Sweet Hope

by Tillie Cole

  I was convinced that no other show I curate could hold a candle to this one. I was obsessed with these pieces. More than that, I couldn’t rid my thoughts of what the artist must have gone through in his life to create them. Nothing good, I was sure. Because of this, my heart bled for him.

  Pull yourself together, Ally, I scolded myself and made a move to leave the bathroom to go home.

  Just as I was about to exit the museum, I realized I’d forgotten my notepad. I had to work on the floor design when I got home; I still needed to tweak the layout. Nothing I’d done so far had worked. Something was off, which never happened to me. Turning on my heel, I briskly walked back to the gallery.

  Spotting my notepad lying on top of an empty crate, I made a dash to retrieve it, when from the corner of my eye, I saw a man in the gallery, beside the angel piece.

  Fearful at what he was doing here this late at night, I cautiously moved forward to get security but immediately stopped dead. The man was tall, well built and dressed all in black: black jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, long brown hair tied back in a low bun. But that’s not what caused me to stop and stare. The man was as still as the night, as he stood at the main sculpture. His hand stretched and rested upon a spread wing, his head down blocking his face. His shoulders were shaking, as if he were crying. Like he was crying for the angel.

  I couldn’t move, and my chest grew tight watching this large man seemingly breaking down.

  Deciding to tell Christoph, I stepped forward, but the heel of my boot clicked on the polished concrete floor. My eyes snapped to the man, who had now straightened, his face hidden by the large sculpture.

  The room was noiseless as we both stood there unmoving, so silent you could hear a pin drop.

  “This is a private gallery,” I eventually found my voice to say.

  The man’s shoulders stiffened.

  Craning my head, I tried to get a better look at him, but he seemed to anticipate the move and stepped further away from my sight.

  “The gallery is closed to visitors. You really shouldn’t be here,” I added, nervously.

  In a second, the man released his hand from the broken wing of the sculpture like it nearly killed him to do so. With his head firmly cast down, he turned and ran out of the gallery.

  My heart pounded as I watched him retreat.

  What the hell was that? Why did it suddenly feel like I was standing in a vacuum, the air from my lungs dissipated? And more to the point, why was he here this late at night, breaking down in front of the angel?

  Shaking myself vigorously, I clutched my notepad and purse, and walked toward the security desk where Christoph was monitoring the screens.

  “Christoph?” I called, and he looked up. I sighed and leaned on the desk. “You can’t let students sneak into the museum after hours, especially my gallery. Many people want to see these pieces up close and will do anything to get a sneak peek.”

  Christoph frowned. “I assure you, Ms. Lucia, no students are getting in or have been getting in.”

  I closed my eyes in a brief moment of exasperation. “Christoph, they did just now. I just this minute caught a student in the gallery, and he was touching the main sculpture. What if he’d broken it?”

  Christoph got to his feet and leaned on the black granite countertop opposite me, confusion still clearly etched on his face. He lifted the sign-in book and read down the names on the page. “No, it was just the two of you who’ve been here this late.”

  I was set to argue when his words finally sank into my brain. “The two of us?” I questioned, not understanding to whom he was referring.

  Christoph checked the sheet again. “Yeah, you and the artist.”

  My head jerked to the book he held. “El… Elpidio?” I spluttered in shock.

  Something akin to butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and I struggled to talk. “Elpidio the artist whose exhibition I’m curating was here?”

  Christoph looked at me as if I was insane. I was starting to concern myself with that too.

  “Ms. Lucia, Elpidio has been coming in every night around this time to check on the progress. I thought you knew. Vin Galanti cleared it before you both arrived in Seattle.”

  The notepad in my hand was shaking in time with my trembling, and I placed it down. Elpidio had been coming in every night?

  That meant…

  “Christoph, was he wearing all black tonight? Does he have dark long hair?”

  Christoph nodded. “He always wears black. Never says anything.” Christoph leaned forward. “Real dark brooding artist type. And honestly, he scares the shit out of me. He’s one intimidating guy.”

