Chimera (4 page)

“Yeah, man?”

“Thanks.” My voice cracks with the word, but he knows what I’m talking about and just nods his response.

E
very night
, Ferry comes back with his gang. They scurry around setting up in the kitchen, the
F
s dancing like sugarplum fairies in the
Nutcracker
. Ferry captures what he’s looking for, the crew breaks everything down, and they exit. The colors have started to fade and the smell has begun to permeate my space. A visual and sensual metaphor of my life.

As he is getting ready to leave one night, I say, “Hey, Ferry. I won’t be here tomorrow night. I’m going to a gallery opening downtown. Do you want to come earlier, or do you want me to give you a key to get in?”

He looks a little stunned, but the grimace quickly passes. “No worries. A key is fine. I want to continue to shoot at the same time each night.” He gathers the remainder of his things as he talks. “I’m surprised, Bastian. I haven’t seen you in the art community in quite some time.” He raises his eyebrow in question.

I shrug, unsure of how to respond. “Yeah, I doubt I’ll stay long, but figured I’d make an appearance.”

“Enjoy it. People will be glad to see you.”

I can’t put a name to what I hear in his voice or the look that flashes across his face before he cloaks it in indifference. Pulling a key from my pocket, I hand it to him, and he heads out for the day.

“See you Friday, Bastian.” I give him a tilt of the head in acknowledgment, but I don’t respond verbally.

I
feel
like a damn high school kid going on my first date. I’m the gangly dork the prom queen agreed to give a pity date to. I’ve changed clothes at least five times and spent more time on my hair—which essentially looks just like it did when I got out of the shower—than I care to admit. I don’t recognize the man in the mirror. No matter what I do to try to find some semblance of who I used to be, I just look haggard. Or maybe it’s old. Fuck, I don’t know.

The familiar beating signals Nate’s arrival. I open the door and find him standing there in slacks and a button-up shirt. He has a bouquet of flowers in his hand, which he promptly offers me with a smirk.

“You’re a douche, Nate.” I sneer, taking the flowers.

“They aren’t for you, asshole. I figured you wouldn’t have thought to bring her flowers, so I got them for you.”

“You don’t take flowers to a gallery opening.” His ignorance never ceases to amaze me.

“Why not? She’s a girl. It’s a big day for her. Why wouldn’t you give her flowers to congratulate her?” The confusion clouds his eyes.

“Where’s she going to put them? In the pocket of her dress? Buying one of her pieces is how I say congratulations, not flowers. Especially not cheap shit with a Publix
supermarket sticker on them.” I smack him upside the head. It’s a gentle swipe, but he gets the point.

“Can you afford to buy anything?”

“No, but I will.” I don’t have the financial means to buy anything, but not buying a piece tonight will ensure there will be no “real” date after this.

“Have you thought about telling her the truth?”

“Nope. Women don’t want to hear that you’ve spent every nickel you had since your wife died because you’ve been too depressed to work. Suicidal tendencies aren’t a huge turn-on, and neither are poor ass bastards.”

“She’s going to find out, Bastian. You can’t hide the last five years from her. You realize she could Google your name and find out everything you’re trying to cover up?”

I don’t respond. I’m winging this shit as it is. I don’t have a clue how to date. I sucked at it when I was a teenager. I’m sure at some point, I’ll have to be upfront with her, but hopefully, it will be later rather than sooner. “You ready?”

He opens the front door and ushers me out with a sweep of his arm. Taking a deep breath, I exit, lock the door behind me, and head toward my future.

W
e arrive
at the gallery around eight. The place is full. Her work appeared to be quite good in the pictures I saw online, but I had no idea she was this popular. Nate and I have been wandering around looking at each displayed object. I keep coming back to an angel that has an uncanny resemblance to Sera herself.

The woman stands about two and half feet tall on top of a large black display block with a glass top and lights shining up the angel’s silhouette. The lighting creates an ethereal glow and casts shadows at all of the appropriate angles. Her head is bowed in what appears to be sorrow, or maybe it’s defeat. Her long, flowing locks cast in fired clay cascade down her back, covering her shoulders and hiding bits of her arms. The tattered hem of the dress on her body catches my attention; the detail so intricate it’s as if Sera had dipped a torn piece of fabric in clay before allowing it to harden. The wings are surreal. They span a solid fifteen to sixteen inches, outstretched as though at any minute she might take flight, yet somehow, you see in her body language she doesn’t have the energy or the will to move. The ashen-gray tone of the clay adds to the depression. This angel exudes pain. Her face shows lines of worry, her eyes trying to hide a sadness that seems to haunt her stone soul. My heart aches to rescue this tortured creature.

