by Amy Harmon
“Hi,” I said cheerfully, as if I was completely unaffected by what I had just seen. Wilson didn't look like a man who had just enjoyed a goodnight kiss. He looked a little upset. And a little stressed. I tried not to read anything into it.
“Hi,” he replied softly. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure. Mi casa es su casa . . . literally.” I turned and walked into my home, feeling him at my back. “Did Camilla just leave?” I asked pointedly. When Wilson didn't answer I looked up at him in question.
“Camilla?” he smirked, folding his arms. “You asked me if Camilla just left.”
“Is that what I said?” I frowned.
“Yes. You called Pamela Camilla.”
“Hmmm. Freudian slip,” I mumbled, a little embarrassed. It wasn't my fault. I had been thinking of kisses, and lately kisses made me think of Camilla . . . and The Golden Girls.
The carving I had been working on the last time we talked sat on my kitchen table, and Wilson halted beside it abruptly. He studied it intently, turning it this way and that, but I was distracted, knowing that any mention of Camilla had to remind him of what had transpired between us more than a month ago.
“Tell me what you see when you look at this sculpture,” Wilson asked after a while, his eyes roving down the sensual lines of the stained mahogany. His hand traced the contours reverently.
I had whittled away the heaviness from the branches, creating hollows and sinews and shaping the suggestion of lovers wrapped around each other while still maintaining the natural innocence and simplicity of the merging branches. The branches were mountain mahogany, the wood a natural reddish brown. I had rubbed several applications of black stain into one branch, and it gleamed like a black jungle cat, the golden red tones melding with the dark stain so the black looked like it was silhouetted in sunlight. I applied no stain to the other branch but had simply buffed and glossed the golden red wood until it glowed like amber. The effect was that the two limbs in the sculpture appeared to be different wood, branches from two different kinds of trees. The result was a statement all its own.
I looked away. I felt hot and angry, and my chest was tight with a feeling Wilson always seemed to stir in me.
“I'd rather not.”
“Why?” Wilson sounded genuinely confused by my refusal, since I was usually eager to discuss my carvings with him.
“Why do you want my explanation? What do you see when you look at it?” I said crossly. Wilson withdrew his hand from the sculpture and grabbed my braid where it hung over my shoulder. He tugged it gently, wrapping it around his hand as he did.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong. I'm preoccupied,” I protested. “And my art is not about what I see. It's about what I feel. And right now I don't really want to discuss what I feel.” I tried to pull my hair free from his hand, but he wound it tighter, pulling me toward him.
“I see limbs and love and lust,” Wilson stated flatly. I stopped resisting, and my eyes rose to his. Wilson's gaze was wide and frank, but his jaw was clenched as if he knew he was crossing that invisible line he had drawn for himself.
“I'm not surprised you see those things,” I said softly.
“Why?” His eyes were intense, and I was suddenly furious. I was in love with Wilson, no doubt about it, but I would not be toyed with, and I sure as hell wasn't going to play kissy face ten minutes after Pamela left.
“You've just spent the evening with Pamela,” I reminded him sweetly. “She is a beautiful woman.”
Wilson's eyes flashed, and he dropped my braid, turning back toward the sculpture. I could tell he was mentally counting to ten. If I made him angry, it was his own fault. What did he think I was going to do? Wrap myself around him after he had ignored me off and on for months? I wasn't that girl. But maybe he thought I was. I took several deep breaths and ignored the tension that simmered between us. It was thick enough to slice and serve with a big dollop of denial. He took several steps, his hands fisted in his hair, putting some distance between us.
I stood my ground, waiting for him to make the next move. I had no idea what he was doing here. And he didn't seem to know either. When he looked at me again, his mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes held a note of pleading, as if he needed to convince me of something.
“You said your art is about what you feel, not what you see. I told you what I see. Now you tell me what you feel,” he demanded.
“What are we talking about, Wilson?” I shot back. I walked toward him, hands shoved in my pockets. “Are we talking about the sculpture?” He watched me as I approached, but I didn't stop until our toes were almost touching.
