“Who held your hand? Who let you cry?”
A long silence. “My mother… she was already distant by the time it happened. I think it was almost a relief for her. A way to leave without the shame of getting a divorce.”
I make a small sound, unable to help myself. Sympathy.
“It’s a blur to me now. And after… after, I just focused on school. That was his thing. Focus on school and get a nice safe nine-to-five job with a retirement plan.”
“He’d be proud of you,” I whisper.
Christopher looks at me sideways, his expression severe. “I’m not sure about that. I’m the asshole boss of the guys he wanted me to be, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
“Death isn’t a place in the clouds where people smile down on us. It’s pointless, Harper. You want to know why I work so hard to make money? Because it’s the only damn thing that’s real in this life. Something to hold on to because there damn sure isn’t anything at the end.”
The next night when I arrive at the library there’s a very tall, very sturdy metal scaffold waiting for me beside the wall. It could have been anyone who left it here. Maybe the construction foreman wanted to check something at the top of the wall. Or maybe Sutton left it for me to use. But I have a suspicion that it’s Christopher.
Does that mean he’s going to visit again tonight?
There’s a joint in my pocket, but I don’t bother to light up. I’m already buzzed, my head floating, my body hot. Christopher Bardot is a potent drug for me; I can only handle him in small doses. Anticipation slides through my veins, and I feel high before he even comes.
Something keeps me from climbing the scaffolding or getting a ladder from the equipment out back. Instead I work with the putty on the ground, keeping one eye trained on the door in case I have another late-night visitor.
It gets to be so late that I doubt he’s coming, and then I have to face the hard lump of disappointment in my gut, the proof that I want the man I shouldn’t.
As if the cute little dress I’m wearing tonight didn’t already prove that.
It’s with those disheartened eyes that I look at the putty I’ve been working with, surprised to find it’s actually pretty good. It’s a more abstract piece than I usually make—geometric shapes unfolding, like an idea being peeled away. Or maybe skin flayed open, in a purely conceptual way. That would be an interesting addition to the wall, exposing what’s underneath. Not in a literal sense, because there’s only shadow and studs back there, but symbolically.
What is behind the wall? I’m not sure I know the answer. Industry is on the surface. Muscles and iron and longing. What’s underneath must be darker. It always is. The opposite of industriousness… well, that’s being stationary. Being stuck. Maybe even failure.
The opposite of longing is despair, the certainty that what you want will never come.
“It’s not your usual style,” comes a low voice from behind me.
Christopher steps through the archway, wearing black slacks and leather loafers, a stark contrast to the dusty disarray of the library. He’s unbuttoned the top of his white dress shirt, but it still looks crisp. His jacket straight. Every black hair on his head neatly in place.
He looks around with a hard expression, as if the building’s being inspected by him and failing to impress. As if he still owns the place. That makes me frown. “How did you get in through there? The doors back there are locked.”
“It’s possible I didn’t send all the keys to the commercial realtor,” he says, not sounding very remorseful. He also doesn’t offer to give me the secret key, and for some reason I don’t demand it. The library is about open knowledge, not locked doors, and Lord knows Christopher isn’t going to vandalize anything. I’m more likely to do that than anyone else.
But I think the real reason is that I want him to come back.
“Why are you here?” I ask softly.
“To make sure you don’t fall and break your neck. It’s a habit of yours.”
“Only when you’re around. And I don’t mean the library. Why are you here, in Tanglewood, developing the land I didn’t buy from you? You could have sold it.”
He shrugs. “You know me. For money. For stepping on the backs of the common man.”
For the first time since I met him, his words ring false, as if he spoke a lie. As if everything else he said to me has been true. “Be careful,” I whisper. “I might think you want to stay near me.”
He takes a step closer, and I’m suddenly aware that my hands are caked with putty. The world of art shows is glamorous with wine and chandeliers, but the reality of creation is much more messy.
And a little more dangerous.
At one point I was so engrossed in my work, so vehement with a sculpting tool that the metal detached from the wood handle and plunged into my thumb. It bled into my dress for a while, and every time I worked the clay after that, smoothed it over and made it ridge, the newly formed scab would break again. There are dark striations in the finished product—not red blood now, but an ominous black.