XVII BREAK IN THE CLOUDS （ELLE）

I think I've died and gone to heaven.

My idol, the Clara Marshall, is looking at my concept sketchbook.

I've never shown anyone this. Not even Lena or Grandma.

I haven't had time to look at this work in years: I pushed it to the back of my mind, told myself it was impossible to ever go anywhere with my silly little characters, Kiki the Koala and her cast of friends.

Before art school, I wanted to make her the star of my own series.

After art school, after learning about the freelance life, I tucked my sketches away and told myself I'd go back to them one day when the time was right.

Even as one day faded further and further into the back of my mind while everyday life took over, and eventually I stopped thinking about Kiki and her cozy evening cups of eucalyptus tea at all.

Until I mentioned Kiki to August.

Until the other day, when I was working on refining my lines as I sketched Inky over and over again, only for Clara to rest her hand over mine and stop me.

Elle, dear. I can feel your love for this darling penguin of mine.

But don't you have anything you love of your own? Isn't there anything you want to show me?

I'd never have presumed to offer.

But after she asked, I went home last night and dug out the presentation portfolio I swore I'd always present to a publisher but never did.

I've been bubbling out of my skin this morning, and not even seeing Marissa Sullivan seething as she waited for August could stop it.

But now, I'm about to explode.

Clara and I sit in the little reading nook under the window while she slowly pages through my sketches, her touch on the paper almost tender. A small smile curls her lips.

It almost seems like she approves.

My heart is so messed up right now.

As if August hasn't already got me popping like crazy, now Clara Marshall has me breathless.

I suddenly wish I hadn't ever put Kiki and her sunny smiles away.

Why did I stop thinking about her? Why did I give up?

Why did you start smiling even when you didn't mean it? And why didn't you realize it until August noticed?

Clara reaches the last page and lets out a satisfied sigh.

"So much personality in these lines," she says. "Kiki nearly leaps off the page with this sweet joy. Kids would love her. Have you ever pitched her to a publisher?"

I shake my head. "No, ma'am. I ..." I shrug. "A few of my art instructors tried to push me toward modern art. They said I had a better eye for it, and I should try to develop a passion there instead. I tried—I even had an exhibit once—but ..."

"It wasn't where your heart is," Clara finishes with an understanding that nearly breaks me. I can tell her heart is still with Inky. So why is she giving up? "Your heart is in these drawings. I can tell."

I smile weakly. "I think so. I—"

I stop and scream.

Because the door to the studio slams open, banging off the wall so hard it rattles the framed pictures.

My heart stops like I've been shot in the chest as I whip around.

August stands in the door, looming and dark with the light from outside cast against his back. He glowers into the room, hot fury simmering off him like smoke.

"Clara Marshall," he growls, his voice deeper than I've ever heard it. "We need to talk."

Oh shit.

Did something happen?

Even if August scares me out of my skin, Clara doesn't react with more than a thinning of her lips as she carefully closes my sketchbook and sets it on the table between us.

"Not in that tone, young man," she bites off with a coolness that's as much of a warning as a rattlesnake's shaking tail. "You will calm down this instant and lower your voice. You will not ruin the pleasant tea we were just having."

"Tea? Tea?" August snarls. "I don't care about tea, Aunt Clara. I care that I just met with Marissa Sullivan, and she showed me Lester's fu—"

"Finish that foul word, August Tristan Marshall," Clara lilts calmly, standing and fetching another tea mug, "and it will be your last. Sit down and get your dastardly temper under control. Have some tea and apologize to Elle. Then you can tell me what's wrong."

August bares his teeth, clearly seething.

Whatever's wrong, it must be bad.

My heart remembers how to beat again, but it's sluggish with worry.

If being chastised like a moody teenager by the aunt he loves so much can't defuse him ...

Oh, this is going to suck.

I shake my head, smiling and standing hastily, then gather my sketchbook and portfolio. "I don't need an apology. You guys clearly need some privacy. I'll make tracks."

"Absolutely not, young lady," Clara says, and despite August still bristling, that tone plunks me right back down in the chair like someone's pushed me. "You were here first. August, sit."

Her sharpness is just enough to cut through August's tension. He sighs and steps into the room, closing the door more delicately.

"Marshall women," he mutters. "Bossy as hell."

"You're no better," I point out. "You give orders like you own the place."

"Because I do," he answers pointedly, trudging across the room and dropping down into the third chair at the table, folding his hands. His blue eyes crackle, but at least he seems a smidge calmer. "I have a twenty-five percent share. Deb has another twenty-five. Aunt Clara has the fifty percent controlling stake."

"Which is why all your blustering about firing me was absolute nonsense," Clara says, setting a teacup in front of him before reclaiming her seat. "Do be careful with that. Don't spill anything on Elle's sketchbook."

August starts to open his mouth but stops, looking at my battered book on the table and ignoring his tea. His expression eases, but the lines around his eyes are concerningly deep. He flashes me a glance, that unruly lock of hair drifting across his eyes.

"May I?"

"O-oh." I don't know why I'm suddenly embarrassed, but I clear my throat and look away, tucking my hair back. "S-sure."

"Thank you."

I don't say anything. I can't. I'm suddenly more nervous than I was when Clara was looking at them. I don't know what I'll do if August laughs, or something worse.

But there's only silence, except for the soft sounds of paper against paper.

Chest tight, I glance back shyly. I can't look at him directly.

But then I stop.

Because he's really looking at the pages.

He has the intense concentration I've seen on his face before that says whatever he's looking at has his full attention.

