CHAPTEREIGHT
Abram
“Hello?”
June’s voice sounds husky, like she was roused from sleep by my call. I think it serves her right for sending me all the way down here.
On second thought, I guess I should thank her for it.
Thanks to June’s tricky move, I found Melody.
“Were you sleeping?” I ask mildly, feigning cluelessness.
June scoffs incredulously. “It’s three AM in Barcelona. Of course, I was sleeping.”
I hear rustling sounds on the other end of the phone. I can imagine her rolling her eyes as she tries to settle in a comfortable position.
I smile at the disgruntled image.
“Sorry,” I say in an unapologetic tone. “It’s just nine PM here.”
“You’re very well aware of the time difference,” June says with a deep sigh. “Is this some sort of payback?”
“Of course not,” I reply. “I’m just an old man with a heart mishap that must be confined to a house for the next month or so. Forgive my slip up.”
“What is the purpose of this call?” June asks with another sigh.
“I found my muse,” I reply simply, glancing up at the big grandfather clock by the fireplace.
It’s just a few minutes past nine, but I can feel my apprehension growing by the second.
Melody still isn’t back.
What if she decides not to come?
I don’t want to think about that possibility. It just means I’d have to find her and make the offer again, in a more tempting way.
“What the hell are you talking about?” June’s voice brings me back to reality.
“I found my muse for the unveiling,” I repeat, holding back the urge to glance at the clock again or the door.
“The unveiling?” June repeats as if I’ve just spoken an alien language. “Is that even a thing? I was planning to send a counter article to HR back in the morning to dispel the rumors about you working on a new art piece.”
“Why did you start a rumor when you were not going to follow through?” I ask with a light scoff.
“I just wanted you to rest while you’re there, and the whole paparazzi thing was to get you away from London,” June replies.
“You don’t have to send the counter article,” I say. “I should give the world a retirement gift.”
“What is this muse of yours?” June asks, her voice ringing with suspicion.
“Who?” I correct.
“It’s a person? But you never paint people except for the one you did of yourself and refused to sell.”
I shrug lightly. “Yes, she’s a person, and I don’t plan to sell paintings of her either. They’ll be displayed in my private gallery at home in London. It will be my greatest work of all time, and it’ll be all mine.”
June sighs in exasperation. “What on earth are you going on about?”