara, too.”
“That’s because you have taste,” I say. “Unlike the rest of them.”
“How did you find her?” Sonia says with pretend casualness.
“She was recommended by another artist.”
I can tell Sonia is dying to hear more, but she’s already pushing the limits of my patience.
“I’m excited to see what she comes up with for New Voices,” she says.
I’ve already turned back to the computer screen, watching Mara’s slight figure bend and stretch to cover the vast canvas with paint.
Sonia hesitates in the doorway.
“By the way . . . Jack Brisk increased his offer for your Olgiati. He’s willing to pay 2.4 million, and trade you his Picasso as well.”
I snort. “I bet he is.”
“I take it that’s a no, then?”
I gesture to the gleaming solar model hung in pride of place directly in front of my desk. Where I see it every minute, every day, without ever tiring of it.
“This is the only surviving piece by the greatest master in Italian glass. His techniques have yet to be surpassed in the modern era. And besides that, it’s fucking beautiful—look at it. Look how it glows. I wouldn’t sell it to Brisk if he cut his heart out of his chest and handed it to me.”
“Okay, Jesus,” Sonia says. “I’ll tell him it has sentimental value and you’re not interested in selling.”
I laugh.
“Sentimental value? I suppose you’re right—I did buy it with the inheritance when my father died.”
Sonia falters. “Oh, you did? I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.”
“That’s right.” I smile. “You could say I was celebrating.”
Sonia looks at me, considering this.
“Great men don’t always make great fathers,” she says.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know any good fathers.”
“You’re so cynical,” Sonia shakes her head sadly.
My eyes are already drawn back to Mara’s figure on my computer screen.
Tolstoy said that happy families are all alike, but unhappy families are unhappy in their own way.
Mara’s grungy childhood might be typical, but I want to know her history all the same.
She sparks my curiosity in a way that’s vanishingly rare these days, when I can’t seem to muster interest in anyone or anything.
As if she knows who I’m thinking about, Sonia says, “Do you want to deliver the good news to Mara, or should I do it?”
“You tell her,” I say. “And don’t let her know it’s from me.”
Sonia frowns. “Why are you always so averse to anyone knowing you’re a good guy?”
“Because I’m not a good guy,” I tell her. “Not even a little bit.”
14
Mara
Early in the morning, I finally rinse out my paintbrushes and wash my hands at the sparkling stainless-steel sink in the corner.
I worked all night long, and now I have a brunch shift to cover. But I don’t regret a thing. This painting is coming alive in a way I’ve never experienced before. I wish I could keep working on it right now.