I look bleakly up at her. If she notices that I suddenly appear like I might vomit, she doesn’t say anything. Definitely a hangover. That’s all. I really need to stop drinking so much. I tell myself that every day. But honestly, I want to get this done and go drown myself again as quickly as possible.
“She will sell.” Mira cocks her head. “But only for a specific amount. And when I say specific, I mean … specific. Then eight percent South Carolina sales tax and twenty percent gallery commission will be added on top of that price, rather than from it. Her idea, not mine.”
“Okaaaay. So what is the artist asking for?”
She shifts slightly. “I can only confirm or deny the amount. And when I say specific, I really mean down to the penny. No more. No less.” She hunches her shoulders up and shakes her head in bewilderment that mirrors my own. “So unless you’re a mind reader, we’re both shit outta luck.”
Her phrase startles me. She doesn’t seem like a curser, but then again, she is having a bizarre day. I am absolutely confounded. And relieved. Thank God. At least no one else will be buying it either. She’s not selling it, not really. But why the cryptic pricing? Why not just say no? It’s weird as hell. “And I don’t suppose you would betray her confidence by telling me anyway?” I ask.
“No, I’m sorry. She has some other pieces—”
I shake my head. I’d glanced around at her other stuff. They were beautiful, and I’d buy them all if I wouldn’t be casting Keri Ann in a strange light by doing so.
“No, I didn’t think so.”
She walks over to her desk and grabs two business cards. “Here, write who I can contact if anything changes, and here’s my card in case you need anything else or …” She cocks an eyebrow. “Suddenly, magically, you know the secret number.” She snorts with disbelief.
I concur. I can tell she’s disappointed, but I’m quite impressed she’ll keep it to herself. Although it must be such a bizarre amount that it would only be traced back to Mira herself.
I take the cards and her offered pen and scrawl Katie’s number on the back. “That’s my assistant in California, she always knows how to get me. And seriously, call me if anything changes,” I say, shaking my head. “Please don’t tell the artist who was asking.”
I take one last look at the extraordinary piece of artwork before heading to the door. There’s something so raw and primal and … painful about it.
“What is it called?” I ask before I leave. I don’t even know where I’m going. I wanted to go and see Keri Ann and face up to all my shit, but now I’m not so sure.
Mira walks around the other side of it and looks down at the card. “Just want to make sure I get the words in the right order. Oh! Oh, how funny.” She looks up, and then the quizzical smile on her face flattens out, and she looks nonplussed as she glances back down.
Oh shit. What?
“It’s called Ever Broken Sea.”
Jesus H. Christ.
Outside the gallery containing the bold evidence of my badly handled relationship with Keri Ann, I fold my body back into the compact rental car and drum my fingers on the steering wheel. What the hell was I thinking coming here? I’m the last person Keri Ann wants to see, but I start the car anyway, and before long, I am almost at Butler Cove.
I haven’t even told Devon I’m finally coming. He’s at his beach house taking some time off before hitting the road to get investments for the Dread Pirate Roberts project. Peak Entertainment, the people who fashioned the leash I’m attached to, are going to be a part of it. Of course, that is as long as I keep playing by their rules.
My phone buzzes again. Expecting it to be Duane from Peak, I grab it, thinking I may as well get it over with. It’s not Duane. It’s Sheila, my publicist. Well, she’s on my callback list, too.
“Yeah?”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone.
“Sheila?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, I’m scraping my jaw off the industrial carpet with the heel of my Leboutin.” Her voice carries the husk of late nights and too many cigarettes. “You answered the fucking phone. Are you kidding me? You don’t call me back all week, and you answer “yeah?” I was getting ready to leave you a speech dumping your ass. I have it written out, typed up, beta’d and everything. I’ve been rehearsing. You’ve got some kind of luck, boy. One more trip to voicemail and I was done.”
The great thing about Sheila is she can talk the hind leg off a donkey, so I usually only have to nod, smile, or on the phone, grunt in the affirmative. It’s a good relationship. I do my part.
She goes on. “Imagine? No agent and no publicist. What a world, how would you cope? Now, seriously, the shit is hitting the fan. How did I never know what a fuck-face Audrey is? Shit, that bitch is eee-ville-town. How did you manage to tap that so long? To think I even wanted to schtupp her once. Oi vey! So have you seen the picture?”
“What picture?”
“The one of you and that waitress chick all Romeo and Juliet-style on a balcony.”