by Amy Harmon
“I'm leaving now, Tiffa. Have I schmoozed and schlepped enough?” I said brightly, already pulling away.
“No! Blue! What in the world is going on with you and my silly brother? This is your big night!”
“And it's been amazing. But I don't want to talk to Wilson right now. We had a pretty tense moment right before I came tonight. I am not ready to be anywhere near him.”
“Miss Echohawk!” Mr. Wayne approached from my right, a small Asian man walking beside him. “Miss Echohawk,” Mr. Wayne extended his hand in introduction, “this is Mr. Yin Chen.” The little man bowed slightly. “He is intrigued by your work. He begged for an introduction.”
Next to me, Tiffa was practically vibrating. This must be someone important. What was his name? I suddenly felt like the top of my head was going to pop off and float away like a helium balloon. Should I bow too? Tiffa did. So I copied her.
“Nice to meet you,” I murmured, clueless.
“Mr. Chen is especially interested in the one you've titled 'Cello,'” Mr. Wayne smiled down at Mr. Chen indulgently.
Mr. Chen! That was it. Not too hard to remember. From the corner of my eye, I saw Wilson approaching with Pamela on his arm. I stepped on Tiffa's foot, probably more viciously than was warranted. Tiffa gasped slightly and moved to engage Mr. Chang(?) in conversation. I turned to Mr. Wayne, and he dipped his head discreetly and murmured softly in my ear, pulling me aside, which was fine with me as it moved me away from Wilson.
“Mr. Chen (Chen!) is a Bei Jing mogul – one of the whales we like to take very good care of whenever he's in town. He fancies himself quite the art oficianado. If he likes your work and thinks you are the next big thing, he will move heaven and earth to buy up as many pieces as he can.”
“Will he buy them all?” I asked, trying not to squeak like a child.
“Unfortunately for Mr. Chen, they have all sold.” Mr. Wayne smiled down at me.
“All of them!” I whispered, stunned.
“Yes. All of them.”
Wilson's tuxedo jacket was flung over the railing and his tie was loose, hanging in a tired curl. His top few buttons were undone, and he was slumped on the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. I watched him through the glass of the front door for a moment, wondering what he could say that would make me forgive him. He had revealed too much, and I couldn't get his words out of my head. They blinked in neon, buzzing continuously in my brain.
I had been congratulated, praised, even adored that night. But it was Wilson's words that filled my head. The Bei Jing Mogul whose name I couldn't seem to remember had commissioned five separate pieces and had presented me with a check for $5,000. I would receive another check for the same amount when the carvings were completed, and The Sheffied was letting me take the full commission. The night had been a success that I could build a future on. A success I hadn't even dared dream of. But my heart ached in my chest, and I had felt sick to my stomach all night because of Wilson.
He stood as I unlocked the front door. I dropped the keys into my purse and headed for my apartment, not acknowledging him. I had driven around town for hours after leaving the exhibit. For the first time since moving in, I hadn't wanted to go home to Pemberley.
“Blue.”
I had to dig the keys back out again at my door. Smooth. My hands shook, and I sneered down at them. I would not shake! I would not show him weakness.
“Blue.” It was just a whisper, and I flinched against the quivering in my limbs, the shattering of my heart. And then he was next to me, his head bent over mine. I kept my head bowed, staring at the lock on my door.
“I was worried about you.”
“Why?” I responded quietly. The key slid into the lock, and I turned the knob gratefully. “Didn't Tiffa tell you? I was the high-priced call girl for the event. They hired me to keep Mr. Ying Yang happy.” I batted my eyelashes at him, not really looking at him as I shoved the door open and walked into the narrow entryway of my apartment.
Wilson jerked like I'd shot him. And then he was crowding me up against the wall, slamming the door behind us so hard the picture of me and Jimmy teetered and fell, crashing to the floor. Wilson's hands bracketed my head, and he leaned into me, his lips trembling.
“Stop. Stop that. It isn't funny, Blue. It's sick. It makes me want to hunt down Mr. Bloody Chen, whatever the hell his name is –”
“Isn't that what you thought when I left tonight?” I interrupted. “That I was on the prowl?”
