Page 51 of Now That It's You
He raised an eyebrow at her. “You sound surprised.”
“I am, I guess. I didn’t realize you were so?—”
“Cocky?”
“Confident,” she said. “I guess I didn’t realize back then that you had this sort of direction. That you’d set goals and had a plan to reach them.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I just knew what I wanted and I went after it.”
She nodded, and he watched her bite her lip. “I can see that.”
A familiar pang hit him in the chest, but he ushered her forward and pointed to another sculpture. “This one’s going in a gallery in Connecticut. I have a show out there in the spring, so I’ll be flying out to get things set up there.”
Meg reached out and ran a finger over the hammered bronze surface, and he noticed how small her hand looked. Had he ever noticed that before?
You always noticed. You noticed everything about her.
“Did I read somewhere that you work mostly with reclaimed materials?” she asked.
“When I can get them, yes. All the copper in that piece over there came from the roof of an old office building that got torn down near the Pearl District last winter. See all the punched tin on that piece over there?”
“This one?”
“It’s an old barn roof. And that steel right there came out of the old mental institution in Salem.”
“Is it finished?”
“Not quite.”
“The mental institution, huh? Is the piece called Looney Bin?”
He laughed. “Believe it or not, I considered that. Also Bughouse, Funny Farm, and Cuckoo Shack.”
“So what’s it called?”
“Fluidity Number Nine.”
“I was close.” She reached out to touch it. “It’s beautiful. Very rough and raw, but it still manages to be fluid and graceful.”
“Yes,” he said, thinking he’d had art critics describe his work that way before, but it had never meant as much as hearing those words from Meg. “Come on,” he said. “I want to show you the gallery. That’s where all the finished pieces are.”
He led her through a narrow hallway, maneuvering around piles of stainless steel and a pile of old car parts he’d been meaning to tear apart. “Careful of that stack right there. It’s a little tippy.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Tippy, not tipsy.”
“I know. I’m permanently poised to fall over, remember? I hope you have good insurance.”
“I think I’m covered.” He stopped at the end of the hallway, making Meg crash into his back. “Sorry,” he said.
“You did that on purpose.”
She was probably teasing, but it was a little bit true. He’d wanted to feel her pressed up close against him, to have her body up against his in the darkness. Feeling guilty, he hit the light switch.
A bright wash of light filled the gallery, spotlighting the twinkling array of copper and steel, tin and bronze. The pieces in here were mostly large, with a few smaller ones filling in space along the walls and shelves. He even had a small case of jewelry near the front, though he didn’t make a lot of it.
The space was airy and open with knotty maple floors and walls painted the color of vanilla bean ice cream. There were lights scattered all over the space, positioned to illuminate the artwork. A faint hint of sage hung in the air, and Kyle ran a hand over the pedestal that held a metal bowl he’d filled with small pinecones and bits of high desert foliage.
