The sight of the clay brought back bad memories, but the feel of it was making them fade. In their place were thoughts of what had made her study art in the first place. She remembered how much she liked to create things, to make something beautiful out of a formless lump.
And something else came to her: the kindness of Dr. Reede for sending her the clay. Her experience of men was that they gave flowers, candy, even lingerie, but she’d always seen those as an invitation to what they wanted. No man had ever thought of what Sophie wanted . . . needed. “Thank you,” she whispered as she got up and went to his bedroom.
Yesterday while she was cleaning, some photos had fallen out of one of Dr. Reede’s jacket pockets. They’d all looked to have been taken in Africa and they were of grinning children reaching up toward the photographer. The fact that some of the children had deformities, missing limbs, and big bandages was overshadowed by their smiles. If the photographer was Dr. Reede, she could see why he wanted to go back there.
The last picture was different. There was a young, dark-haired man in the middle, but his face was turned away as two exuberant children rumbled his hair. A baby was on his lap and three little boys, with their arms around Reede, were grinning at the camera.
All in all, it was a very happy scene, with enough joy in it to lighten a person’s heart.
Since it was obvious that Dr. Reede didn’t want the photo displayed, she’d put it in his empty bedside drawer.
She got the picture out and took it into the kitchen. As she propped it up beside the block of clay, she looked at it from an artist’s point of view: proportion, composition, shadow.
There weren’t many cooking utensils in the little kitchen, but she took out a couple of knives, an old fork that she could bend, and toothpicks. When she found an ice pick, she smiled. She used to brag that she could carve the Lincoln Memorial with an ice pick. Pot roast bubbled on the stove and pumpkin pie was baking as Sophie picked up the knife and made the first cut.
By the time Reede got home that night, he was exhausted. He’d spent the day answering questions, being fitted for a costume he was sure he would never have nerve enough to wear, and making plans. At the end of it he’d gone to Sara’s husband’s gym and worn himself out with weights and in Mike’s boxing ring.
As they took off their gloves, Mike teased him about Sophie. “You get a girl and you’ll drop twenty pounds of muscle.”
“You got one and you didn’t,” Reede answered.
“Sara wears me out more than any gym.”
The two men laughed together.
By the time Reede showered and drove back to his apartment, it was after nine. Sophie’s rental car was gone, so she’d left, which meant that it was safe for him to go inside.
As soon as he opened the door to the apartment, he began to smile. She’d added a couple of lamps and they were on, making the light in the room softer, kinder even. The table was set, and he could smell the food.
It took him only minutes to fill a plate with Sophie’s pot roast and carry it to the table. There were two big napkins covering things and he pulled one of them off. Pumpkin pie, freshly baked, and still warm from the oven. He inhaled the fragrance.
Smiling, he removed the second napkin, expecting to see another dish, but what he saw made him freeze in place. There was a clay sculpture of him and the kids in Africa. He remembered the time well. He’d been photographing them, but they wanted him in the picture.
He posed with them but a second before the shutter clicked, they’d pushed him, laughing hilariously, saying he was too ugly to be in a picture.
Reede had kept the photo, as it was one of his favorites. He’d meant to have it framed, but he hadn’t found the time. In the last months he’d forgotten about it.
But there it was, in 3D, on his dining table. He was in the middle, the baby who’d nearly died on his lap, his arms firmly around her. The boys were laughing hard as they tumbled about him and kept him from looking at the lens.
The exquisite little sculpture brought back fond memories of his time abroad—and it made him want to go back.
He picked up the sculpture and turned it around to see all sides of it. It was as beautiful as anything he’d ever seen in his life. What
an extraordinarily talented woman Sophie was!
He set it down carefully, then called her, but she didn’t answer Kim’s landline. He couldn’t leave a message because she wouldn’t know Kim’s voice mail code. And Sophie didn’t have a mobile phone because of Reede. He’d crunched it under the wheels of his car.
He sat down and ate while studying the beautiful sculpture. At ten he called Sara and told her he’d be there tomorrow morning to pick up the costume she’d tried to coax him into.
“What about the horse?”
“That too,” Reede said.
“What changed your mind?”
“Talent,” he said. “The sight of some very deep talent. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He put the clay vignette on his bedside table, where it would be close to him while he slept. Tomorrow, he thought, he was going to do anything that was necessary to get Sophie to forgive him.