I passed her the new piece, which I'd named "Bearing Disguises". A vast array of bears, all shapes and sizes, brown and black and a few polar bears too, hid in and among trees and bushes. One 'bear', though, was actually a bull wearing a furry bear suit, its bovine face peeking out from the costume to reveal its identity.
I stopped looking at the piece before Jayne did. It didn't interest me. I put away the stapled monster piece, trying not to imagine how much I'd hate making the required changes, and began to flip through my menu, but at last she said, "Tess, I adore it."
"You do?" I put the menu down, trying to radiate happiness instead of the disillusionment and helplessness I felt at her words. It wasn't worthy of adoration. Jayne could have built it herself. A monkey could have built it. Not even a trained monkey, an average poop-flinging monkey.
This wasn't art. Art came from inside, not from a list of rules and restrictions. I'd learned nothing from it and there was nothing of me in it.
"These will both sell in a flash," she said after examining the garden. Her eyes narrowed. "I wonder... no, better not."
I frowned, confused.
"I was thinking of having you make maybe four more just like this. But it's probably better for now to have each piece an original."
For now? Before I could respond, she said, "Mango's delighted about doing a show with you. Is the evening of December thirteenth all right?"
The championship meet was on Sunday the fifteenth. "That's fine."
"Now, you'll need to get your pieces to me by the eighth so we can be ready for the show. And Mango wants to take you to lunch on Wednesday."
My stomach did a happy somersault. Lunch with Mango LaRue. Like offering Forrest a chat with Wayne Gretzky. "Of course."
She smiled. "Now, what will your next pieces be? Remember, I need at least three more for the show."
Less than two weeks away. If I offered her, and she agreed to sell, the starfish lemmings, the letter A, and the court of love, I'd be all set. Instead, I launched into the description of the literal death by chocolate that Jen and I had come up with.
Jayne heard me out, her face neutral, then said, "Sounds good. Go ahead with it."
Yes, master.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I walked into the restaurant to meet Mango LaRue with a grin so wide my cheeks hurt. I'd spent Sunday, Monday, and most of Tuesday on the 'death by chocolate' piece, which had turned out fine, then rewarded myself with time on Pam's piece, which I'd just finished. I'd had to rush to get to the restaurant on time, but it was worth it.
The tiny books were snuggled into replicas of the bookshelves we'd had as kids, and the rest of the room held memories too. A teddy bear lamp I'd loved, the stuffed poodle Pam had dragged around on a leash until its legs had been worn down so far the stuffing had fallen out, the huge chalkboard where we'd spent hours drawing. We'd each had our own half, and my pictures were always tiny and detailed while Pam's took up every last inch of her space. I'd drawn pictures in both styles, hoping she'd remember how we'd been.
And not just remember our childhood. I'd also recreated our prom dresses, mine teal green satin and hers pure black silk with a red slash across the midriff, and hung them on hooks on the wall. The lopsided cake she'd made for my massage school graduation stood on a table, atop a tiny version of the tablecloth I'd made for her wedding gift. Crocheted from sewing thread, it was as badly worked as the real one had been. I should have had Jen make it for me, but like the original I'd wanted it to be my handiwork.
Finally, using my finest pen and a magnifying glass, I'd written a letter, which I'd framed and mounted on the wall. The letter was short, but it said everything that mattered.
Pam,
You'll always be my sister. And I'm glad.
Tess
The piece was perfect. I didn't know what I'd do with it, but I was so glad I'd made it.
When the hostess and I arrived at Mango's table, the tall skinny man stood up, took my hand, and pressed his lips to it. He wore a black suit with a tie printed with pineapples, and his white hair hung loose over his shoulders. Half bank president, half hippie.
"My dear Tess, how lovely to meet you." His voice boomed out, like an actor trying to reach the back row of a grand theatre, and people several tables away jumped in their seats.
I fought back a nervous giggle while the hostess, clearly afraid of losing the same battle, made a quick exit. "It's wonderful to meet you, Mr. LaRue."