“If we're talking about the sculpture, fine. I see desire and belonging and love without space.” I said the words like I was a guide at an art museum, putting emphasis on the word space. “What do I feel? Well, that's easy. I've been at work all day. I'm tired, Wilson. And I'm hungry. And I don't like Pamela. There. That's what I feel. How about you?”
Wilson looked at me like he wanted to shake me until my teeth rattled. Then he just shook his head and walked to the door. “I'm sorry I asked, Blue,” he sighed. He sounded weary and resigned, like one of those TV dads just trying to tolerate his teen-aged daughter. “Goodnight, Blue.”
I was too confused and befuddled to even respond. He walked out of my apartment without another word.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I spent a ridiculously long time curling my hair. When I finished, it hung in shiny dark waves down my back. I took great care applying dramatic makeup, more than I'd worn in months. I thought it suitable for an artist at her first exhibit. I had splurged on a cocktail dress that would highlight my eyes, and the electric blue was exactly the same shade. It hadn't been very expensive, but I was crossing my fingers that it didn't look cheap. It had small cap sleeves and a high neckline, but it draped lower in the back, almost to my waist. It skimmed my curves without being too tight or suggestive, and it ended just above the knee. I found a pair of high-heeled sandals to match. I thought I looked pretty good and squealed a little when I was ready. I looked grown up and alluring but sophisticated too, like Tiffa. I waited just inside my door, listening for Wilson to leave his apartment. If he and Pamela were meeting her parents for dinner, he would be leaving soon. I didn't have to wait long. Wilson strolled out of his flat and started down the stairs at exactly 6:30.
I calmly locked my door and walked toward the front door, just like I planned, reaching the base of the staircase before Wilson did. He was scrolling through his phone, but when he heard the click of my heels, he glanced up and his eyes widened. I tried not to smile. I had desperately wanted that reaction. He could think about me the whole time he was out with Pamela. I hoped he had a rotten time. His eyes traveled up and down the length of me and seemed to get stuck on my legs. It was all I could do to not giggle. I cleared my throat instead. His eyes snapped up to mine and he glowered at me. Wait. That wasn't what I wanted. Blushing, stammering, compliments – all of that was good. Glowering looks were not part of the plan.
“Where are you off to?” His voice sounded funny. Almost angry.
“Out,” I said lightly.
“I see.” Wilson's expression was indecipherable. “That frock's a bit short.”
“Really?” I laughed, incredulous. I looked down at the hem that really wasn't very short. “And why exactly do you care how short my skirt is?”
“I don't,” Wilson replied brusquely. He definitely did. Maybe he was jealous. That was a good thing. A very good thing. I shrugged and walked past him toward the door. My hair brushed against the bare skin of my back. Wilson cursed.
“Bugger! So it all starts again, does it?” Wilson bit out behind me. I froze. Pain lanced through me, and I spun on him. His face was like granite, his eyes icy, his jaw clenched. His arms were crossed and his stance was wide, almost as if he were bracing himself for my comeback.
“What do you mean, Wilson? What am I starting again?” I kept
my voice low and contained, but inside I was quaking.
“You know exactly what I mean, Blue.” Wilson's voice was harsh and his words clipped.
“Oh, I see,” I whispered. And I did. It was written all over his face. Revulsion. He didn't see a glamorous woman on her way to a classy exhibit. He saw a tawdry teenager with a sordid past all dressed up for a night on the corner.
“I'm reverting to my slutty ways. That must be it.” I raised one thin eyebrow disdainfully and held it there, waiting for him to correct me. He just glared back and was silent.
I pivoted in disgust and yanked the front door open.
“Blue!”
I didn't turn, but I paused, waiting for an apology.
“I'm not going to watch you destroy yourself. If this is the road you want to go down, I won't come after you.” Wilson's voice was hard, almost unrecognizable.
I shook my head, unable to speak. Where had this come from? What had I done to make him go all parental and self-righteous on me? I wanted to scream at him, scratch his eyes out, and tell him what a jerk he was being. But I didn't want to be that girl anymore. In spite of what he thought, I wasn't that girl anymore. So I turned and leveled a look at him.
“I guess the dye is cast . . . huh?”