“That’s the one, huh?” Nate questions me, tilting his head from side to side in an effort to see what has attracted me to her. I nod, continuing to peruse every delicate line and elaborate detail Sera captured in this fallen being. “It’s kind of feminine, don’t you think?” He’s asking rhetorical questions he knows I won’t answer. Squatting down in front of her to get a better view, I see Nate wander off from the corner of my eye.

I might have been there for twenty minutes, or it could’ve been an hour. It’s only when the gallery owner comes by to place a sold ticket on the edge of the case that I return to the present. When I catch her attention, she smiles gracefully. “Hey, Bastian! Wow. It’s great to see you! How have you been?”

Tara Winford. Gallery owner. Art connoisseur with a brilliant knack for finding talent. At one time, her eyes were on my pieces. It seems like an eternity ago.

“Hey, Tara. Nice to see you.” I extend my hand in greeting. I take hers and kiss the top gently with a little squeeze. She really is a phenomenal woman. She’d become quite close to Sylvie over the years. I haven’t seen her since the funeral.

I see the indecision in her eyes, a not-knowing how-to-proceed look, so I save her from herself. “Intriguing piece here. Someone will be quite lucky to have it in their home.”

“What? Oh, yes,
The Seraphim
. It’s exquisite. One of the higher-priced exhibits tonight. I think Sera priced it hoping it wouldn’t sell.” She winks at me, indicating her knowledge of an artist’s desire to hang on to special work.

“She obviously didn’t price it high enough, or wasn’t aware of what someone would be willing to pay to have her with them daily.”

“Yes. She underestimates her worth. Most artists do. I haven’t been able to catch her to tell her how well things are going. There are only one or two remaining in the collection that haven’t sold tonight.”

“I haven’t seen her, either, but when I find her, I’ll make sure she comes to see you.”

“Thanks, Bastian. I’ll tell her you’re on the prowl if I see her first.” The awkward silence fills the space between us. “Well, hey, it’s great seeing you. I hear you’re working with Ferry on a project. I hope you’ll give me the pleasure of opening for you when you’re ready.”

“Certainly. Thank you.”

She leans in, gently pecks me on the cheek, and whispers, “I’m so glad you’re back, Bastian. We’ve all missed you.” With that, she turns on her stilettos and mingles her way through the crowd. I stand, saddened, knowing
The Seraphim
has gone to someone else, but I realize I couldn’t have afforded it regardless. I hope whoever purchased it appreciates the mesmerizing beauty the angel offers. I bid farewell to the stone figure.

W
andering aimlessly
in search of Sera or Nate, it’s overwhelming the number of people I recognize—some who beeline toward me to reconnect, and others who cower, unsure of whether to acknowledge knowing me. I welcome those with the courage to talk and give a pass to those who are afraid. Suddenly, I’m in my comfort zone, discussing mediums, hearing about newcomers in the community, exhibits opening, pieces that have sold. My old friend, art, welcomes me back to the living with a warm smile and a firm handshake. But then I feel a chilled hand on my forearm. Turning away from the group of people I’m talking with, I see first the fingers—long, thin, delicate fingers. Traveling the length of them, the nails of an artist who, despite how hard she scrubs, she’s unable to reduce the appearance of hands worn by clay.

My eyes cast up from the hand to a beautiful face, green eyes twinkling from the lights in the gallery like a cartoon. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. My heart constricts, the sting of my Sylvie staring back at me with the warmth of Sera calling my name.

“Bastian.” My name on her lips is the sound of song as it rolls off her tongue.

“Sera.” I take her hand in mine and lean in to kiss her cheek. She returns the gesture as though we’re old friends. I step back holding her hand, and take all of her in, from her black high heels up her lean body sheathed in black silk that hugs her curves in all the right places. Then my gaze touches on her full lips and high cheekbones. My mouth rises in a wide grin. “This is simply amazing. I had no idea how talented you are. Tara is looking for you. She has news for you.”