He shook his head, his eyebrows drawing down over his brown eyes in a frown I hoped was mock. "Mr.? Oh, my dear child, I am an artiste, and so are you. We do not stand on ceremony. You must call me Mango." He pulled out my chair and then returned to his own.
I settled my purse on the floor between my feet then looked up at him. His face seemed somehow different than it had been before, more real, but only for an instant. I'd probably imagined it. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mango."
"I didn't 'agree', I offered. I'm delighted to meet new colleagues. Now, if I may be so bold, how are you doing with our friend Jayne?"
"She's wonderful," I said firmly. "So knowledgeable."
His eyebrows rose, and this time I saw the change for sure. The other expression, the genial old artist, was a mask, and the man behind the mask was deciding whether to reveal himself. All he said, though, was, "She certainly is that. Here comes the waiter, and we must have wine. Do you prefer red or white?"
Confused by his switches into and out of character, I didn't care, so he ordered white and we studied our menus in silence for several minutes. The waiter returned with our glasses, took our orders, and left us alone again.
Mango returned his focus to me. The mask was gone, and the fake voice with it. I could hear him but his words wouldn't carry even to the next table. "Tell me, Tess, how are you really doing? Is it all you thought it would be?"
He seemed sincere for the first time, but he worked for Jayne and I didn't want to sabotage my career. I told him the truth, but carefully. "Parts are, yes. I do love it when a piece sells, but I feel sad too because I'll never see it again." My poor desecrated riverbed flashed through my mind, putting a shake in my voice. "And I can't control what someone does with a piece once they own it."
He patted my hand. "Jayne told me what happened. Horrific. I told her not to sell my work to that man, but it's moot because she'll never sell him anything again."
I took a deep breath to settle myself. "Good."
He smiled at my vehemence. "Was the piece important to you?"
I nodded.
"Then it's so much worse." He paused. "That's the selling part. What about the rest?" Leaning a little closer, he added, "I'm not going to tell Jayne. I'd just like to know."
I studied him, not sure I should trust him. "Why?"
"Why," he echoed. "Why indeed. Well, Tess, you remind me of myself."
Giddy warmth spread through me. Mango LaRue thought I was like him? "Thank you."
"And I'd like to help you. How is the creative process going?"
I pulled my mouth to one side and held my hands palm-up in a helpless gesture, the warmth fading. "Some flow so easily, but others are such a struggle." I sipped my wine.
"And Jayne only likes the difficult ones." There was no question in his tone.
Surprise jolted my arm and I set my glass down hard. "How'd you know?"
The sadness in his smile made the wine congeal into a lump in my throat. "Some of your pieces are so original, so different. The city hall scene with the weasels? I can see you in that, now that I've met you. Some of the others, I only see Jayne. Those are the tough ones to make, right?"
I nodded, then sighed. "I didn't realize it was that obvious."
"Oh, it won't be to the general public," he said, waving a hand at the room at large. "But I'm an artist, or at least I used to be. I see it."
"What do you mean 'used to be'? You're hugely successful."
"I used to be an artist. Now I'm Jayne's pet artiste. There's
a difference."
"But, Mango, I--"
"That's not my name, you know. We legally changed it years ago. There was another artist with my name and Jayne thought I needed something distinctive. We were eating mangoes at the time." A smile flashed. "At least they weren't kumquats."
Ignoring the joke, I said, "What's your real name?" My voice came out hushed, like I'd asked a question in church.
He shook his head, sobering. "It doesn't matter. I'm Mango now. And I'm worried about you, not myself. May I give you some advice?"
"Of course."
"Jayne knows what'll sell. Save yourself the frustrating and painful years I went through and learn now to make what she wants."
Mango, known for his brilliant and innovative work, was suggesting this? "But what if my ideas are different from what she wants? I can't be like a factory worker, sticking pieces together according to someone else's plan."
"Come on, Tess, you're not seeing the Forrest for the trees."
"Pardon?"
"You know, so busy looking at all the trees you can't see the forest?"
