Page 11 of Sapphire Spring

“He’s not. But don’t worry. It’ll be fun. It’s a party.”

“Okay. Should I pick you up or—”

“Yeah, nice try. I don’t let Messy Mason drive me.”

“So that’s your nickname for me?”

“Sweetie.” Fareena braced her hands against the edge of thedesk and leaned forward. “It’severyone’snickname for you.”

“Where should I meet you then?”

“Sapphire Cove, eight o’clock, at the valet stand.”

“I thought that place went under.”

“Old news. They’re fine. My friend’s brother works there.See you then.” Fareena headed for the door. “Just look presentable. And rich.That’s all that matters. Try to be reasonablysober, andlet me do the talking.”

“Towho? This is about a vase. Bythe way, even though we’re doing like an in-kind trade here, what’s the pricetag I’m settling?”

One foot out the door, Fareena said, “You’re investingtwenty thousand dollars in my friend’s clothing line.”

“Say what?”

Fareena froze, staring at him over one shoulder. “Whathappened toI’m good for it, babe?”

“Thatfriggin’ vase was not worthtwenty grand.”

Fareena’s eyes blazed. She turned and drew the door shutbehind her with a decisive click, the anger coming off her in waves strongenough to press Mason back against his desk chair.

“Thatfriggin’vasewas one of two of my mother’s prized possessions she was able to smuggle out ofIran when the Shah’s regime fell. It was in her family for generations. She hidit under the floorboards of the car my father drove to the Turkish border wherethe guards tore through her things and confiscatedall ofher jewelry, including herwedding ring. When she found out that vasewas broken, Mason, she wept as hard as she did when she had to leave hercountry. I don’t care if she bought it at a souvenir stand on Newport Beach,Idecide how much my mother’s tears are worth. Not you.”

Every response Mason tried to marshal died inside his chest.He’d tried them all before, in foolish defense of his ever-lengthening list ofdrunkenfuck-ups.

“Tell you what.” Fareena fished her phone out of her purse.“Why don’t I call my mother and tell her who broke her precious heirloom, andthen she can hash it out with your dad directly? How does that sound?”

“Like blackmail,” he grumbled.

“Does it? Because it’s called accountability.” She starteddialing.

Mason extended one hand. Fareena lowered her phone inresponse. “What’s the designer’s name?”

“You’re squaring a debt here. This isn’t aboutwhether or notyou like her work.”

“Fareena, come on.”

“Pari Kazemi.”

Suddenly it felt as if every bone in Mason’s body had turnedto lead. Apparently, he did a bad job of keeping his emotions from his face becauseFareena winced. But she still held her phone in one hand, ready to make good onher threat.

“Does she have a brother?” he asked.

“Nas, yeah. Why. You know him?”Her brow furrowed in disbelief.

Guilt and shame reached critical mass inside of him. Herewas Fareena, living proof his blackout antics were spinning out of control. Andshe’d brought a name into his office. A name that suddenly and viscerallyconnected him to the shitbag he’d been in high school. A name he’d apparentlyspoken in his haunted dreams the night before. The walls, it seemed, wereclosing in on him, and there was no pushing back without breaking both arms.

Maybe Naser and his sister weren’t close and there’d be nochance of running into the guy at the event.

But Fareena had just said her friend’s brother worked atSapphire Cove. That had to meanNas.

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