“Why didn't you tell me?” he choked out in disbelief. “I was so bloody proud. It was brilliant. All of it. And you didn't tell me. You let me go on like a complete arsehole.”
“I let you? I got all dressed up and you . . . you insulted me and implied I looked like a . . . wh-whore.” I pushed against him, shoved him angrily, needing to breathe, not wanting to break down in front of him. But he didn't back off, instead his hands dropped to frame my face, forcing my gaze to his. I looked away immediately, defiantly.
“I was afraid.” I watched his mouth and tried to focus on what he'd said to me earlier. I reminded myself of his revulsion, his disdain. But his lips were so close. He was so close. His breath smelled sweet, and I felt a shuddering deep in my belly.
“I was afraid, Blue,” he repeated, insistent. “You've been through so much. And I am half mad over you. I don't think you are ready for the way I feel.”
My heart thudded to a standstill, and my breath hitched. And then . . . his lips brushed mine. Slowly, tenderly. Barely there. He spoke again, his words tickling my mouth. I gripped the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric, desperately trying not to lose my mind.
“I've tried to give it time. I've tried to give you time. And then I saw you tonight. You were all dressed up, ready for a night out, impossibly beautiful, confident, strong. And I thought I had lost you once and for all.”
I could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and mine raced to join the cadence. And then his mouth closed over mine again. Not hesitant, not whispering. And I too felt lost. Completely. It was a kiss too long denied. Asking, opening, claiming. And the room spun as I clung to him. My hands moved over the length of his back, pulling him into me, needing more.
His wrapped his arms around me and lifted me up and into him, opening his mouth on mine, demanding entrance. He tasted like black licorice and snowflakes. Simultaneously forbidden and familiar. Hot and cold. Sinful and safe.
His mouth left mine to rain kisses on my eyelids, my cheeks, my throat, and his hands gripped my hips desperately, crushing the fabric in his hands as if he resented the barrier. I felt like I was riding a wave, mounting a crest, and I couldn't get close enough to him. Then he lifted me, wrapping my legs around his waist, as he claimed my mouth again, swallowing my name as he spoke against my lips.
“Blue, I need you so much. I want you so much.”
And his face rose in my mind . . . the way he had looked as he told me he wouldn't follow me down “that road.” I broke away, panting, my legs still locked around him, his arms braced around my body.
“Do you want me, Wilson? Do you want me? Or do you love me?” The words rushed out of me, and Wilson's eyes were heavy with passion, his lips a breath away, seeking me again, as if he hadn't registered the question. I pulled back further, denying myself, denying him. His brow furrowed and he nipped at my lips, pulling my head toward him, demanding more. I resisted, even as my body trembled with need. I unlocked my legs from his waist, letting my feet find the floor. I smoothed my skirt down, grateful that my legs held me. If I didn't stop now, I wouldn't have the strength to say no. And tonight I had to say no.
Wilson looked dazed, as if all reason had left him.
“Blue?”
“I saw it when you looked at me tonight. You were disgusted. You looked at me like I was . . . cheap.” I took a deep breath. “But I'm not that girl anymore. And so you need to go. Please.” My voice wasn't strong, but it was firm. Wilson seemed stunned. He ran his hand along the
back of his neck, confusion and remorse warring in his eyes.
I moved beyond him and opened the door. I waited next to it, my heart in my throat.
“Please, Wilson,” I entreated. He moved as if he didn't know what else to do, stepping slowly into the foyer beyond my door like a man who has just suffered a terrible shock. I closed the door behind him and waited, my ear pressed against it, until I heard his footsteps move away. They tread heavily upon the stairs. I locked the door and knelt, retrieving the picture that had fallen to the floor. Jimmy's face stared back at me, but it was my own that drew me in. A little girl with long braids, longer than Jimmy's but plaited just like his were. I was missing my two front teeth, and I smiled gleefully, mugging for the camera in all my toothless glory. Jimmy didn't smile, but his arm was wrapped around me, and I clung to it as naturally as he held me to him. As if I were precious. As if I were loved.
