“Those companies are going to shut down soon, if they haven’t already.”
“Tug fast, and let me know when Morganstern gets here. We’ve got momentum. We’re not going to lose it.”
She checked the time. Got more coffee. Got back to work.
Chapter Seventeen
After sleeping the sleep of the proud, Jonathan Harper Ebersole enjoyed brunch on his rooftop garden. One of his three house droids tended it, kept it lush year-round. From first frost to spring, the retractable glass shielded the plants and dwarf trees from the cold.
But Jonathan liked it best when that protection was tucked away and nothing separated him from his lofty view of his part of the city.
He liked to imagine people looking up from the street, or out through their windows, envying him, wondering about him, admiring him.
Now and again he brought an easel up to painten plein air, and basked in the knowledge he could be seen at his art, and envied all the more.
He would rather be envied than loved. Love, from his view, demanded time, attention, reactions he didn’t care to spend energy on.
Comfortable in the warm September sun, he sipped his cappuccino, boosted with a double shot of espresso, and the frittata prepared by the droid who dealt with such things.
With a sense of pride, with a quickening thrill, he scanned the mediareports as he ate. He hadn’t expected such notoriety! Not before he revealed his portrait series.
After all, the models he’d disposed of had been nobodies. Nobodies, he corrected, until he’d made them special. He’d given them immortality.
They called him The Artist.TheArtist, and that sparkled through his blood like wine. Of course, of course, it wasn’t about the models at all, but his creativity.
He’d simply needed to shock the world awake, and he had.
Bathed in the sun, he looked out over the city and could see, perfectly see, the crowds at his major show in New York. How they’d look on his work with awe, how they would vie to have just a word with him, and praise him.
How they would wonder at his gift.
He could despise them, all of them, for making him wait for that praise. But he’d soak in it nonetheless.
His work would hang in the great museums of the world. Donated by his generosity.
The law would deem it murder, but the law would never stand against the art—or the money his mother would pay to protect him.
He had to continue to be careful, to protect himself until the series was complete. But once it was?
He would be envied, not only for the wealth and luxury he deserved by birth, but for his unmatched talent, and with it the gift he’d given the world.
Jonathan Harper Ebersole. The Artist.
After the showing, he thought he might spend at least part of the winter in New Caledonia, where he could refresh himself, take time away from the obligations of fame. He could paint in peace while the art world speculated on what he would bring to them next.
He would have to ask his mother, of course, for use of the family home there for a month or two. But she wouldn’t refuse.
She never refused him anything.
Or he might spend some time at the château in the French Alps, a complete change of pace. Snow-drenched mountains, the icy blue lake, a roaring fire.
Something to think about, he decided. But either way, he’d need some solitude, some time away from the demands of the adoring public. Time to focus on himself and his gift.
Inspired, energized, he rose. He took one last look at the city that would soon celebrate his name.
He went directly to his studio, as his work wasn’t just his joy, his passion, but his duty.
He uncovered the three canvases, and with pleasure, studied the progress on each. Then he stepped over to study the long scarlet robe, the white shirt with its ruffled collar and cuffs, the embroidered slippers.
