Page 121 of The Lies I've Told
“Oh, I will,” I promised.
He stepped forward, his hand reaching into his pants pocket. “And, when you do, give him this.” He pulled out a small stone bird, much like the one I’d seen before, except this one was rougher.
Unfinished.
“Aiden has one just like this,” I said. “He said it was Ben’s.”
“It is. And this one is Aiden’s. He never finished it.”
I took it from his hand, my fingers running over the jagged lines. I could see the intent, the path he’d laid out, but the journey had never been completed.
“It’s not going to be easy to convince him. Once my brother has his mind made up, it’s hard to deter him.”
“And you think an unfinished bird is going to help?”
He smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find a way. You’ve worked a miracle already in my brother’s heart. Now, we just need to remind him of it.”
I looked down at the stone bird and squeezed it as my eyes closed in a silent prayer to the heavens.
Okay, little bird, let’s get to work.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
That’s the understatement of the year, I thought as I walked into the familiar gallery in Manhattan, the one I’d thought would make all my dreams come true. That was when I’d thought all my dreams revolved around stone and a chisel.
The last few months had shown me I had so much more to live for.
And so much more to lose.
“That’d be great. Thanks, Harry,” I said, happy to see my old friend.
Harry had been the director here for several years and was the first person to take a chance on me.
I owed him much.
“I’m sorry for dodging your calls and emails,” I said. “I’ve been…away.”
He made a dismissive motion with his hand as he poured us each a glass of whiskey from the private stash he kept in his office. Harry liked to think he was a character fromMad Men. Crystal decanters lined sleek wood shelves, which only accentuated the plush leather sofas.
It all went very well with the priceless modern art that adorned the walls, and, of course, the man himself, who had discovered some of the biggest names in a decade.
Including myself.
“You forget,” he said, offering me a seat before he took one himself, “I work with artists on a daily basis. I learned a long time ago not to take it personally when one of you vanishes for a while. Just last month, I had a painter who needed to go off the grid. He hid out in a dark cave for two weeks, resetting his senses or whatever. Came back and painted me a fortune’s worth of canvases. So, I get it. I mean, I don’t really, but I understand who I’m working with.”
“Harry, I’m quitting.”
The news nearly had him spitting out his top-shelf whiskey all over the designer sofa he’d probably paid a hefty sum for.
“Come again?” he said, setting down the glass on the ornate coffee table in front of him.
“My heart’s not in it anymore. I can’t keep carving if I don’t feel my work.”
He leaned back, his finger finding his chin as he assessed me. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that hand you’re trying to hide from me?”
I pulled the sleeve of my hoodie down a bit lower to cover my cast.
“Oh, come on, Aiden. It’s August, for Christ’s sake. Who wears a damn hoodie in the summer? Plus, you’re babying the thing like a wounded animal. I’m not an idiot.”
