Read Online 2 Pane of Death by Sarah Atwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Atwell
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spoken for a few minutes, and reluctantly I pulled myself away. “I’m sorry, was I being rude?”
“I don’t mind being upstaged by the glass. And I’d be disappointed if you didn’t feel that way about them.”
I felt a stab of pure joy. I had been handed a great gift, unlooked for: the chance to work with these panels. Maddy and her petty jealousies faded to nothingness. “Are the others here?”
“Pace yourself, Em. As I am doing. You know what I mean.”
“I do. To look at them all at once would be sensory overload.” I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So, where do we go from here?”
We spent a half hour or so hammering out mundane details of compensation and scheduling. I almost felt guilty about taking money for this project, but I still needed to make a living, and Peter had money to spare. I managed to cut what I figured was a generous deal for myself, even knowing I could have asked for more. It didn’t matter.
I drove away feeling drunk. Not from that single beer, hours earlier, but from the glory of the glass, and the pleasures it promised in the days and weeks to come.
When I got home, Cam was gone, on his way back to San Diego, but he’d left me a note and a brief report, on the kitchen table where I couldn’t miss it. I took care of my doggie duties, managed to scrounge together a meal from leftovers, and sat down to see what Cam had found. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I didn’t want to get involved in a sticky situation, whatever that might mean. Had Peter put together his collection with funds that he had amassed by stiffing his staff and colleagues? And how would I feel about that? I didn’t know. And what kind of a person was Peter Ferguson? I didn’t expect Cam to hand me a detailed psychological profile based on a couple of hours of Internet surfing, but I was curious about the public perception of the man. “Secretive genius” came through loud and clear, but was he honest? Was he a dilettante who would lose interest mid-project? These were things I had to know before I signed on. No matter how attractive the man himself was, or how much I yearned to be around the glass itself. I settled down to read.
Half an hour later I had found nothing that changed my original impression of the man. There was no suggestion of illegal activity attached to his business, save from the disgruntled Andrew Foster, who had made some wild public claims and then subsided. Cam had included a few printouts about art sales, but clearly he hadn’t been sure what he was looking for, which made it hard for him to search. I could give him a few pointers about that, if I needed more details. Ian Gemberling, it turned out, owned an upscale gallery in Los Angeles, dealing in a variety of media. He was probably important enough that I should have heard of him, if I paid any attention to that kind of thing, which I didn’t.
Not surprisingly, since he was a multimillionaire, Peter’s private life had also percolated into the media. Only one wife, and they had divorced about two years earlier. Two children, college age. I studied the lone photo of the former wife. Jennifer Ferguson—she’d kept Peter’s surname after the divorce. She was sleek and elegant, with well-cut blonde hair and wearing an outfit even I could recognize as a designer label. She looked tightly wound, almost anorexic, and I tried to match her up with the casual and relaxed Peter whom I had met. They must have married before he hit it big, but why would they have split? Not your problem, Em, I reminded myself. You’re not going to date him, just work for him. Or for the glass, more likely. Peter so far was enigmatic, but the glass spoke to me, loud and clear.
I stacked up Cam’s printouts and clipped them back together. No warning flags had popped up, and I could look forward to the unexpected and interesting new project that the gods had dropped into my lap.
Chapter 7
Much to my surprise, over the
“I don’t mind being upstaged by the glass. And I’d be disappointed if you didn’t feel that way about them.”
I felt a stab of pure joy. I had been handed a great gift, unlooked for: the chance to work with these panels. Maddy and her petty jealousies faded to nothingness. “Are the others here?”
“Pace yourself, Em. As I am doing. You know what I mean.”
“I do. To look at them all at once would be sensory overload.” I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So, where do we go from here?”
We spent a half hour or so hammering out mundane details of compensation and scheduling. I almost felt guilty about taking money for this project, but I still needed to make a living, and Peter had money to spare. I managed to cut what I figured was a generous deal for myself, even knowing I could have asked for more. It didn’t matter.
I drove away feeling drunk. Not from that single beer, hours earlier, but from the glory of the glass, and the pleasures it promised in the days and weeks to come.
When I got home, Cam was gone, on his way back to San Diego, but he’d left me a note and a brief report, on the kitchen table where I couldn’t miss it. I took care of my doggie duties, managed to scrounge together a meal from leftovers, and sat down to see what Cam had found. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I didn’t want to get involved in a sticky situation, whatever that might mean. Had Peter put together his collection with funds that he had amassed by stiffing his staff and colleagues? And how would I feel about that? I didn’t know. And what kind of a person was Peter Ferguson? I didn’t expect Cam to hand me a detailed psychological profile based on a couple of hours of Internet surfing, but I was curious about the public perception of the man. “Secretive genius” came through loud and clear, but was he honest? Was he a dilettante who would lose interest mid-project? These were things I had to know before I signed on. No matter how attractive the man himself was, or how much I yearned to be around the glass itself. I settled down to read.
Half an hour later I had found nothing that changed my original impression of the man. There was no suggestion of illegal activity attached to his business, save from the disgruntled Andrew Foster, who had made some wild public claims and then subsided. Cam had included a few printouts about art sales, but clearly he hadn’t been sure what he was looking for, which made it hard for him to search. I could give him a few pointers about that, if I needed more details. Ian Gemberling, it turned out, owned an upscale gallery in Los Angeles, dealing in a variety of media. He was probably important enough that I should have heard of him, if I paid any attention to that kind of thing, which I didn’t.
Not surprisingly, since he was a multimillionaire, Peter’s private life had also percolated into the media. Only one wife, and they had divorced about two years earlier. Two children, college age. I studied the lone photo of the former wife. Jennifer Ferguson—she’d kept Peter’s surname after the divorce. She was sleek and elegant, with well-cut blonde hair and wearing an outfit even I could recognize as a designer label. She looked tightly wound, almost anorexic, and I tried to match her up with the casual and relaxed Peter whom I had met. They must have married before he hit it big, but why would they have split? Not your problem, Em, I reminded myself. You’re not going to date him, just work for him. Or for the glass, more likely. Peter so far was enigmatic, but the glass spoke to me, loud and clear.
I stacked up Cam’s printouts and clipped them back together. No warning flags had popped up, and I could look forward to the unexpected and interesting new project that the gods had dropped into my lap.
Chapter 7
Much to my surprise, over the
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