Sweet Hope (Sweet Home #4) (7 page)

I heard the floorboard creak. “Just… just wondering what your plans are, you know, here in Seattle?”

I huffed a silent laugh to myself. What the hell would he say if I told him the real reason I was in Seattle?

“It’s arranged that I’ll be working in some fish market by the waterfront.” I shrugged. “Conditions of my parole. Start tomorrow.”

My kid brother sighed in relief. “I’m proud of you, Axe,” he said, and I could hear the sincerity in his voice. “I’ve still got your old El Camino in my garage. When I moved, I couldn’t bear to see it go. Had it tuned up, repainted and reupholstered.”

My heart dropped knowing he’d done that to my old car. A car, back in the day, I probably looked after more than my family.

When I turned round to thank him, he was gone. As I stared out the window again, I caught sight of the Husky football stadium in the distance and thought back to Levi…

He ain’t no brother of ours. He’s no Carillo. He’s just a fucking loser of an ex-con that’s going nowhere in life, and he’s come here to use you for money and to drag us down too.

There was no fucking hope.

One week later…

Wiping my brow, I sat, staring at the final wooden crate I’d just opened. It stored the last of the Elpidio sculptures shipped up for the show.

I held my breath as I gently removed the protective packages to reveal the single piece of marble that just destroyed me every time I saw it in a magazine or picture. And that one time I flew miles to see it up close.

As the foam packaging slowly gave way to a smooth white marble, tears filled my eyes. I was actually seeing it in the flesh again. In actuality. In all its devastating perfection.

As I cast a glance to my watch, I saw it was fifteen minutes past midnight. I’d been here all day, trying to place the sculptures in their correct positions to test the flow of the exhibit.

The theme of the show was proving difficult to design. I felt like there was a pattern, a natural story to the sculptures, but I’d yet to work them out. I wasn’t sure I could do so without some input from the artist himself.

Catching movement from the corner of my eye, I saw Christoph, the night security guard, doing his rounds.

Getting to my feet, Christoph jumped back in shock. “Ms. Lucia, you nearly gave me a heart attack! I didn’t see you down there.”

“I’m sorry!” I said apologetically. “I’m trying to get the final piece free from its packaging so I can position them correctly tomorrow. It's made from marble and incredibly tall, so…”

Christoph smiled, and came to help me. In just a few minutes we had the wooden crate removed and the packaging dispensed of. As the sculpture was revealed, we both stepped back, and my hand flew to my mouth at the view.

This piece was flawless.

For minutes, all I could do was stare… stare at the six-foot high double-sided white angel, this side’s hands reaching out like she was pleading. She held a pile of black ashes in her palms. I knew from my research that what I was looking at now was the broken side of the angel.

Her wings were fraying and clipped and her beautiful face was contorted in pain…
no
, agony. Her body was curled inward, almost like she was struggling to stand straight. What should be a beautiful dress was ripped and torn, sullied with patches of dirt. Her hair was stringy and limp, hanging haphazardly to the middle of her back, and the desolate look in her unnaturally wide eyes… was haunting.

It shattered my heart. It was as though this sculpture had a soul, projecting every emotion the artist felt when he painstakingly carved each curve and expression on the angel’s face. I could feel the wracking pain, the inner torture of the broken angel running through my blood.

No picture I had ever seen did this piece justice. To witness it in reality was like being given a gift from heaven itself.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly moved my feet and made my way to the other side, where my emotions completely took hold and tears began pouring down my cheeks.

This angel was stunningly beautiful, a complete contrast to her alter ego. This angel’s body was standing straight, full with curves and good health, draped in a pristine Roman-style dress. Her serene smiling face was tipped high to the sky, her thick long hair falling to her waist. I could feel the sensation of the hot sun kissing her cheeks, the warmth enveloping her body like an embrace. Her delicate hands were held up like she was taking flight, her angel wings spread wide. The black ashes that her alter ego held out so desperately, in this formation, were scattered to the ground.

She was breaking free.

My heart beat faster and faster with every passing minute. I was unsure how long I stood there, held in this statue's thrall.

Shaking myself from my trance, I wiped at my eyes and laughed at the extent this sculpture ripped me apart. “Sorry, Christoph, I get a little too emotional with Elpidio’s work at times—”

I glanced around the unnamed sculpture, only to see the gallery completely empty, the sounds of my sniffling laughter echoing off the domed glass ceiling.

Laughing again at how I must have scared Christoph away, I ran my hands through my messy ponytail and slapped at my cheeks. I needed to get home. Exhaustion was making me crazy.

Wistfully casting the sculpture one last glance, I made my way to the bathroom to splash water on my face. As I stared in the bathroom mirror’s reflection, my heart soared that I was in this position. I was completely and utterly enthralled by this exhibition.

