Most of All You: A Love Story(15)

Gary Lee Dewey had stolen so much, but not everything. “You didn’t get the best of me,” I murmured. “Not even close.” Despite his best efforts, I had walked out of that dank basement with my soul intact.

Wyatt Geller.

Lord, please let that little boy be okay.

I drove the very short distance to my childhood home, where I pulled my truck over and sat looking at it from across the street. The new owners had painted the house a pale gray with forest-green shutters. The white picket fence looked the same, and my childhood swing, the one my dad had hung, was still in the tree in the front yard. I felt my lips curve into a small smile, hearing in my mind my mother’s voice, my father’s laughter, the bark of my childhood dog, Shadow. I closed my eyes and swore I could smell the lemon meringue pie my mother would make on special occasions because it was my favorite. I wanted that again. To have a family of my own, someone to love me, and someone I could love in return.

And as I sat there remembering the happiness I’d once known, the face that flashed through my mind was Crystal’s. Beautiful Crystal, so hard, so wary of the world. Why? What happened to you, Crystal, to bring you to that velvet-curtained room? That purple-walled prison? Crystal. The name still felt wrong, even in my thoughts. God, I wanted to know what her name really was. Who she really was.

And then what, Gabriel? Then what? Will you sweep her off her feet and live happily ever after?

I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling. She was doing a job, and as far as I knew, it was nothing more. And yet, I’d sensed her own battle in the way she looked at me as she’d moved closer on the couch. If she was struggling with something … Christ, I had so little experience with women. And I had a feeling Crystal was far more complicated than most.

Feeling confused and somewhat defeated by my own thoughts, I pulled away from the curb and headed back to the quarry. When I arrived, I brought the box inside the office and set it on the counter. Dominic was with customers in one of the showrooms, so I gave him a nod. He raised a hand before turning back to the woman in front of him, her finger on her chin, looking between two samples of granite.

I walked back outside and took the path to the edge of the quarry area. George was just stepping out of one of the wheel loader trucks and stood for a minute, talking to the driver. My eyes moved around the gargantuan canyon with water at the bottom. I was struck as I always was by the vastness of it, by the miracle of nature, and the fact that the most beautiful things came straight from the earth. When George spotted me, he waved, removing his hard hat and walking to meet me.

“Hey there. I heard you went into town.”

I smiled. “Yup.”

“How was it?”

“Not too bad.” George regarded me momentarily and then nodded, seemingly satisfied by whatever was on my face.

“Good, I’m glad.” I followed as he started walking. “How’s the mantel coming along?”

“It’s done. I finished it early this morning before I left for town.”

“Well, damn! Let me see it.”

I laughed, and we walked back up the hill to my workshop. The cool, air-conditioned space made me sigh after the dry heat of the outside air. The large fireplace mantel and surround was against the far wall, covered by a sheet that I removed carefully before I turned toward George. For a moment he just stared at it before moving closer, kneeling down and examining the detail. I watched him as he studied the floral designs and leaves vining up each side of the pale gold marble, his finger following the stem of a rose, a look of reverent admiration on his face.

I had been hired to re-create a fireplace mantel and surround for a couple in Newport, Rhode Island, who had bought a mansion built during the Gilded Age and wanted to bring back as many elements specific to that era as they could. This piece would go in the formal living room.

George stood, shaking his head, tears in his eyes. I smiled softly at his emotion—the same depth of feeling he always displayed at the unveiling of one of my pieces.

“You’re a master. It’s no wonder you have a waiting list a mile long. Your dad would be so damn proud.” His arms dropped to his sides. I knew he wanted to clap me on the back, or maybe squeeze my shoulder like he did with Dominic when he had done something that made George proud, but he knew I didn’t like it, had been conditioned not to get too close to me. I always felt both relieved and mildly ashamed by it. “It’s exquisite.”

“Thanks. I sent them a photo this morning. Sounded like they really liked it.”

George smiled. “Really liked it. I’m sure that’s an understatement, and you’re too modest to say so. But I’m glad they’re pleased.” He winked at me and I laughed softly. “Got the shipping all set up?”

“Not yet, but I will today.”

George nodded. “Great. What’s next?”

“I have the balustrades for the terrace in Chicago. Those shouldn’t take long, and then I’ll be starting on the French project.”

“Okay. If you need any help, you know where to find me.” He laughed as he walked toward the door. We both knew he couldn’t carve to save his life. He turned when he got to the door. “I’m real proud of you, Gabriel.”

“Thanks, George.” And I was thankful. I had lost my own dad for the first time when I was taken. But even at nine, he was the man I knew I wanted to be. I remembered clinging to his love for me, his affection, his calm strength, believing that if I ever got out of that basement, it was the safety of his arms I was yearning for. And then I’d lost him again when I escaped and found out he was dead. The fact that he never got to know I made it was a constant hole in my heart. Yet George, the man who had been my father’s best friend and business partner, often reminded me that he would have been proud of me. And it helped. It had helped every day for twelve years.