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“Our partnership will combine Anwar’s bold vision of cultural progression and openness with your expertise in the world of architecture, “ Lucy said.
“What fun,” Melanie said. “We can explore the shared themes that reveal and connect art, culture, and humanity. But what of the Clerics? Have you thought how they may react?”
“There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind,” Anwar said. “We will show them the value of being progressive. Where there is hope, there is a way. Art is the highest form of hope. It is time to let go of hatred and oppression. We must choose to keep our focus on that which is truly magnificent, beautiful, uplifting, and joyful. Sooner or later, we all have to let go of our past.”
“Yes and no,” Lucy said. “The Gallery of Dreams can’t simply celebrate the present and the future, but cherish and honor the best of the past.”
“Of course. If you could exhibit one painting from the past, what would it be?” Anwar asked.
“Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa,” Lucy said unhesitatingly. “While the painting is not by a woman artist, she is arguably the most famous woman in the world. Her portrait is so deep and mystical. In that one painting, Leonardo sought to unite the masculine and the feminine. It’s so symbolic of what you stand for. Imagine if we could achieve the unattainable and get the French Government to loan The Mona Lisa for us to display at The Gallery of Dreams’opening. That will never happen, but it’s a lovely dream,” Lucy said. “I have always loved that portrait. It’s always been a dream to one day see it in person.”
Anwar stood silently, his face impassive, other than the gleaming sparkles in his eyes.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
"Pick up the damn phone, Hamad. Stop avoiding me!”
Anwar slammed his phone down on his desk. How the hell was he going to find the truth if his brother continued to inflame doubt?
Hamad’s absence from Avana, rather than making Anwar's heart grow fonder for his recalcitrant brother, only infuriated him.
He picked up the phone and entered Fazza’s number. “Where is Hamad, brother?”
There was a silent pause.
“Fazza?”
The sound of mumbled voices filtered through the airways.
“Hamad, I know you’re there. Pick up!”
“Anwar,” Hamad greeted his brother’s command with frosty indignation.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Not at all.”
Anwar heard a woman’s laughter in the background.
“I’ve been distracted. Beautifully distracted.”
“Where are you?”
“What is it you want, Anwar?”
“The truth. Hamad. I want the bloody truth!”
* * *
“Why did you believe Hamad over me?“ Lucy stared hard into the pile of photos of possible art acquisitions for the museum they had met to discuss the following morning.
Surprised, Anwar leaned back and blew out a breath. “Well, that’s quite a shift of topic.”
“It’s been on my mind.Obviously.Despite everything you’ve done to make things right, I can’t forget it.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “You could say I got tired, worn down by Hamad and family pressure, Pure, but that’s an excuse.”
It annoyed him to admit that he realized that to be honest with Lucy was to face the truth with no excuses.
