Page 49 of There Are No Saints

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve already decided.”

Sonia grips the stack of folders containing all the applicants I’m supposed to review, her expression resigned.

“Let me guess . . .” she says.

“It’s going to Mara Eldritch.” I nod.

“Hm,” she says, lips pursed. “That’s going to irritate the panel. You know they like to have their say . . .”

“I don’t give a fuck what they want,” I snap. “I’m funding the grant and half their budget for the year, so they can suck it up and do as they’re told.”

“Alright, I’ll tell them,” Sonia says, amenable as always. She knows that the primary points of her job description are obedience and discretion.

Still, she lingers in the doorway, her curiosity too powerful to restrain.

“For what it’s worth, I would have picked Mara, too.”

“That’s because you have taste,” I say. “Unlike the rest of them.”

“How did you find her?” Sonia says with pretend casualness.

“She was recommended by another artist.”

I can tell Sonia is dying to hear more, but she’s already pushing the limits of my patience.

“I’m excited to see what she comes up with for New Voices,” she says.

I’ve already turned back to the computer screen, watching Mara’s slight figure bend and stretch to cover the vast canvas with paint.

Sonia hesitates in the doorway.

“By the way . . . Jack Brisk increased his offer for your Olgiati. He’s willing to pay 2.4 million, and trade you his Picasso as well.”

I snort. “I bet he is.”

“I take it that’s a no, then?”

I gesture to the gleaming solar model hung in pride of place directly in front of my desk. Where I see it every minute, every day, without ever tiring of it.

“This is the only surviving piece by the greatest master in Italian glass. His techniques have yet to be surpassed in the modern era. And besides that, it’s fucking beautiful—look at it. Look how it glows. I wouldn’t sell it to Brisk if he cut his heart out of his chest and handed it to me.”

“Okay, Jesus,” Sonia says. “I’ll tell him it has sentimental value and you’re not interested in selling.”

I laugh.

“Sentimental value? I suppose you’re right—I did buy it with the inheritance when my father died.”

Sonia falters. “Oh, you did? I’m sorry, I didn’t know that.”

“That’s right.” I smile. “You could say I was celebrating.”

Sonia looks at me, considering this.

“Great men don’t always make great fathers,” she says.

I shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know any good fathers.”

“You’re so cynical,” Sonia shakes her head sadly.

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