I turned and walked out of the building, my spine stiff, but my chin quivering. If he watched me leave, I didn't know. I looked neither to the right nor left, but drove away looking straight forward. I did not cry. I did not curse. I just drove, stone-faced, to the hotel.
Tiffa had told me to go to valet parking and I did, refusing to be embarrassed by my dumpy old truck. I stepped out of it like I was royalty and dropped my keys in the valet's hand with a comment to make sure he didn't “scratch my baby.” The man was good at his job, and he didn't even bat an eye. I was grateful for his ability to hide his real feelings and vowed that tonight I would hide mine just as well. It was a talent I had let get rusty.
I swept through the door and asked the first official looking person I saw where I could find the art exhibit. He directed me to the elevators and instructed me to get off on the gallery floor, marked with a G next to the button. Panic bubbled up in my chest, and for a moment I considered leaving. Just kicking off my heels and heading for the door. I gritted my teeth and stepped onto the elevator, along with several other people in formal attire. I stared at myself in the mirror, trying not to see what Wilson had seen. My pleasure in my appearance had been crushed into tiny, vicious shards. My reflection stared back at me defiantly. My eyes looked too big in my face, and the pink in my cheeks had been leached out with the joy I no longer felt. What had I been thinking?
Tiffa descended on me as soon as I stepped out of the elevator. The room beyond was soft with strategic lighting and carefully placed art. A huge painting of a weeping face took center stage. The tears were so lifelike they shimmered wetly in the lights.
“Blue! You look wonderful! Smashing! Where is Darcy?” Tiffa looked beyond me to the elevator doors that were firmly shut. “He is going to die when he sees your pieces on display! I can't wait!” She squealed girlishly, and I felt a wash of intense affection sweep over me. But like the tide, the wave of love was yanked back into the sea of my disappointment as my thoughts were focused once again on Wilson.
“I didn't tell him.”
“Yes, luv, I know. I invited him!” Tiffa whispered theatrically. “I told him he had to come tonight. I said there was a brilliant new artist whose work he had to see. I sent him tickets and everything. Did he bodge it up then?”
You could say that. I felt pretty bodged up. “I don't know what Wilson's plans are.” My voice sounded flat and cold, and Tiffa's eyebrows shot up. It wasn't quite true, but I didn't elucidate.
“Hmm.” Her eyes scoured my face. She pursed her red lips in contemplation. “He bodged it good,” was all she said. Then she looped her arm through mine and pulled me forward. “Come see how we've arranged your pieces. They are breathtaking, Blue. I've already had a slew of people ask after them. You are already a hit.” I let myself be pulled along and vowed to forget Wilson and the way he had looked at me. I was “a hit.” Tiffa said so, and I was going to do my best to enjoy the moment, surreal as it all was.
'Bird Woman' filled an entire corner. She was elevated on a black platform. The lighting overhead turned the wood into liquid gold. For a moment, I saw the sculpture as others would, and my breath caught in my throat. There was only the hint of a woman in the dramatic sweep of wood and the suggestion of outstretched wings. It was the reason I hated to title my sculptures; the title limited it. I didn't want to do that. I wanted people to interpret what they saw without influence from me.
A few people stood around it, studying it, turning their heads this way and that. My heart pounded so loudly I thought it would shake the room and its precious contents. Tiffa glided toward the man who seemed most enamored by the woman encased in wood. She reached out a graceful hand and touched the man's sleeve.
“Mr. Wayne, this is the artist.” She slid her other hand down into my own. Mr. Wayne turned toward us. His silver hair was slicked back from his face. It was an interesting face, more suited to a mobster than an art connoisseur. He was powerfully built, and his black tuxedo fit him well. He seemed surprised by the introduction, and his mouth curved as his gaze met mine.
“I want her,” he said bluntly, his voice as accented as Tiffa's. He must work at The Sheffield, too. I felt heat flood my face, and Tiffa laughed, that tinkling waterfall sound that said, “You are so wonderful – I adore you!”
