I looked at her. Then the dog. Then back to the sculpture that now had a new layer of residue I hadn’t planned for.
Sensing my ever-rising blood pressure, Lee shot me a look. “Calm down,” he whispered. “Don’t make it worse.”
Easy for him to say. He hadn’t spent the last few months building that piece one weld at a time. He hadn’t been the one left holding the wreckage when someone else unraveled in front of him.
“Very nice to meet you, Nancy, but is yourmotherokay?” Lee quipped, trying to tamp down his building laughter as he kneeled beside her to pet the dog.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Totally fine. Happens all the time.”
“It happens all the time?” I repeated.
“Low blood sugar,” she said confidently. “And stress. And heat. And, probably, Mercury in retrograde? I don’t know. I’m not a scientist.”
Nancy Reagan sneezed and curled up next to her like she’d seen worse.
I scrubbed a hand through my hair and stared down at the carnage beside her. “You know you just ruined a commissioned sculpture, right?”
Her eyes darted toward it. “Oh. Shit. That’s art?”
“Yes.”
She winced. “I thought it was a bike rack.”
My jaw worked, but nothing came out.
Fused from an old, weathered steel drum with salvaged metal rods, twisted rebar, and chains, from a distance itcouldbe mistaken for a modern, industrial bike rack or abstract furniture. But it was meant to evoke the idea of a heart, hollowed and guarded. The rods were bent outward in curves that loosely mimicked rib bones or a cage, and at the center of the drum was a flickering battery-powered light meant to resemble a low-burning flame. I’d been building it for months, unsure why I kept returning to it over everything else I’d been working on.
For my client, the piece was a status symbol—a way to show her friends how quickly she could burn through her ex’s money. But for me, it was about containment and protection—of grief, of hope, of memory. The steel drum, once meant for oil or waste, had been reborn as a vessel for light. A quiet tribute to Uncle Cole, to loss, and to the belief that even the ruined can still reflect beauty.
And that light had sputtered out.
“Art is subjective?” she tried.
Lee took a sip of his beer at the exact wrong second, choking and hacking as he fought to keep it from spraying everywhere.
“I’ll pay for the damage,” she added.
“You got six grand on you?”
“Six grand for a bike rack? Maybe in Monopoly money.”
She looked like someone who lived on freelance checks and espresso shots—equal parts shaky confidence and sheer determination, like she’d been running on fumes long before tonight. Something about her reminded me of Magnolia before she’d settled down. That same restless energy.
I let out a slow breath. “Forget it. It’s going to be okay. Just… sit. Breathe. Don’t touch anything.”
She nodded, folding down onto one of the half-sanded barstools with the kind of compliance that only comes from narrowly dodging a full-on disaster. Nancy Reagan immediately sprawled across her feet like a soggy welcome mat.
Lee, ever the host in a crisis, appeared at her side with a half-full water bottle and a slightly baffled smile. “You’re officially our weirdest visitor this week. And that’s saying a lot. This place has quite the reputation.”
She accepted the bottle, tipped it toward him in thanks, then flicked her eyes back to me—less panicked now, but still dazed around the edges. “Bathroom?”
I jerked my chin toward the open studio door. “Down the hall. Second door. Do you need help?”
“No.” She stood, gathered the dog in her arms, and slipped inside without another word.
Lee and I followed her quietly, the door clicking shut behind us. I stayed near the exit for a beat, listening for any ungodly noises coming from the back of the studio, one hand braced and ready to bolt if necessary.
Lee leaned against the worktable, watching me with that knowing look I hated. “She’s something,” he said, voice low.
