Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 66909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
I bet Nick strides into those galleries with his head held high, his wallet in hand, and all the salespeople—who would judge me—scurrying to meet his needs.
The glass dining table is long enough to seat at least twenty people if not more. White chairs with high, curved backs surround the table, and they are so large that I can only imagine how small I must appear when I sit as Nick pulls out a seat for me.
I glance up and see another huge chandelier with blown glass that almost appears as if massive mushrooms are hanging from above. It’s the most exquisite piece of glasswork I’ve ever seen.
“I didn’t realize a light fixture could be so… artistic. It’s so… massive and grand.”
“I have a weakness for Venetian glass,” he says. “My first trip to Venice in my twenties began a love affair that has cost me millions.” He takes the seat next to mine and looks up. “They give off a light that is magical. It’s special and can’t be duplicated by a simple lamp or lighting fixture. The warmth it casts, and the ambiance is worth every penny. I appreciate beauty.” He reaches out for a full bottle of wine and pours us both a glass. “And I’ll pay whatever it takes to have the beauty in my possession.”
“I once dreamed of going to art school and being a sculptor,” I confess.
He pauses and stares at me. “Why didn’t you?”
I chuckle sardonically. “I think you know that answer. Art school is for dreamers. I didn’t get the luxury to dream. Even as a hobby, it’s too expensive. All those tools and stone. And besides,” I shrug, “I’ve always been good with numbers. Working in accounting seemed like the wisest decision.”
“But does working with numbers make you happy? Does the idea of doing taxes for people give you a purpose to live every day?” Nick tilts his head and studies me. He then looks up at a painting and adds, “There has to be a reason to get out of bed every day that is good. You have to love what you do.”
I shake my head and take a sip of the wine he poured for me. “Not everyone gets that opportunity in life. Not everyone has that privilege. Your art”—I look up at the chandelier—“your lights… it’s all fantasy. It might as well be a fairy tale to me. Not attainable.”
“Everything is attainable,” he says as he drinks from his wine as well.
Our food arrives and we both sit in silence as they dish us up a gourmet collection of vegetables and chicken with a beautiful creamy sauce poured over it. I’ve never seen a spread so magnificent in my life. I’ve only seen people eat like this in movies and can’t believe I’m sitting in a mansion being served a meal of a lifetime when only a few days ago, I was counting loose change to buy a taco at a fast-food joint.
I glance around the large room as I take small bites of the food, forcing myself to eat like a lady and not devour the meal as I really want to do. I’m hungrier than I realize, but I don’t want to embarrass myself due to my lack of manners. I’m uncomfortable and uncertain on how to act. I try to watch Nick to get my cues from him, but every time I look at him, his eyes are intensely watching me.
Clearing my throat, I decide to break the thick energy in the room with some casual talk. “You have a really big house. Classy but not stuffy.”
“Thank you.”
“How did you get all your money?” The minute I ask the question, I wish I could take it back. Only poor people ask that question to rich people. In one question, I just revealed just how different we are.
“I buy things. And then I sell things,” he answers as he takes a sip from his wine glass.
“What kind of things?”
“What you really want to ask me,” he says as he places his glass down on the table, “is if I sell bad things. You want to know if I sell drugs, women, and guns?”
“Do you?”
He shrugs. “I gather and sell vital information to others. I make sound business decisions and don’t lock myself in one area. I’m not opposed to anything if the end result is money.”
“Is that why you throw the Wonderland parties? For money?”
He chuckles. “No. They cost me money. A lot of money.”
“Then why do them?”
“For the same reason a parent throws a birthday party.” He takes a drink of his wine. “To show off.”
“Some would argue that a parent throws a birthday party out of love,” I counter.
“What would you know about a parent’s love?”
His words are like a smack in the face. He’s right, however. I’ve never had a real birthday party—as my birthday has always just been another day—so I’m not the right person to be discussing this topic. My mother had no desire to show off or show love.