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Panting and still leaning away from August, even though I don’t remember flinching, I stare up at him with my pulse going like a rocket. He’s standing at the corner of the little shed, his mouth grim, his eyes sparking, his broad shoulders and agile body so taut he looks like a tightly strung bow ready to fire into the air.
“Where did you come from?” I hiss.
“I’ve been behind you the entire time,” he rumbles, right before the door bursts open and Clara comes spilling out.
“Is everything all right? I heard a scream—”
“And you’re about to hear shouting,” August growls, rounding on her. “What do you mean, you’re going to let Marissa have the rights?”
“Oh dear.” Grandma’s voice is faint from my phone, now sitting on the last flagstone before the studio. “I don’t think we should be hearing this, Lena.”
“Shhh!” Lena hisses. “We’re getting to the juicy part!”
Oh my God, I’m living a circus.
Clara rests her hands on her hips, looking at August sternly. “I said what I said, and you will not take that tone with me, young man.”
There he is.
The little boy I imagined when I thought of how August came to be this way, angry and isolated and scaring people off with his grumping and no-nonsense demeanor.
That boy is currently hanging his head, looking chastised as his mother figure stares him down with an iron will.
But apparently they have more in common than those penetrating blue eyes.
Because after a mumbled, painfully cute “Sorry, Auntie ...,” August stiffens, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t take a harsh tone with you, Aunt Clara, but I will say you’re dead wrong about this.”
“Ohhhh shit,” Lena whispers from my phone.
“Shut up, shut up!” I snatch my phone up, whispering back into the speaker.
They don’t even notice us.
“I’m not wrong about my feelings, August,” Clara throws back. “I know what I want.”
“What? To give up? Just like that, to abandon your life’s work to a damn grifter who wants to steal everything you’ve created?”
Clara doesn’t say anything. She only looks away, her mouth tightening as she glares mutinously toward the inside of the studio collage.
August recoils. “Tell me it wouldn’t be stealing, Clara. Tell me she’s right. I know you wouldn’t. I know you better.”
Clara’s jaw trembles before she says, “There are complications at work here, and many of them are deeply personal. You don’t know everything about my life, son. Nor do you need to.”
“Tell that boy!” Gran shouts.
I glare at my phone.
“Gran, don’t make me hang up on you too!”
August works his lips into a hard, angry battle line and folds his arms over his broad chest. “Aunt Clara, I’m about to face down a legal battle for the whole future of Little Key. The company built around you. If there’s something that would affect the outcome, I need to know.”
“What does it matter, if I’m willing to surrender the rights?” Clara demands.
“It matters because—” August throws his hands up. “Why are you so frustrating?”
“Because we both share the same cold blood,” Clara retorts dryly. “But not so cold I don’t think about the stakes. Our employees, Deb, you ... If anyone has to lose their jobs over this, I’ll work night and day to help send them off to better ones with glowing recommendation letters, pulling every string I’ve ever touched. We share enough guilt in our blood, too, I’m afraid.”
August lets out a deep sigh.