“And you may have her. The sculpture, that is,” Tiffa responded with a mischievous twinkle. “This is Blue Echohawk.” She said my name as if I were someone very important. I tried not to giggle. I settled on stone face. It was my go-to face when I had no clue of how to respond.
“Your work is beautiful. But more importantly, it's fascinating. I find myself getting lost in it. That's when I know I want something.” Mr. Wayne raised the glass of clear liquid he was drinking and sipped it thoughtfully. “I almost didn't come tonight. But Tiffa can be quite insistent.”
“Mr. Wayne is an owner of The Sheffield, Blue,” Tiffa said simply. I tried not to quake. Tiffa turned back to Mr. Wayne. I wondered briefly if his first name was Bruce. He looked like he could have a Batmobile stashed on the roof.
Tiffa continued, “The Echohawk pieces are going to be worth a fortune someday. The Sheffield scored a major coupe in the art world tonight.” Tiffa oozed confidence. I felt like putting my hand over her mouth.
“I agree.” Mr. Wayne cocked his head to the side. “Well done, Tiffa.” He extended a hand to me. “Would you show me your other pieces?”
Tiffa didn't even hesitate. “What a brilliant idea. I will be around, Blue.” And she was off, moving on to another couple without a second look. Mr. Wayne smelled expensive. He threaded my hand through his arm, the way Wilson did sometimes, and we moved to my next sculpture. Maybe it was a British thing, the courtly manners. Or maybe it was something that rich, educated, men did. I had had so little experience with any of the above. I moved beside him and tried to think of something clever to say. My mind ran in dizzying circles as I groped desperately for something – anything – to converse about. I suddenly realized Mr. Wayne wasn't waiting for witty remarks but was engrossed in the sculpture before him.
“I think I've changed my mind. I want this one instead.” I noticed the sculpture in front of me for the first time. 'Loss' bowed before me in anguished repose. I wanted to turn away. I had been relieved when Tiffa had sent the truck to pick it up. I didn't respond, but looked beyond it, hoping Mr. Wayne would move on.
“It's almost painful to look at,” he murmured. I felt him looking at me, and I brought my eyes to his. “Ah, there's a story here, I can tell.” He smiled. I smiled too, but it felt forced. I knew I should tell him about the piece, sell it, sell myself. But I couldn't. I had no idea how. An awkward silence followed. He eventually spoke, saving us both.
“Someone told me once that to create true art you must be willing to bleed and let others watch.” I felt a little exposed and suddenly wanted to melt into the shadows of the room where I could observe without being observed.
“There is suffering in every line. It's simply . . . wonderful.” His voice was gentle, and I berated myself silently. Here I was on the arm of someone who could be enormously helpful to me in my career, and I wanted to escape.
“Then it's yours,” I answered suddenly. “It is my gift to you, to thank you for this opportunity.”
“Oh no.” He shook his leonine head emphatically. “No. I will buy this sculpture. Thank you, but a tremendous price was paid in the creation of this piece, and it should not be given away for free.” His voice was both tender and kind.
My heart thudded painfully and emotion rose in my chest. “Thank you,” was all I could manage. And we moved on.
The night continued, a blur of expensive clothing and heady praise. I lost my pain in the pleasure of attention and moved from one effusive patron to the next, Tiffa always nearby. Toward the end of the evening, Tiffa stopped and waved to someone across the room.
“He came, luv. Are you still miffed at him? Should I keep him away so you can make him suffer?” My head shot up, finding the “him” she referred to standing in front of the weeping visage that welcomed new arrivals to the gallery. Wilson looked pressed and proper in his black tux. Tall, handsome, his hair slicked back, barely a wave in sight. I wished I could run my fingers through it and tousle it into floppy curls. I turned away immediately. He had seen Tiffa wave and had been in the act of raising his hand in response when he saw me at her side. His hand froze mid-wave.
“And he brought that naff cow with him,” Tiffa moaned. “What is with my little brother? His taste in women is ghastly. Well, now we know what he did with the other ticket. He's positively dead from the neck up.” She muttered the last part under her breath. I wasn't sure what she referred to. Pamela wasn't exactly a cow. Or a dog. Or anything remotely unattractive, as much as I wished she were.