I was convinced that no other show I curate could hold a candle to this one. I was obsessed with these pieces. More than that, I couldn’t rid my thoughts of what the artist must have gone through in his life to create them. Nothing good, I was sure. Because of this, my heart bled for him.

Pull yourself together, Ally,
I scolded myself and made a move to leave the bathroom to go home.

Just as I was about to exit the museum, I realized I’d forgotten my notepad. I had to work on the floor design when I got home; I still needed to tweak the layout. Nothing I’d done so far had worked. Something was off, which
never
happened to me. Turning on my heel, I briskly walked back to the gallery.

Spotting my notepad lying on top of an empty crate, I made a dash to retrieve it, when from the corner of my eye, I saw a man in the gallery, beside the angel piece.

Fearful at what he was doing here this late at night, I cautiously moved forward to get security but immediately stopped dead. The man was tall, well built and dressed all in black: black jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, long brown hair tied back in a low bun. But that’s not what caused me to stop and stare. The man was as still as the night, as he stood at the main sculpture. His hand stretched and rested upon a spread wing, his head down blocking his face. His shoulders were shaking, as if he were crying. Like he was crying for the angel.

I couldn’t move, and my chest grew tight watching this large man seemingly breaking down.

Deciding to tell Christoph, I stepped forward, but the heel of my boot clicked on the polished concrete floor. My eyes snapped to the man, who had now straightened, his face hidden by the large sculpture.

The room was noiseless as we both stood there unmoving, so silent you could hear a pin drop.

“This is a private gallery,” I eventually found my voice to say.

The man’s shoulders stiffened.

Craning my head, I tried to get a better look at him, but he seemed to anticipate the move and stepped further away from my sight.

“The gallery is closed to visitors. You really shouldn’t be here,” I added, nervously.

In a second, the man released his hand from the broken wing of the sculpture like it nearly killed him to do so. With his head firmly cast down, he turned and ran out of the gallery.

My heart pounded as I watched him retreat.

What the hell was that? Why did it suddenly feel like I was standing in a vacuum, the air from my lungs dissipated? And more to the point, why was he here this late at night, breaking down in front of the angel?

Shaking myself vigorously, I clutched my notepad and purse, and walked toward the security desk where Christoph was monitoring the screens.

“Christoph?” I called, and he looked up. I sighed and leaned on the desk. “You can’t let students sneak into the museum after hours, especially
my
gallery. Many people want to see these pieces up close and will do anything to get a sneak peek.”

Christoph frowned. “I assure you, Ms. Lucia, no students are getting in or
have
been getting in.”

I closed my eyes in a brief moment of exasperation. “Christoph, they did just now. I just this minute caught a student in the gallery, and he was touching the main sculpture. What if he’d broken it?”

Christoph got to his feet and leaned on the black granite countertop opposite me, confusion still clearly etched on his face. He lifted the sign-in book and read down the names on the page. “No, it was just the two of you who’ve been here this late.”

I was set to argue when his words finally sank into my brain. “The two of us?” I questioned, not understanding to whom he was referring.

Christoph checked the sheet again. “Yeah, you and the artist.”

My head jerked to the book he held. “El… Elpidio?” I spluttered in shock.

Something akin to butterflies fluttered in my stomach, and I struggled to talk. “Elpidio the artist whose exhibition I’m curating was
here?
”

Christoph looked at me as if I was insane. I was starting to concern myself with that too.

“Ms. Lucia, Elpidio has been coming in every night around this time to check on the progress. I thought you knew. Vin Galanti cleared it before you both arrived in Seattle.”

The notepad in my hand was shaking in time with my trembling, and I placed it down. Elpidio had been coming in every night?

That meant…

“Christoph, was he wearing all black tonight? Does he have dark long hair?”

Christoph nodded. “He always wears black. Never says anything.” Christoph leaned forward. “Real dark brooding artist type. And honestly, he scares the shit out of me. He’s one intimidating guy.”

“Oh my God…” I whispered. I’d just seen him… He was here… He’d been
coming
here and I’d not known…

Abruptly, I covered Christoph’s hand with my own. “Christoph, which way did Elpidio go?”

“Out the back door to the staff parking lot. It’s where he parks every night.”

I immediately began running to the staff exit door. As I swung the door open to the cool night, I watched helplessly as a black muscle car pulled out of the parking lot and raced away from the museum.

As I stood there letting the cool breeze caress my flushed face and soothe my frantic heart, I squeezed my eyes shut. I pictured him standing beside the sculpture, head down, back tense, with his hand gripping the angel’s wing as though its touch was the only thing stopping him from dropping to the ground.

My gaze followed the fading lights of his car, and I whispered aloud, “What has happened in your life to make you so broken?”