“I just spoke with her. I had to come find you.” Her voice trails off as her eyes fill with tears, threatening to fall.

“Whoa, what’s wrong?”

“I just can’t believe Bastian Thames bought one of my pieces. I’m overjoyed.”

I have no clue what she’s talking about. As much as I wanted to buy something, I missed out on the piece I hoped for but never would’ve been able to afford. “There must be a mistake. While I love your work, I wasn’t—”

“Sera, I’m Nate, Bastian’s date for the evening.” Nate extends his hand to Sera, who looks perplexed but accepts his greeting with a graceful smile before looking to me.

“Your date?” She raises her eyebrow.

“Excuse Nate. He’s a jackass with no decorum. Nate this is Sera. Sera this is Nate. Nate’s been my best friend since I was an embryo.”

She giggles. It’s a beautiful sound, melodious.

“Well, Nate. It’s nice to meet you.” She does a cute curtsy that endears her to me even more. “I can’t talk long.” She looks over her shoulder at the crowd behind us, acknowledging she has to be available to talk to anyone attending. “I’m just blown away, Bastian. I’ll have to thank you over coffee sometime. Give me a call and let’s get together soon, yeah?” She waits for my response.

“Yeah, definitely. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Thanks again for coming, Bastian. I think more people showed up for the chance to see you than my work.” She winks at me before she walks away.

I watch her glide through the crowd for a moment, just enjoying the view. “She thinks I bought one of her sculptures,” I say as I watch her cross the room. When I turn back to Nate, he has a grin the size of Texas on his face. “Fuck. What the hell did you do?”

T
he Seraphim
arrives
at my house the following day. I have yet to get Nate to tell me what he paid for it, but based on Tara’s comment about Sera having priced it not to sell, I’m sure it was a pretty penny. When it arrives, I put it in the living room. Ferry comes by to capture the decay that has begun on my kitchen wall, and when he spots
The Seraphim
, he recognizes the work.

“Sera Martin’s piece?” he asks knowingly as he walks by the angel without so much as stopping to admire her grace.

“Yeah, are you a fan of her work?” This is a relatively small town in comparison to the metropolises like Atlanta and New York, so the art community is rather close-knit. I hate admitting I wouldn’t have recognized her work because I’ve been out of touch for so long.

“She’s young, but I can see potential. Unfortunately, her social life may keep her from ever recognizing success. I hate to see women do that.” He shrugs his comment off as though he’s talking about the weather, not knowing the effect Sera’s had on my life recently.

“What do you mean?” Trying to sound nonchalant, I pose the question as though I would ask it of anyone.

“Word around town is her work—and I guess her life, for that matter—are dictated by her latest guy craze. It’s unfortunate. Unless she matures and outgrows that, it’ll kill her in the art world. At least around here.”

I don’t need any further clarification, at least not regarding what he meant. The details would be interesting, especially those pertaining to Sera. The South is a fickle place to live. If you’re an artist who lives by the rules and creatively colors inside the lines, you’ll be welcome, possibly even well received and successful. However, if you don’t conform to what the Bible Belt deems acceptable, at least putting up the appearances, your career can be snuffed out like a cigar. Based on what little he mentions about her social life, I imagine he’s referring to the number of men crossing her path rather than the
way
she’s walking the course.

After that conversation, I felt as if I was somehow exposing Sera by having the angel out in the open for anyone to see, as if she herself is cast in the stone figure. I moved her to my bedroom to keep her safe. I stare at her for hours on end, in awe of the detail, the broken spirit captured in her face, the exquisite wings; she’s simply breathtaking. I wonder what place Sera had to go to mentally in order to create her. She seems so full of life, so vibrant, but she would have to touch a really dark place inside herself to bring
The Seraphim
to fruition. I relish in the irony of the name of the piece, and the meaning behind her name.

Sometimes it’s as though
The Seraphim
is speaking to me, trying to communicate with me. I strain to hear what she has to say, what connection she’s trying to make, but no matter how closely I listen, it’s a futile effort. The whispers are always too faint for me to hear, too quiet for me to decipher.