Aunt Alexia sets the painting down on the table. “Do you think I could have a hug?” Her voice is almost too low to be heard.
I stand up from the table and wrap my arms around her. She smells like baby powder.
“I’m glad you like the painting,” she whispers in my ear, “but don’t let anyone ever take your baby.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, taking a step back.
“Don’t let anyone ever paint your baby,” she says, louder now. “Wait until your child is at least three years old before you have any sort of portrait done. It’s bad luck, just like opening an umbrella in the house or dancing in wet clothes.”
“What?” I ask, still confused.
“The day is done when the day is done.” She’s giggling now, but the light has gone from her eyes.
I shake my head, completely bewildered. In one moment she seems so together and articulate and insightful, and in the next, she comes apart.
She’s sitting in her chair, in a pink dress with matching ballet slippers, laughing uncontrollably while tears stream down her face. And a part of me can’t help asking myself: is she truly crazy? Or just choosing crazy? I wonder if I’ll ever know.
AFTER MY VISIT TO THE HOSPITAL, I drive to Knead, feeling more inspired than I have in a long time.
“Hey,” Spencer says as soon as I come through the door. “You’re just in time.”
“For cleaning something offensive?” I ask.
“For coffee.” He pours us both a cup. “I just brewed it.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. I glance over at my work-in-progress, still sitting beneath a tarp at the end of my worktable.
“I’ve been keeping it moist for you,” Spencer says, following my gaze.
“Thanks,” I say again.
“No sweat.” He smiles. His face is no longer scruffy. He’s shaved and gotten a haircut. What used to be long and scraggly dark hair is now chin length and artfully tousled.
“You’ve been really good to me,” I tell him, taking a seat at the table. “I really appreciate all you did to help me out at Sumner.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” he asks, joining me at the table.
I nod, feeling like I owe him an explanation, and suspecting that he’s already heard the other side of the story. “Sumner was amazing,” I assure him. “It was beautiful and inspiring, and there were so many talented students.… In some way I feel like I screwed up an amazing opportunity.”
“And in another way?”
“In another way, I feel like I got closer to where I need to be.”
“And where do you need to be?” His dark eyes narrow.
I take a sip of coffee, trying to put into words what I’m feeling without sounding like a total ditz. “Remember how you once told me that a bowl doesn’t always want to be a bowl—that I shouldn’t force my work into something that it doesn’t want to be?”
“I do,” he says, frowning at the taste of his own coffee.
“Well, while I was at Sumner, I was inspired by something else—something outside of Professor Barnes’s lectures. And I know this may sound selfish and bratty, and perhaps even a little bit like a cop-out, but I felt like that ‘something else’ was way more important—for me, at least. At that time, I mean. I’m probably not making any sense, am I?”
“You’re actually making perfect sense,” he says, adding five packets of sugar to his coffee. “The class wasn’t a good fit for you at the time.”
“But hopefully, someday, I’ll have another opportunity like it and I’ll be in the right frame of mind to actually appreciate it.”
“Sounds like you learned a lot,” Spencer says, clinking his mug against mine.
I nod, knowing that he’s right. I did learn a lot. And I feel like I accomplished more than ever. I’m not sorry that I enrolled at Sumner, because if I hadn’t, I might never have helped rescue Sasha. I might never have met Sasha’s mother and in turn grown closer to my parents.
“Well, for the record—and this is the main reason I’m still speaking to you, by the way—Professor Barnes said that you have a lot of talent.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask. “I mean, he treated me like dog dung.”
“Which is his form of flattery. He wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t thought you had something great to show.” Spencer chokes down his coffee and then gets up from the table.
“Leaving so soon?” I ask, watching as he reaches in his pocket for his keys.
“I have an appointment. I’m meeting with someone about doing an art exhibit. Hence the new do.”
“Good luck,” I say, glad to hear he’s trying to show his work again, because he’s amazingly talented, too. And sometimes I think he forgets it.
After he leaves, I pour myself another cup of coffee and get to work. My vaselike bowl looks just as I left it: the sides turn inward to resemble entangled limbs, while the rim turns outward, sort of like a mouth.
I grab a sponge and moisten the surface, hoping that now that Ben and I are back together, I’ll finally be able to get the sculpture to where it needs to be. And so I spend the next hour getting reacquainted with the piece, running my fingers over the edges, smoothing the interior, and reinforcing the curves. And at last, it occurs to me what this piece of clay wants to be. Not a vase, nor a bowl. I close my eyes, able to picture the shape in my mind.
I fold the mouth downward and gather up the sides, continuing to work for another four hours straight.
It’s my first abstract piece: a heart made of hands, of all different shapes and sizes. Some of them are entwined, others are reaching to hold on to something meaningful, while still others are open or balled up in fists.
A moment later, Ben comes in. “Hey, you,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“I kind of got wrapped up in my work.”
Ben looks at it, turning the tray to the left and right to view it from different angles. “I love it,” he says, meeting my eyes.
I wrap my arms around his neck, forgetting that my fingers are muddied by clay. “Thanks.”
“And what’s it called?”
“Touch,” I whisper, aching to feel his hands on me.
Ben kisses me, sliding his hands down my back, beneath the hem of my T-shirt and then over my hips, either reading my mind or simply aching to feel me, too.
I kiss him more deeply, feeling him almost pull away. Don’t stop, I scream inside my head, pushing him down into a seat. I sit down on top of him and press my forehead against his, feeling perspiration mixed with clay.
“So, I take it you’re happy to see me.” He smirks.
“I guess you could say that.”
“Good. At least I finally know where I stand with you.”
“Because I’m so hard to read, especially for a mind reader.”
“Can you read my mind right now?” He’s staring straight into my eyes.
“I hope so,” I say. My heart beats fast.
He continues to look into my eyes as he kisses me again, pulling me closer to him. “I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too.” I place my hand over his chameleon tattoo, knowing that we’re meant to be together. “For always.”
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my brilliant editor, Christian Trimmer, who reads my manuscript in all its varying degrees of completion, with a careful eye, and who asks me questions that challenge me, provide perspective, and help make me a better writer. I’ve learned so much from him.
Thanks to my literary agent, Kathy Green, for all she does. I’m so very grateful.
Thanks to Scott Olson, who was generous enough to answer my questions regarding the profiling of predators and the emotional stages that their victims can go through.
A special thanks to Mom and Ed, who offered helping hands whenever I needed them, so that I had the time to write.
And, last but not least, a HUGE thank-you goes to my readers, who rea
d and recommend my books; and send me letters; and come to my events (even in spirit); and who create book-inspired artwork, song lyrics, videos, posters, playlists, etc., etc. I am utterly grateful for your support, kindness, generosity, and enthusiasm for my work.
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