Page 48 of Painted in Love

Being an idealist might be a beautiful thing, but sometimes it blinded you to reality. And Clay had blinders on. “How could you ever in this world create a space for artists where you can protect them from other people’s opinions? Because once their art goes out into the world—” Saskia spread her hands to encompass the entire globe. “—someone will say, ‘Your art is crap, and I don’t like it.’”

He shook his head, his hair tangling in his vehemence. “I won’t allow anyone to come on here and cancel people.” He slashed his hand through the air. “No one can unload onto one person.”

“I agree bullies can’t be tolerated. But not every comment is made by a bully. Sometimes they’re honest opinions, and they have to be allowed.” She wanted to fold him into her arms, stroke his hair. But she had to get him to listen. “You want to save artists from pain, and that’s a lofty goal. I get that you’re passionate about this because of Gareth. But artists have to grow a thick skin. Because once they, in whatever medium, put their work out there, it isn’t theirs anymore. Books, music, paintings, street art—it’s all the same.”

He stabbed a finger at his computer monitor. “If these negative comments make a person stop painting, then that’s bullying.”

She shook her head, even smiled softly. “Haven’t you ever left a book review and cited the reasons why you didn’t like the book?”

Clay’s jaw tensed. “I refuse to leave reviews.”

“But sometimes those comments help a writer see they need to make a change.”

“There are so many people who use the anonymity of the internet to be cruel.”

“That’s because all you remember are the mean comments. But I can pull up a book review and show you parts that are negative and yet are still useful.” She could have proven it right then, but he wasn’t ready to accept her philosophy. She tried another tack. “If it were possible to create that perfect world with no negative criticism, we wouldn’t have the diversity of art that we do. Sometimes a piece of art is made specifically as an ‘eff you’ to the people who say, ‘You’re no good.’”

Clay sighed as if he were tired of the argument. “I agree that sometimes it can spur great works. But that’s not what they’ve done to Dylan.”

“But often great art is created under difficult circumstances. San Holo knows that from experience.” When she was only sixteen and her parents refused to support her artwork, actually throwing her out, she’d reached for her goal of being a great street artist with everything in her. That didn’t mean cruel remarks were okay, but artists could use some valid comments for the good of their work. “Art contains our hopes and dreams. But it also contains our pain. It’s amazing that you’ve given people a place to create and the support they need. But one day, you have to let them fly and trust that you’ve done everything you can to make them strong in their belief in themselves and their art so they can take anything anyone dishes out. Just like San Holo can have someone paint over a piece of his art and come out of it stronger than before.”

She so badly wanted to tell him who she was. But he was an idealist, and he would hate her for lying to him, for sleeping in his bed, for making love to him, and never offering him her soul.

The guilt tied her insides into knots until she thought she might be sick. But she kept that stiff upper lip she’d learned from her parents.

After a deep breath, he looked at her, his eyes pools of misery. “I hear what you’re saying. But I’m still gut-punched by Dylan’s pain.”

“Dylan will be stronger, I promise you that. We’ll both help him through this terrible time.”

There was nothing left to say. Only something left to do. Saskia bent to kiss him softly, without desire—though that would come later—and with reverence for the man he was and the things he tried to do for the people he cared for.

Chapter Sixteen

After his talk with Saskia, Clay spoke with Dylan again. The kid was already cleaning up his studio, figuring out what he could salvage. He would be okay, and Clay began to see that Saskia had a point. Then he turned inward, as he often did when he needed to think things through.

But he couldn’t forget Gareth’s reaction, and his fear for artists like his best friend. The real world would crush some of them. He couldn’t allow any lingering consequences for Dylan.

Saskia had left, off to confer with San Holo about the mural, Clay assumed. Hopefully, she would talk with the artist about Dylan, especially because he’d painted in the same alley that San had a week ago. He could only hope the great man would impart some wisdom that Saskia could relay to Dylan, something strictly artist to artist. Maybe Gareth could help, too, and lend advice from someone who’d been through the same thing.

Then Clay did the only other thing he could. He called for an emergency family mastermind. Everyone was in, and they could all make it by late afternoon.

A few months ago, his sister Ava had started the mastermind as a space for everyone to air their issues and solicit advice. His brothers and sisters were his best friends, always there for each other, even in the middle of the night.

Not quite the cocktail hour yet and a Thursday to boot, the elegant Asian fusion restaurant in San Francisco’s Chinatown was far from full. Clay had nevertheless reserved the large round table in the middle. His family were all there for him when he entered. Even Fernsby, who’d been with Dane—and the whole family, truth be told—for over fifteen years. He was tall, thin, and ageless—no one knew exactly how old. Fifty, sixty, or, good Lord, even eighty. There was just no way to know. But Fernsby dispensed advice like an ancient oracle.

Fernsby, always a miracle worker, had managed to get the restaurant owner to allow him to bring in Dane and Cammie’s mini dachshund, T. Rex. That man could talk anyone into anything.

Clay gave his sister Gabby a hug and whispered in her ear, “Thanks for coming.”

Ava had somehow inherited the red hair of some distant, even far-flung relative, but his younger sister was blond like their mother. Gabby had driven up from Carmel with Fernsby, Dane, and Cammie. She owned a bakery on Ocean Avenue, the main drag of Carmel-by-the-Sea. She’d also franchised her vegan cafés in cities all over the country, where they all used her recipes. She had no ego, and if one of her franchisees came up with something extraordinary, she incorporated it into the menu, giving full credit.

He moved on, kissing Cammie’s cheek. Then he said to all of them, “Thanks for coming on the spur of the moment.”

Dane clapped him on the back. “We’re family.” Which said it all.

Cammie and Dane had been an item for a year, though Cammie had been his personal assistant for more than ten. Now his project manager, she oversaw the logistics for Dane’s new resort for kids and adults with special needs. She was also the love of his life, though it had taken too damned long for Dane to realize that. Or, more aptly, until he would admit it.

Ava, statuesque and only a few inches shorter than Clay, threw her arms around him, then backed off, holding him by the shoulders. “Of course we’re here, little brother.” She waved a hand over the group, including Ransom Yates seated next to her. “You were all here for me last year when I had that catastrophe with the caterer.”

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