I felt my cheeks grow warm and hoped he couldn't see. "Sorry, I misheard you. But what's the forest in this case? Or the trees, for that matter?"
"The forest's your career." He took a long drink from his wine glass, then added, "If you want a forest, leave the trees to Jayne."
I rubbed my temples. "I don't understand. Are you saying she designs your pieces?"
"Of course not. But I only go ahead with ideas I know she'll appreciate."
"What happens to the other ideas? Do you just forget them?" Pam's piece, the starfish lemmings, the riverbed... they wouldn't exist. The thought brought up such a surge of sadness I could barely breathe.
He patted his jacket's breast pocket. "I keep them all safe in a notebook. When I retire, in five years or so, I'll make all those pieces just for me."
I'd already made my 'just for me' pieces. The sadness faded; confusion took its place. "But you're so well-known now. You could make anything you wanted and it would sell."
"And then someone would pour blue paint on it."
I jerked back as if he'd stabbed me with his steak knife.
"I'm sorry, that was cruel. But you get my point. If you put your heart and soul in each piece, you're giving the world access to your most private self." He patted his pocket again. "I do put something of myself into a piece, but not all. Not until I make the pieces for myself."
"In five years."
He nodded.
I stared down into my wine. I wasn't even thirty. Could I seriously contemplate making what Jayne decided I should make for longer than I'd been alive?
"Is it like that everywhere? Would another gallery be different?"
"I'm afraid not. I've been with most of them, and Jayne's actually tops at letting you stretch your wings."
After considering this for a while, I said, "Is it worth it?" It sounded like hell.
"Absolutely." No hesitation at all. "People get enjoyment from things I've made, and I love that. Letting the pieces go doesn't hurt me because they're not the ones that really matter to me. And I know I'll get to make those soon. The anticipation is wonderful. Yes, it's worth it. I just want you to know what you're getting into."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dragging myself along the snowy path to the pool, I struggled to make sense of my life. In the two days since my lunch with Mango, I'd begun to feel like a puzzle with its pieces shredded at the edges. The pieces should fit together, I knew, but I couldn't make it happen.
I loved my art, but not how Mango said I'd need to do it. I wanted to believe I could make the miniatures my way, but I'd had enough dealings with Jayne to know I couldn't. Imagining quitting the career I'd finally managed to start felt awful, but staying in it felt worse. Until I seriously considered quitting, and then that felt worse.
Pam hadn't answered my many emails since our phone conversation, and casual questioning had revealed she hadn't talked to our parents either. Knowing I might have driven her deeper into alcoholism horrified me.
Magnus now hugged me every time he saw me, and while he'd been nothing but friendly I worried he wanted something I wasn't looking for with him. I was looking for it with Forrest, but since he'd first seen Magnus hug me Forrest had withdrawn and now treated me with a cool professionalism, except for the moments when our eyes met and fire flashed between us. He always left right after that happened, leaving me alone and confused.
And, despite how much I wanted to sleep for days, I still had to train for the championships. For once, I could actually swim at my usual pool. Maybe that would be a good omen for my last big workout before the championships. I'd wanted to be there for so long.
I reached the pool building and froze. For the first time ever, I'd missed finding an inspiration on my path. I hadn't even noticed myself moving frantically along, until I'd arrived and realized I hadn't seen a thing.
Hand on the door handle, I hesitated. I'd always promised myself I'd go back, but now I just wanted to get my swim over with.
No. I'd said I'd go back, so I had to. Had to live up to my commitments. I turned around, trying to calm the panic skittering through me.
Once on the path, a snowflake drifted lazily before my eyes, and I caught it on my mittened palm. Making sure not to melt it with my breath, I studied its incredible intricacy. How could frozen water be so beautiful?
I stood with the snowflake until my breathing deepened and my shoulders relaxed, then turned my hand over and let the snowflake resume its journey to the ground. When it landed, I headed back to the pool.
