Page 94 of A Little Too Late
He shakes his head. “She said—and this haunts me—there’ll be plenty of time after the kids are grown. Life is long.”
“Well, shit.”
Block gives me a sad smile. “My thoughts exactly. Your dad resented the hell out of me for pushing her on it. I asked her again when you kids were in high school, too. But then…”
“She got her diagnosis.”
He nods, and his eyes are so sad. “The fucked-up thing is that the price for her art went through the roof when she stopped producing new work. I bought a few pieces for myself at the end, even at those prices. Just to keep the cash flowing to her…” He clears his throat. “Your father probably resents me for a million different reasons by now. I still own several pieces of her best work.”
“Can I see it?” I ask quickly. I’d already planned to ask unless he threw me out before I got the chance.
“Of course.” He stands, and I follow him out of the room. I expect him to head into the dining room, where I already know he’s got those bookends.
But he doesn’t. He climbs an elaborate staircase with a carved-wood banister, and I follow him up to the second floor.
The bronze statue is right there on the landing, and I recognize it immediately, because the clay study she’d made for this work used to sit high up on that shelf in our living room.
But this version is larger, with a beautiful blue-green patina. The figure is seated on the edge of the table where Block has placed her. Her limbs are elongated and rumpled by thesuggestion of clothing. Long legs hang down, but they’re tensed together. She clasps her thin arms in front of her chest, as if so overcome by a sudden yearning that she has to contain her heart with both hands.
Her youthful face is tipped toward the sky, and her voluminous hair is lifted as if by the wind, flowing energetically in the breeze.
It’s twenty-four or so inches of pure, flowing emotion, captured in metal.
My hands move unbidden to the metal, just so I can touch something that my mother once held. The mottled metal surface is cool against my fingers.
And just for a second, I feel her presence. Like a spark of warmth on my face. And everything goes still inside me as the bronze warms to my hands.
“She had so much heart,” Block whispers, “and it shows in every piece she ever made.”
He’s right. My mother was special that way. She never hid her emotions. She wasn’teverafraid to show how much she cared.
Unlike me. It’s been so long since I allowed myself to love anyone that I almost can’t remember how it works. “When she died, we all lost that. I mean—we losther, but we also lost the ability to show up for each other.”
My words aren’t very polished, but they’re still true. The remaining Madigans are four grown men who’ve spent years trying not to feel a thing.
And poor Ava. She got the worst of my dysfunction.
But right now, in the presence of my mother’s work, I let myself feel every damn thing. It hurts. I’m vaguely aware of the tears in my eyes, and I don’t let go of the sculpture until one of them threatens to break free, and I have to brush it away.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Block says softly.
“Thank you.” I step back and take a deep breath. Not to banish the feeling, but to process it. “Thank you for letting me see this. I have very little of her artwork. And my father has none.”
Block stares.
“He didn’t want any memories of her in the house.”
“Jesus.” He looks back at the sculpture. “It had occurred to me that this should be displayed somewhere in town. I could work on that.”
“That’s a nice idea, but I’m just glad to know that it’s safe. I thought about trying to hunt down some of her other work and buying it back.”
I hadn’t done it, though. Maybe I’m more like my father than I thought. And isn’tthatan uncomfortable realization.
I look Block square in the eye, and I try to get back to the matter at hand. “Her death blew up my family. But I’m back now, and I’d like to do what I can to keep this a town she’d be proud of. I think she’d want that.”
Block rubs his chin. “I’m sure you’re right. And I’m intrigued by your idea of keeping it local. But I wish you’d had this big revelation a couple weeks ago. I have an offer on the table, and it’s a really good one.”
“It’s not too late,” I argue. “We could put a pause on the Sharpe contracts and spend a week or two exploring our options. The Sharpes aren’t going anywhere. And if they suspect we have another deal on the table, they’ll only be more interested, not less.”
