Page 52 of Now That It's You
Meg stepped forward and Kyle watched her face to gauge her reaction. Her gaze skittered from one piece to the next, and she pivoted to take in the whole space. “Holy cow,” she breathed. “You made all this?”
“Yep,” he said, trying not to beam like a smug bastard.
“This piece is beautiful.” She reached out as though to touch it, then drew her hand back and shoved it in the pocket of her jeans. “I love the branches and the trunk and the way it all flows together.”
“Thank you. Trees are one of my favorite subjects.”
“Is this copper?”
“Nope, steel. But I used a salt and vinegar solution on it and then set it out in the sunlight to oxidize. It gives me the strength of steel but the patina of copper.”
“Very nice.” She squinted at the label on the pedestal of a smaller brass and pewter piece on the shelf. “Karma?” She stroked a hand down the figure’s back, then laughed. “You sculpted your dog?”
“I made that right after she died.”
“How sweet.” She turned and looked at him. “Do you have a favorite?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
He hesitated. “It’s not here. It’s back at my house.”
“Can I see it sometime?”
“Maybe sometime,” he agreed, deliberately vague.
“Did Matt have a favorite?”
Kyle shrugged, fighting the urge to feel annoyed that all conversations seemed to loop back to Matt. Was that the only connection between them? He hoped not, but maybe he was fooling himself.
“I’m not really sure Matt had a favorite,” he said. “He liked that one in the front window, but I always thought it was because it’s the most expensive.”
“Probably a good guess.” Meg wandered over to it, and Kyle watched her as she took in the shape of it, the curves and angles and edges. She gave an almost infinitesimal shrug and moved on, strolling the perimeter of the gallery.
He stood rooted in place, watching as she touched and admired and bent down to peer more closely at a grouping of smaller figurines on a low shelf. He watched where she lingered, wondering if there were certain pieces that spoke to her more than others. He’d had thousands of people study his art over the years, and couldn’t think of a time he cared this much what someone thought of it.
She stepped into the center of the gallery, seeming to notice the giant calla lily for the first time. “Woah,” she said, standing on tiptoe to peer inside. “This one’s cool.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s huge.” Her voice echoed a little as her chin brushed the edge of the petal, and she stood on tiptoe to peer deeper into the flower. “What’s the story behind this one?”
He grinned. “You want the story I tell my mother, or the real story?”
She pulled her head out of the lily. “Which one’s true?”
“There’s a little truth to both stories, I guess.”
“Then let’s hear them both.”
Kyle nodded, and rubbed a palm down the leg of his jeans. “If you ask my mother, I was inspired by the calla lilies my father brought her for Easter brunch last year. It’s a representation of family harmony and tradition and the love my parents have shared for forty-three years.”
Meg folded her arms over her chest. “And the real story?”
“The real story is that it’s a stylized representation of Cara’s . . .” he stopped, clearing his throat in hopes that Meg could fill in the blank herself.
It took her a few beats, but he knew she’d gotten it the instant her eyes widened. She took a step back. “Oh,” she said, glancing at the lily again. “Ew?”