There was a crack in the glass. I hung the picture back up anyway, straightening it carefully. The crack separated the top half of our bodies from the lower half. Luckily, the picture wasn't damaged. We were still whole beneath the jagged scar. I stopped, considering. I was scarred, but I was not broken. Beneath my wounds I was still whole. Beneath my insecurities, beneath my pain, beneath my struggle, beneath it all, I was still whole.
I dimmed the lights and slipped out of my dress in quiet contemplation. And then, above my head, music began. I walked to the living room and lifted my face to the vent, listening. Wilson tuned and tightened the strings, plucking and playing as he went. And as I listened, I was filled with wonder. Willie Nelson. Wilson was playing Willie Nelson. “You Were Always on my Mind” had never sounded so sweet. It was as if it had been written for the cello, though I doubted most people would even recognize Willie Nelson in Wilson's arrangement. He played it several times before he left it, as if needing to make sure that I heard. And then it was quiet above me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I awoke to pounding on my door the next morning. I had tossed and turned all night, restless with lust and love, weary with doubt, wondering if I should have taken what Wilson was clearly offering.
“Blue! Blue! Open up! I need to talk to you!”
“Holy crap!” I moaned, sliding out of bed and pulling on a bra, a pair of jeans, and a T-shirt as Wilson continued to pound.
I opened the door, letting him in, but I immediately retreated to the bathroom. He followed me, and I quickly shut the door in his face. I used the toilet, brushed my teeth and hair, and scrubbed my face free of all the makeup I'd gone to bed in. Wilson was still waiting outside the bathroom door when I opened it. He took in my freshly scrubbed face, his eyes lingering on my mouth. Without a word, he slid his arms around me and buried his face in my hair. I gasped, caught completely off-guard. He just held me tighter.
“I think it's time to end this,” he whispered against my hair.
I tried to pull away from him, rejecting him before he rejected me. It was easier that way. But he tightened his arms and soothed me with shhhing sounds.
“Shh, Blue. Just listen.”
I held myself very stiff, trying not to be distracted by his scent, by the way his arms felt around me, by his lips in my hair, by my desire to keep him there.
“End what?” I finally responded.
“This not knowing business.”
“What don't you know, Wilson?”
“I know a lot more than I used to, Blue. What number are we on now? I've lost count. What were some of them? I know you're brilliant. You're beautiful. You're incredibly brave. You have a wicked sense of humor. You carve unbelievable works of art . . . not totem poles.” I relaxed against him, smiling into his chest. “You have lousy taste in mates . . . although since I count myself among them, I might have to amend that one.”
“Tiffa says you have terrible taste in women, so maybe we're even,” I interrupted.
“I don't have terrible taste in women. I'm mad about you, aren't I?”
“Are you?”
“Yes, Blue. I am. I am completely gone on you.”
The feeling that surged in me was tempered by confusion and doubt.
“What about Pamela?”
“She kisses like an old woman,” he said softly.
I laughed, my heart immediately lighter.
“I told her last night that I was in love with you. Funny thing is, I think she already knew.”
I curled my hands into his shirt and took a deep breath, waiting for the axe to fall, because I could feel he had a lot more to say. He paused, maybe wondering if I would declare my feelings, too. When I remained silent, he sighed and spoke again.
“But this is where the not knowing part comes in. I have no real idea how you feel about me. One minute, I'm sure you feel the same. The next you're telling me it's just a silly game. One minute, I'm telling you I'm lost without you. The next you're telling me to sod off.”
“So that's what you don't know? You don't know how I feel about you?” I almost laughed, it was so obvious. “I'm not the one who's been dating someone else, Wilson. I'm not the one convinced it's inappropriate to be with me. I'm not the one who has been fighting this every step of the way.”
“That's still not an answer, Blue. How do you feel about me?” His voice was insistent, and his hands were on my shoulders now, pushing me away so that he could see my face. I couldn't answer. Not because I didn't know but because I did.