  “Oh my God…” I whispered. I’d just seen him… He was here… He’d been coming here and I’d not known…

  Abruptly, I covered Christoph’s hand with my own. “Christoph, which way did Elpidio go?”

  “Out the back door to the staff parking lot. It’s where he parks every night.”

  I immediately began running to the staff exit door. As I swung the door open to the cool night, I watched helplessly as a black muscle car pulled out of the parking lot and raced away from the museum.

  As I stood there letting the cool breeze caress my flushed face and soothe my frantic heart, I squeezed my eyes shut. I pictured him standing beside the sculpture, head down, back tense, with his hand gripping the angel’s wing as though its touch was the only thing stopping him from dropping to the ground.

  My gaze followed the fading lights of his car, and I whispered aloud, “What has happened in your life to make you so broken?”

  Chapter Six

  Ally

  No one could ever know of this moment. This one moment of pure insanity, I had to keep to myself.

  It was bordering on ridiculous. Regardless, I found myself in the bathroom of the museum, spreading on a pale-pink shade of lip-gloss on my lips, and brushing out my long dark hair until it fell against my waist. I was dressed simply in an off-the-shoulder gray T-shirt that skimmed my figure and skinny black jeans. I never dressed up to curate a gallery, too much dust and mess. What I was wearing wasn’t beyond what I’d ordinarily wear. But there was no doubt, that at thirty minutes past midnight on a weeknight, I normally wouldn’t be applying makeup on the off chance a reclusive artist would show his face.

  That reclusive artist I couldn’t get out of my head. That reclusive artist I dreamt about last night. That reclusive artist who had been weeping while holding on to a marble angel’s broken wing. That tall, broad, sullen artist who had fled at the very sound of my voice.

  I was a bag of nerves simply thinking about what it would be like to meet Elpidio in person. I prayed to all that was holy that he wouldn’t be a pompous ass. I didn’t want my dream of this man shattered.

  Checking one last time that I looked good, I walked back toward the gallery, glancing to the security desk to see if Christoph was there. He wasn’t. Which probably meant Elpidio was a no-show.

  Dammit. Seeing me must have scared him off last night. If only I’d known he’d been coming at night, I could have introduced myself… I could have finally met the man whose work had stolen my heart.

  Head down in disappointment, I walked slowly to the gallery and moved the dark curtains aside, entering the private workspace. Bridgette, the Museum Director, had arranged to put the curtains up this afternoon after my many complaints about art students and visitors trying to take in an early showing.

  As the curtains closed behind me, I jumped in surprise when I caught movement ahead.

  My eyes slowly traveled upward to a pair of legs clad in black jeans, to a sculpted waist and torso covered in a short-sleeved black shirt splashed in what looked like marble dust.

  My heart was in my throat as I drank in large arm muscles, sculpted and pronounced under heavily tattooed olive skin. My gaze drifted to a muscular tattooed neck, partially covered by a dark short scruffy beard and shoulder-length dark brown hair.

  Elpidio…

  I had to bl
ink to believe the man I’d wanted to meet for years was really standing right in front of me. I forgot how to breathe. I forgot how to speak, move, or anything else that should come naturally to a human being.

  Elpidio’s head was down, avoiding my gaze, but I knew he knew I was here. Every inch of his body was taut, as if ready to spring.

  My voice failed to work as I watched his broad chest rise and fall. Then, with deliberate slowness, he exhaled harshly through his nostrils and lifted his head.

  I nearly staggered back.

  He was… dark. There was no other adjective I could think of to do him justice. Dark, aggressively tattooed, and absolutely yet unconventionally… beautiful.

  Elpidio was as inspiring to look at as his sculptures, and when his almost-black eyes pierced mine, I released a pent up shuddering breath.

  I thought my legs would give way as I watched those curious onyx irises rove all over my body. I trembled under his scrutiny, knees weak, heart fluttering.

  Italian, I thought. Austin had been right. Elpidio definitely looked Italian.

  It felt as though minutes passed in silence as we stood motionless, not knowing what to say.

