Page 78 of White Lies

Her eyes go wide. “I can’t just down it.”

“Chris is waving you over.”

She downs the champagne, and I do the same with mine before handing our glasses to a waiter. I lace my fingers with Faith’s and lead her through the crowd while cake begins to circulate on trays. Chris, however, is cornered by fans, and Sara appears in front of us. “Faith!” she greets her, hugging Faith, her brown hair a contrast to Faith’s blonde, while waving at me over her shoulder.

I give her a nod, but she’s fully focused on Faith, as it should be. “I love your work,” Sara announces, leaning back to look at Faith. “Chris and I both love your work. Let’s go talk.” She motions us forward. “Come. Chris will catch up.”

She starts walking, and we follow her through the gallery to where two glass doors lead us to a heated outdoor sitting area, which has at least a dozen seats and rose bushes surrounding the exterior. “This space is our newest addition,” Sara says, claiming one of four seats forming a square while primly tugging down the skirt of her emerald green dress. “I want people to come here and talk art, then buy artists like yourself, Faith.”

“I’m incredibly honored that you want to include me,” Faith says, claiming the seat across from Sara while I sit next to Faith.

“We’d be honored to show your work,” Sara says. “Just to be sure that you’re aware—everything we do has a charity component, but we’re going to make that worth your while.”

“Exposure is everything,” Faith says. “I’m not worried about the money.”

“Thus why I’m her attorney,” I interject. “Because I am worried about her money.”

Faith glowers at me, and Sara laughs. “He’s fine, Faith. He should be worried about you. Chris would be the same way.” She refocuses on business. “I’m not sure what Chris told you, so I’ll start from scratch. The gallery officially opens in six weeks, but we’re basically letting people have VIP cards to enter a week sooner if they’re here tonight. I’d like to get your work here by then.”

“That would be incredible,” Faith says. “And Chris said you need four pieces to make that happen?”

“Yes, please,” she says. “But I need to know that you’re a for-sure placement by next week. And I can talk to your agent if you wish.” She laughs and glances at Nick. “Or your attorney.”

Chris joins us at that moment, greeting everyone as he claims his seat, his hand instantly on Sara’s. “Where are we on things?”

“I was just telling her the details on the gallery,” Sara replies.

Chris flags down a waiter, who is immediately by his side. “I know you know what I want.”

The waiter reaches into his apron pocket, removes a beer, and hands it to Chris. “At your service.”

“Thanks, David,” Chris says, eying Sara, who shakes her head but accepts his replying kiss more than a little willingly.

“Beer, anyone?” Chris asks as the waiter holds two more up.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say, accepting it, while Faith and Sara wave off the offer.

“In explanation,” Sara says as the waiter leaves. “Chris hates wine and champagne.”

“You hate wine?” Faith asks. “But your godparents own a winery.”

“And I still ask for a beer when I’m there,” Chris replies.

In other words, he’s his own man, the way Faith wants to be her own woman, and I squeeze her hand, silently telling her there is no reason she is that winery and not her art. She glances at our hands, the tiny gesture telling me that she hears me even before she squeezes back.

From there, the four of us start talking, and I take in this world of art that is Faith’s now, listening to the ins and outs, interested in a way I wouldn’t have been before meeting Faith. It’s not long before we’re eating cake, and Sara and Faith have hit it off so well that their heads are together, and Chris and I are left to our own devices.

“You care about her,” he says, his voice low, the women too absorbed in talk of art to hear us anyway.

“She matters,” I say without hesitation. “Yes.” And admitting that to someone else, saying it and meaning it, tells me just how deep I am in with Faith.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and I do the same. “Does she know about the club?”

“No,” I say, and while I have pushed this topic aside, with bigger problems to face, I can’t ignore the topic forever. “Now is not the time.”

“It’s never the time,” he says. “And telling Sara was hard on us, but we had to go there to get here. And one small secret becomes bigger over time. The bigger the secret and the longer you keep it, the bigger the problem.”

The bigger the secret.

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