Page 58 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
We started with a grilled prosciutto pizza and some crostini with olive tapenade. Then we pored over the extensive lists of cheeses, all of which were served with house spiced nuts and homemade jams.
Reading down the pad, we checked off our selections, adding the assorted olives, and deciding to try the speck, a sweet smoked ham from the Italian Alps as well as the New England Charcuterie Wild Boar Sausage.
The items came out in separate batches, which was perfect as it dragged out the dining experience. Iwantedit to last—for many reasons.
When the meal ended and I couldn’t persuade Scarlett to have a second dessert or another cup of tea, we finally left the restaurant. The bad news was I hadn’t thought of a great excuse to avoid taking her for an in-person viewing of the wall.
The good news? It was raining.
Thank you, God.
“Oh wow, it’s really coming down.” Scarlett ducked back inside, and I followed her.
“I didn’t check the forecast,” she said. “I should have brought an umbrella.”
“I’ve got one in my car. Tell you what, I’ll run out to the valet stand and give him my ticket. When the car gets here, I’ll grab the umbrella and come get you.”
“But then you’ll get all wet.”
I grinned at her. “I’m an ex-Frogman, remember? I’ve spent half my life wet. Be right back.”
If I’d had my SEALs wetsuit, it would have been perfect. Getting drenched in my street clotheswasn’tactually all that pleasant. But I was grateful for every single raindrop.
Because with each one that fell, a little more of the mural would wash away. If I drove slowly enough, it might be a total ruin by the time Scarlett and I got there.
I walked her out to the car, keeping her as dry as possible—which didn’t turn out to be very dry at all since the wind was blowing the rain sideways.
Running around to the driver’s side and sliding in, I asked, “Want to just head home? Since we’re soaked? Are you cold? I’m cold.”
Scarlett wasn’t going for it.
“Not unless you can’t stand to be a little damp for a few extra minutes, Mr. Frogman,” she teased. “We can turn on the heater. Ireallywant to go see the mural, Gray.”
I drew in a deep breath.Please let it be gone. Please. “Well, how can I say no when you’ve challenged my manhood and mental toughness?”
She laughed. But when we pulled up to the location of the wall, her happy expression disappeared.
“What happened to it?” She sounded truly distressed.
The spotlights were still on, but there was no crowd. Because there was nothing left to see. Where the lights illuminated the old, battered wall, there was nothing left but streaks of muddled color.
Yes.I did a mental fist pump and end zone dance.
“Oh no.” Scarlett sounded like she was on the verge of crying. “We missed it. I can’t believe we missed it. How could it just be gone?”
“Washable paint?” I tried to make it sound like a wild guess.
“Why would a great artist use paint that would just wash away?”
“Who knows? Maybe it’swabi-sabi.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a Japanese concept,” I said. “It’s the idea that things can be even more beautifulbecausethey don’t last. Their impermanence makes them more precious. Like a sunset, for instance. Or a snowflake. Or the bloom on a poppy. It doesn’t last very long, and so you love and appreciate it with more intensity than you would if you had all the time in the world.”
“I’m beginning to think Inksy isn’t just sneaky—he’s a tease.” Her pretty face pulled into a disgruntled frown.
“But you think he’s a great artist?”