  Trying to salvage a modicum of professionalism, I snapped out of my stupor and stepped forward, timidly holding out my hand.

  “Hello…” I said in a cracking voice.

  Elpidio’s stern gaze never once drifted from mine, his dark eyes stabbing. “I’m Aliyana. You… you must be Elpidio?”

  In a second, I witnessed paleness spread on his cheeks and his eyes dropped to the ground, his shoulder-length brown hair falling to cover his face. He was protecting his anonymity. Vin had told me how uncomfortable he was with any acclaim or recognition. His mentor clearly wasn’t lying.

  “It’s okay,” I rushed out. “I’m the curator of your exhibition. Your being here stays with me. I’m ethically bound to protect your anonymity if you so wish.”

  Elpidio’s shoulders seemed to relax some at that, and sighing reluctantly, he raked back his long hair from his face and raised his head.

  This time I could see him more clearly. He was ruggedly edgy, and on his left cheek, he wore a tattoo of a black crucifix just below his eye. He simply screamed danger. His eyes were unnervingly assessing as though he had no trust in me, or toward anyone else for that matter.

  Suddenly, Elpidio reached forward and encased his hand in mine. When our hands touched, I lightly gasped, the heat of his palm searing. I’d forgotten I’d been holding my hand out to greet him, too entranced by his unrefined looks and silent temperament.

  “Aliyana,” he said gruffly. My heart skipped a beat on hearing his husky drawl.

  “Elpidio,” I flustered. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to finally meet you,” I said breathlessly. His mouth tightened as though my enthusiasm were lost on him or irritated him. I couldn’t decide.

  Clearing my throat, I released his grip and gestured to the developing exhibit. “What do you think?” I asked nervously, a subtle tremble in my voice. I moved beside him to face the gallery. “I’m an avid admirer of your work, so this is truly a dream come true for me to design this exhibit.”

  Elpidio remained silent, so I turned back to him, and his dark eyes were narrowed as though in displeasure as our gazes collided. A flush of heat spread through my body under his heavy attention. I could feel my cheeks blazing.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, nervously threading my fingers through my long hair.

  Elpidio’s expression stayed blank, the further narrowing of his eyes the only change in his look. Elpidio turned his gaze back to the expanse of gallery and slowly tilted his head, studiously scrutinizing something in front of us. Reflecting his stance, I tried to follow his gaze and see what he was seeing.

  Elpidio glanced at me again, and for a moment, I felt like I’d seen him before. That split second glimpse of his dark eyes revealing a familiarity to his face. But then the moment was gone as quickly as it came and he walked forward.

  Elpidio stopped at his sculpture of a man folded over, head cradled in hands, legs tucked into his chest… and tragically, every inch of his body was pierced with black painted marbled knives, the knives cracking the white Cararra marble as though he were being torn apart by the blades.

  “Elpidio?” I questioned, and he looked up at me.

  “Elpi,” he said coolly, and a shiver rippled down my spine at his dominating tone.

  “Elpi… okay,” I whispered in reply. The way he stared at my lips a little too long, flustered me.

  Reaching out his hand, he ran his calloused tattooed fingers along the curve of the sculpture’s back and looked at an empty space in the corner of the room.

  I watched him closely examine his pieces with precise care.

  Elpidio suddenly stood and pointed to the far corner. “This one should go there.”

  My heart raced with excitement as I moved to join him, leaning over his shoulder to see the exact spot to which he was pointing. As I stood there breathing lightly, I sensed his body growing tense at our close proximity. This close, he smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and the oaky cedar musk of his cologne.

  He smelled good… too good. So good it was pushing the boundaries of my professional conduct.

  The heavy muscles and cords in Elpidio’s arms tightened. He ran his hand through his hair once more. I surmised that he did this when he was feeling nervous.

  “Is there a particular reason for you wanting the piece to be in that corner?” I asked.

  Elpidio tipped back his head and stared out the glass domed ceiling. I followed suit, my eyebrows pulled down in confusion.