The tranquility the tiny snowflake gave me melted away when I reached the pool deck. Chlorine's sharp scent burned in my mouth and lungs, making it hard to breathe. My mind rebelled against pushing myself through yet another task, and I staggered back one step.
I stopped myself at one. I'd always loved swimming. Why see it as a task? Why not just slide into the water and let myself go? No restrictions, no requirements, no rules.
But I had to push myself for my last big workout. I couldn't afford to slack off.
I stood torn, watching the water sparkle beneath the overhead lights. Go home and work or stay and swim? I'd managed to complete an earlier half-done piece, so I needed only one more to reach Jayne's quota. I could spend all evening on it, since the team was away and this time Forrest hadn't asked me to come along. Tons of time to build another piece for Jayne.
My body moved forward without my direction and I slid into the cool soothing water. Ignoring my planned workout, I swam without stopping, letting my body decide how fast it wanted to go. Whenever thoughts of art or Forrest or Pam crept in, I imagined the pool taking them away from me and refocused on gliding weightlessly through the water.
Near the end, I felt the urge to swim flat-out. Doubts slithered through my mind at once, dire warnings of over-exerting myself, but I pushed off anyhow, hoping to out-swim them.
I did only two lengths of butterfly so I wouldn't tire myself, but their speed and ease made me grin. I could do it. If I stayed focused on the joy of swimming I'd be fine.
In the shower, I realized I needed to focus on the joy of everything. Both Forrest and Magnus were playing well because of our sessions. Magnus liked me enough to hug me. Forrest and I had shared something exquisite in Denver, and the aftermath didn't need to taint its beauty unless I let that happen. And I'd finished a piece, probably my best ever, for the sister I loved.
So much good in my life, without even considering Jen's blossoming relationship with Don, how lucky I was to be able to swim, and the beginning of the career I'd wanted for years. Sure, I had difficulties, but they paled in comparison to how I'd been blessed.
Joy swelled in me until I had to do a little dance in the shower to keep from bursting into laughter. Then I laughed anyhow, and kept dancing, and giggled more at my inept dance moves, until a miniature grew in my mind, raised from the depths on the waves of delight.
&nb
sp; I scrubbed myself dry, dressed, and raced home, longing to let the piece come to life. The path gave me a bird's tracks in the freshly fallen snow, the afternoon sun glinting on an icicle, the air's cool sweet smell. I took it all in and kept moving, needing to reach my table.
The piece built itself under my hands, taking shape so quickly it stunned me. A blonde woman stood atop a small grassy hill surrounded by thick mud. Her arms were away from her sides, palms up, and she'd raised her rapturous face, eyes closed, to the sky. Her white silk dress dipped low at the front to reveal her transparent chest and the glowing heart within.
Literally glowing. Months ago I'd bought a tiny light bulb, attached by a hair-thin wire to a battery and switch, but hadn't known where to use it. I knew now. I hollowed out a pink heart-shaped bead and secured the bulb inside. The wire ran down through her body and into the piece's base, and when I flicked the switch the heart gave off a beautiful rosy glow.
Around her, I built smaller figures, monstrous gargoyles, lunging toward her, waving swords and spikes. Most still floundered in the mud at the bottom of the hill, leaving tiny footprints in their wake, but several had reached the grass. For the moment the woman was unharmed, but that clearly wouldn't last. Focused on whatever she saw behind her closed eyelids, she didn't know the danger she faced.
I studied the piece for a long time, a faint discomfort mingling with my delight in it. I'd missed something. She needed something. But what? Without rules and guidelines, I didn't know what was missing. I tried to convince myself nothing was, but the growing unease in my chest told me otherwise.
After several minutes of thinking up and discarding ideas, I remembered a technique I'd read about but never tried. I reached for my clay without knowing what I'd be making and let my hands go, counting my breathing in and out so no thoughts would sneak in and interrupt.
In, one two three, out, one two three. I watched two tall men form, one skinny, the other more muscular, watched white hair appear on the skinny man and a scar grow across the other's chest, watched myself dress them both in black hooded robes that concealed their identities.
Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5) Page 48