He's staring at my drawings, absorbing them, taking time to appreciate them.

To appreciate something I created, like my silly little doodles are actually worthy of a focus so intense.

I really am about to blow to smithereens.

Fireworks everywhere, bright and hot and bursting.

While August looks at my sketchbook and I look at him, I realize Clara's looking at me.

Her smile is small and thoughtful, her eyes glittering with warmth.

I clear my throat, looking away again. That seems to break August's focus, and he murmurs, "Hello, Kiki."

My heart goes to pieces right there.

"Kiki the Koala," he says again. A touch of rumbling approval, softening the anger that roughened his voice only a minute ago. "How did you come up with her?"

"Oh, well ..." No one's ever asked me that before. It takes a second to find my voice, and I breathe deeply. "Gran," I say. "Gran and Lena. When we were little, Lena and I fought like wet cats in a bag. We'd be best friends one second and hate on each other the next. Sometimes we didn't mean it. Sometimes we did. We were both really headstrong. And when we swore we'd never talk or play again, Gran would call us inside and sit us down with tea for everyone." The memory warms something inside me, like holding my heart in front of a crackling fire. "She'd always ask us to try to figure out what was in today's cup. Anise, lavender, vanilla, honeysuckle, jasmine, mint. We'd get so distracted guessing, we'd forget what we were even fighting about. And then she'd bring us cookies, and we'd all enjoy the rest of the afternoon." I smile, ducking my head. "So I turned that into Kiki. There's no problem she can't fix by sitting people down with a cup of eucalyptus tea and getting them to talk."

"Teaching children conflict resolution and love for a good cup of tea," August says, his lips curling. I fizz like champagne, breathless and bright. He turns to the last page, closes the back cover, and gives me those stark blue eyes again. "I like it. It's a damn good concept. There's a warmth to her that creates an immediate connection to the page."

Oh no. Am I about to start crying just because August gets my drawings?

I smile, trying to hold it back. "Don't embarrass me like this. I can't cry in front of your aunt."

"Of course you can, dear," Clara says. "It's always better to cry with joy."

I shake my head. I need to divert the subject quickly, or I will start bawling.

I glance back to August, biting my lip.

"Hey, are you okay? You look tired."

"I'm worn out," August answers slowly, before his mouth creases and he turns a dire look on Clara. "I'm tired of being lied to."

Oh crud.

Wrong direction.

Clara draws herself up, lifting her chin. "If you have something to say, young man, be direct. I don't appreciate insinuations."

"I don't appreciate deception," August throws back. "She had Lester's sketches, Aunt Clara. His developmental work. She's going to use it to prove he created Inky first. Did he? Is there merit to the claim? Can she date the sketches to before your own?"

Say no, say no,I plead. I know it can't be true. My idol wouldn't do that. Clara's such a kindhearted, thoughtful woman—she has integrity, a good heart.

Tell me everything I believed in as a little girl wasn't a lie.

But she doesn't say anything.

Her eyes lid and she looks at the window, her expression blanking into stubborn, glassy emptiness.

August slams a fist against the table.

The teacups bounce, clatter, splash.

With a muffled squeak, I scramble to pull my sketchbook and portfolio away.

"Damn it, Clara!" he snarls. "You can't stay silent on this. This is the whole future of Little Key—your life's work!"

"Yes, yes," she says icily. "It was my life's work, son. Now that work is done. What does it matter who owns or publishes the Inky books? They won't disappear just because Miss Sullivan has taken over."

"It matters to me!" August roars. "I won't have her ruining your reputation, besmirching your good name, shitting on everything you built over all the years! Where's your spine? Where's your love? Where's your pride? What happened to the woman who raised me?"

Clara turns a slow, heartbreakingly sad smile on August. "She realized some things are more important than owning an idea."

I don't understand.

There's something weird there, like something haunting her, some terrible secret even deeper than this.

August must realize it too.

He goes silent, slumping back in his chair and staring at her in a silence that stretches on longer and longer, until I can't take it anymore.

"If you win the case, I had an idea," I venture slowly. Breaking the silence feels mortifying, especially when they're still looking at each other and not me. "Maybe to keep Little Key afloat and revive interest in the brand, we could relaunch the pen pal program."

"Pointless," August mutters, crushing the idea and my heart as carelessly as he'd pulverize a dazed wasp under his heel. "Children these days text. Send DMs. They don't write letters by hand."

"Oh," I say faintly, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I guess you're right. The novelty probably would wear off pretty fast ..."

"Oh, don't be stupid," Clara snaps. There's a thud under the table. August squints one eye and jerks his leg back, wincing.

"Ow!"

"I'll kick you again if you ever speak to Elle so dismissively again," Clara bites off, and I flush. "Apologize. And listen to her properly."

To his credit, August looks a little shamed.

He glances at me, offering his hand. "I apologize. I shouldn't be taking my temper out on you. We can discuss your idea another time."

"It's hereditary," Clara mutters.

August rolls his eyes, but when I place my hand in his, he gives it a squeeze.

"I'll think about it, all right? I'll need to do a little market research. Retro is in. There may be a way to spin it to make the idea viable. It's a good one. We just need to find an angle and crunch the numbers."

That we warms me a bit. Making me a part of it, telling me he's taking it seriously. I squeeze his hand back, but that apology isn't enough for me.

"I don't think so," I say. "You want an angle? I'm going to give you one firsthand."

He blinks blankly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Block some time off tomorrow," I say with a smirk, "and I'll show you."