  “The sun will pour in through the roof for most of the day. If we angle it just right, the rays will cut across sculpture and reflect the knives on the floor, like I’d planned.”

  The more he spoke, the more I picked up on the devastation in Elpidio’s deep timbre. By the end of his explanation, I found I was no longer looking at the domed ceiling, but at him and the expression of deep sorrow etched upon his face.

  For a brief moment, Elpidio closed his eyes, and I could feel the sadness pulsing from him.

  In an instant, my heart broke for him. I had no idea why, but he definitely seemed to be suffering.

  Seconds went by in silence, yet I couldn’t stop watching his face. This mysterious sculptor was more intriguing in person than I could ever have imagined. Intriguing but troubled… intimidating… a man about whom my every instinct told me to steer clear.

  Not wanting to intrude on what seemed like a personal moment, I forced myself to focus on the sculpture.

  “Do you agree?” Elpidio eventually asked.

  “I love it,” I said quietly and moved so the full moon and all its light was in sight. As I looked at the shadows cast on the floor, my eyes widened.

  My attention returned to Elpidio, who stood with his bulky arms crossed over his chest. His harsh gaze was focused on me.

  “I’ll agree with whatever you want, but…” I trailed off, leaning down further to check I was correct.

  Elpidio tensed. “What?” he snapped.

  I reared back slightly at his sharpness. Elpidio then sighed, his tanned cheeks flushing red as he rocked unsurely on his feet. It was as if he were insecure, like he wasn’t used to having someone discuss his art on a personal level with him… like he was completely out of his depth.

  But that couldn’t be right. Although this was his first show, he must surely be used to people discussing his art, both academically and publically. He’d been sculpting for a couple of years.

  Sighing, I straightened up. “Well, with the sun’s rays shining down, it will look like he’s bleeding.”

  Elpidio craned his neck to the sculpture but didn’t move.

  “Come here and see,” I urged, and reluctantly, Elpidio moved to my side and crouched down, careful our bodies didn’t touch. I knew the instant he saw what I was referring to, as a quiet exhalation escaped his lips.

  Elpidio ran his h
and down his face. “It does,” he agreed in a graveled voice.

  “Does the effect of bleeding fit with what inspired the piece? We don’t want to change what it’s meant to represent,” I asked. Elpidio hadn’t named any of his masterpieces, nor provided any background on what inspired them, what the art was meant to portray. As a sculptor, its conception could only ever be explained by one person, him. But as the curator, not knowing anything about the sculptures’ backgrounds made them a nightmare to stage.

  “Completely,” he replied breathlessly. Seeming completely taken aback, Elpidio sat on the floor, content to watch the moon-shadows project what looked like black rivulets trailing along the concrete below.

  Slumping to my knees beside him, I waited for him to speak. I was used to artists having unconventional methods when exhibiting their work, but Elpidio appeared to be completely at a loss with this process.

  Leaning forward, I traced a long a black shadow on the polished concrete floor with my finger to gain some form of composure. When I looked back up, Elpidio was watching me. His gaze was a touch softer than before and his expression was warm.

  “Sorry,” I said quickly. “I know I can get carried away at times. Your work…” I sighed and flushed red in embarrassment. “It makes me all kinds of crazy.” I sputtered a nervous laugh and went back to tracing the shadows near my knees.

  Elpidio didn’t speak for several seconds, but then asked, “What do you think he’s bleeding?” Surprised, I glanced at him. Elpidio jerked his chin to the marble statue of the man before us.

  “What do I think he’s bleeding?” I asked, confused.

  He gave me a stern nod.

  As I studied the sculpture, his form bent over as though in agony, I said, “Pain? Blood? Rejection?”

  Elpidio’s eyes were unfocused, lost in concentration.

  “Is that right? Is it pain? Blood? Something else?”

  Elpidio’s eyes abruptly met mine. “Guilt.”

  Guilt…

  I looked at the sculpture again, this time with fresh eyes. Now I felt the guilt. Each dagger, a sin the man should not have committed… The marble man was breaking apart because of his guilt.