She usually kept that door closed and locked. But today, it stood half-open. He could see her back, but also part of her profile and one hand. She’d tied a leather apron over a work jumpsuit and captured her hair—which usually went in every direction—in a messy ponytail. Goggles covered her eyes, and he knew her well enough to know she’d likely forgotten that her glasses were positioned on top of her head. Her weight seemed to be divided between the boot she’d planted on the wooden floor and her stool’s rung. A clamp secured a block of wood to a worktable. She was bent over it, absorbed in chiseling.
She didn’t let him watch her work. But fate had given him a chance to do just that without her knowing. He set his shoulder against the doorjamb and leaned into it, crossing his arms.
Her studio was simple. White walls. No curtains over the window that let in sunlight. The large, utilitarian light fixture here put off more light than the other fixtures in the house because, unlike the rest, all its bulbs were working. She’d mounted a row of tools on the wall behind the worktable and taped pencil drawings of abstract forms to the other walls.
Three finished sculptures occupied the corner. They ranged from about two feet tall to about four feet tall. To his surprise he saw that they were . . .
Good. Excellent, in fact.
He’d assumed she wasn’t great at this.
Why? Because she wasn’t old and male like most well-known artists? Maybe part of his assumption had been about that, but also, she didn’t seem to have earned much money, couldn’t even make oatmeal well, and he didn’t like the artwork she’d hung in her house.
The pieces sitting in the corner, though, he liked. They were freeform, modern shapes. Their smooth, gleaming lines called attention to the beauty of the wood. His favorite piece rose from a squarish base. It slid in and then out, forming a rounded section at the top with an opening carved through.
His attention moved from the art to its creator, and he was struck by the sight of her, intently focused on her work with music all around. Had he ever been as dedicated to anything as she was to her art?
He stayed where he was for long minutes. Twenty? Forty?
It was starting to hurt his chest to stand this long but he refused to go.
It was only when one of his inhales resulted in a cough that her chin swung toward him. His cover was blown.
Behind her goggles, her eyes narrowed. “You’re not allowed in here.”
He eased into the studio. With a wheeze, he gladly lowered onto a supply crate. Next to him sat several blocks of uncarved wood—different colors, heights, thicknesses. A glass jar holding steel wool topped the block closest to him. “I won’t bother you. Keep working.”
“I can’t work with an audience.”
He didn’t move. “You’ve been keeping secrets from me.”
“Many. Which one are you referring to?”
“Your talent. I’m impressed with your finished pieces.”
She set her tools aside and tilted her head. Her ponytail fell forward down her chest. “You are?”
“Very. What kind of wood did you use?”
She pointed to his favorite piece. “That one’s lignum vitae. That one’s rosewood. That one’s beefwood. They’re all hardwoods, which I prefer.”
“How come? I’m guessing softwoods are easier to carve.”
“True. Hardwoods are more stubborn. But when you put in the effort, they’re also more rewarding because they reveal gorgeous color.”
“Do you have a specific inspiration for each sculpture when you start?”
“Absolutely. I begin with one wisp of inspiration, then build on that, spinning an elaborate story around the piece as I work.”
“Explain.”
She rose and rested a hand on his favorite sculpture, which came up to around her waist. “My initial inspiration for this one was the female form. To be precise, a woman standing with her feet together turning at the waist and looking up.”
It hadn’t occurred to him that the sculpture represented a person.
“From there, I imagined a young woman who was caught in a difficult life, caring for her ailing father and scraping by to earn money. I pictured them living in a fictional world that looks something like the Black Forest region of Germany a few hundred years back.”
Talking about her process animated Remy in a way he hadn’t seen until now. She sparkled.