“Can I show you something?” I said suddenly. Wilson dropped his hands in frustration and turned away, running a hand through his hair.
“Please. It might help me to explain. I'm not as good with words as you are, Wilson.”
I leaned forward and grabbed his hand, pulling him behind me as I walked through the house. He followed, but I could see that I'd hurt him by not answering his question. I tugged him through the door in my kitchen that led to the basement, and I clattered down the stairs, not releasing his hand until we reached my workbench.
I pointed at my latest work-in-progress. “This was that huge lump of wood you helped me drag in a while ago. You asked me if I was going to make a life size replica of Tyrannosaurus Rex, remember?”
“This is it?” Wilson stared in disbelief at the carving that was still big, as far as carvings went – but when we'd lugged it in, it had been too big to get it on the work bench, and we'd had to use a dolly to even get it into the house. It had to have weighed 250 pounds. Since that day, I had carved away enough mass to actually hoist it onto the table myself. I pointed at the large sections of wood that I had cut away, creating a climbing, circular structure, almost like a circular staircase built for fairies in a wooded glen. It was going to be my first carving for Mr. Chen. “Do you see how the carving is created by removing wood? How I almost remove more than I keep.”
Wilson nodded, watching my fingertips skim along the valleys and shadows I'd created.
“It's not just about what's there but what isn't there. Do you understand?” I stumbled a little bit on my words, knowing what I was trying to say and not knowing if I was actually saying it.
“I think so. The space creates the silhouette, the dimension, the form . . . right?”
I smiled up at him, thrilled that he understood. He smiled back, so sweetly, so fondly, that for a minute I couldn't find my breath, and I scrambled to regain my train of thought.
“That's exactly right.” I nodded, my eyes re-focusing on the sculpture in front of me. “Jimmy taught me that when you carve, it's the negative space that creates line, perspective, and beauty. Negative space is where the wood is carved away, creating openings that in turn create shape.” I paused and took a deep breath, knowing this was something I had to say. If I loved Wilson – and I knew that I did – I would have to make him understand something about me that wasn't easy to grasp. It would make loving me hard. I had to warn him. I turned to face him and met his gaze, beseeching him without artifice or apology.
“Sometimes I feel like I have a huge, gaping hole from my chin to my wais
t, a wide open negative space that life has just carved away. But it's not beautiful, Wilson. Sometimes it feels empty and dark . . . and . . . and no amount of sanding or polish will make it into something it isn't. I'm afraid if I let you love me, your love will be swallowed up in that hole, and in turn YOU will be swallowed up by it.”
Wilson touched my cheek, intent on what I was saying, his brows lowered in concentration over a compassionate grey gaze.
“But that's not really up to you, Blue,” he said gently. “You can't control who loves you . . . you can't let someone love you anymore than you can make someone love you.” He cradled my face between his palms. I reached up and held onto his wrists, caught between the need to hang onto him and to push him away, if only to save myself from what he made me feel.
“So you're afraid to let me love you because you fear you have a hole that can't be filled . . . not by any amount of love. But my question to you is, once again, do you love me?”
I braced myself and nodded, closing my eyes against his gaze, unable to say what I needed to say with his eyes, so full of hope, trained on my face.
“I've never felt about anybody the way I feel about you,” I confessed in a rush. “I can't imagine that what I'm feeling isn't love. But 'I love you' doesn't feel adequate to express it.” I plunged headlong into babbling. “I desperately want you to love me. I need you to love me – but I don't want to need it, and I'm afraid that I need it too much.”
Wilson's lips danced across mine, and he reassured me between kisses, professing his own need. His hands smoothed my hair, his lips traced my eyelids and the corners of my lips as he continued to whisper all the reasons, one after the other, why he loved me. When his words became poetry, How Do I Love Thee? Let me Count the Ways, I sighed and he captured the sound with a kiss. When tears swam in my eyes and trickled down my face, he followed them with his mouth and trapped them between our lips. When I whispered his name, he tasted its flavor and lapped it up until I was dizzy with his attentions and wrapped around him like a frightened child.