Page 72 of Carver
I undo my brain bucket and hang it from the handlebars, then help her with her chinstrap and lift the helmet over her head. She’s radiant, her eyes lit up, sparking and burning like she’s staring deep into a bonfire. There are a few exterior lights on the building, and they highlight the pink blush of excitement staining her cheeks.
She secured her hair in a tight bun before the ride, but she reaches up and undoes it, spilling her sandy hair down her leather jacket in golden waves. When we ride, she always dons her motorcycle boots and wears jeans.
I love this look on her.
I love any look on her.
“It’s such a gorgeous night.” She beams up at me. “That was a lovely ride. Thank you.”
She always thanks me, and it never fails to make me flustered. I dip my hand into her hair and tilt her face back, giving her a heated kiss so I don’t have to find the words. I’m nervous as hell and I hope she can’t tell that this isn’t just a late-night ride together and me showing her my newest sculpture at the shop.
I’ve kept it as a surprise, which I’ve done in the past, not allowing her or anyone else to see it. She has no idea how special this one is.
“Should we go in?” She brushes her fingers over her lips as though they’re still tingling from our kiss. “Before the mosquitoes devour us?”
Out here, since we’re nearly on the edge of the city, they’re almost as bad as they are out in the country. We just went to Bronte’s parents’ farm to help them plant their garden which is more crop than it is a regular garden patch and the mosquitoes were so bad they could have carried us away at times.
They were so excited that Bronte said Ellie could stay with them for a few days. Her parents are coming into Hart the day after tomorrow for some supplies, and to bring Ellie back. I didn’t plan for us to have this night free together, but it workedout. If it hadn’t, I would have changed things up and made it work. Ellie is my life. I’m so happy to have her with us. It might just be Bronte and I tonight, but I’ll do something special for her as well.
“We’ll go in, but I want you to close your eyes.”
“Mysterious,” Bronte quips, but she follows me to the side door and closes her eyes. She’s so sweet and trusting, illuminated in the shimmering gold light and shadows.
So, so beautiful.
I’m afraid that what I made doesn’t do her justice, but then, could anything ever? She’s woven together by time and experience, carved out by kindness, loyalty, and love. She’s so full of life, so brilliant, so awe inspiring and flooded with internal light, that I’m sure nothing created by my hands could ever be even a fraction as animated and lifelike as she is.
I stick my key in the lock and twist. “Are you sure your eyes are closed?”
“Yes,” Bronte assures me, laughing. “No peeking, I promise.”
I take both her hands in mine as soon as I have the door open. I flick on the light and take her hands again, helping her step in. I close and lock the door, then lead her slowly across the shop.
It’s a bit of a maze, with half completed sculptures all over the place. I haven’t been as single minded as I used to be, working on only one project at a time with nearly fanatic devotion. Out at my place, sculpting was all I had. It was something I had to do, or I’d go insane. Here? I have Bronte and Ellie. I have the club. I have family and friends. The ideasstill come to me, but they’re not so demanding or so violently intense. I’m okay to work a few hours a day, even if those hours are inconsistent and scattered. It doesn’t make me less efficient. If anything, the opposite has surprisingly been true.
I lead Bronte right to the back. I’ve kept this piece cordoned off with a black curtain. I’ve never done that with any of my work before, but Bronte hasn’t asked about it when she’s been here, and she and Ellie come pretty much every single day. I got the trike a few months ago, so she no longer has to drive me, but she and Ellie love driving. When they stop in, they’ll bring me lunch, coffee, or a snack, and stay for an hour or more.
They’re not a distraction. I love that Ellie can see what I do. I’m careful about dust and safety when she’s here, but I’ve explained all my tools multiple times. We’ve watched hundreds of videos online together. It’s one of Ellie’s favorite things in the world to run her hands over the cool stone, no matter if it’s just a block, or if it’s almost a finished piece. The way she does it reminds me so much of me. If she doesn’t want to do this one day, that’s more than fine, but if she does, I’ll be happy to teach her.
The guys at the club stopped calling me Dom almost from the first and started calling me Carver. I insisted it should be Sculptor, but the name stuck. I have to admit, it’s got a pretty badass ring to it.
I would have given anything for my father or my uncles to see me. To pass one thing down to me. To teach me. They didn’t, but I have others now. Bronte’s parents, and my club brothers. I’m still learning how to be a father, a guide, a role model, but to the best of my understanding—that’s a lifetime process for everyone.
I stop Bronte right in front of the curtain.
“Okay. You can open your eyes.”
Her lashes flicker. She draws her arms up and around herself, a soft half smile turning up the corners of her lips. She waits for me to draw back the curtain.
She doesn’t gasp, or exclaim, or sigh.
She’s immediately lost in contemplation. Her eyes do widen and then finally, she draws in a sharp inhale. “She’s… so lovely, Dominic.”
She steps forward and brushes her fingertips like a whisper over her the statue’s cheek. It’s her, one hand extended, the other at her breast, a veil obscuring her face, a long dress of gauzy fabric pooling around her ankles.
“I still can’t believe you can make stone look like the softest fabric.” Her fingers curl up, almost as if she’s afraid she’ll break that statue just by touching it.
I’ve edged behind her, and when she turns to me, eyes brimming over at seeing herself as the goddess of all things, all emotions, all memories, past and future, silvery tears trickle down her cheeks.
