A Different Blue(134)

“Yeah. Wilson must be a rare breed of bird. Definitely not an owl because I've become

completely invisible.”

“Oh, luv,” Tiffa sighed. “My brother is my mother's son. Maybe not biologically, but in every

other way. His sense of propriety is positively archaic. I've been surprised he's allowed

himself to get as close to you as he has. And that kiss? Alice and I were crowing about it for

days.”

I kept my face averted, uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation, but Tiffa kept rocking

and talking. “What my brother needs is a push. It sure worked when we dangled you in front of

Justin. Maybe it's time for you to spread your wings and force him to make a choice,” she

mused, patting Melody's back. The bottle was long gone and Melody was too, snoring softly with

milk dribbling from the corner of her bow shaped mouth.

[page]“I have been working on something, but I haven't wanted to tell you until it was a sure

thing. I had an artist scheduled to be part of a exhibit at the Sheffield next Saturday night.

He decided he wanted to renegotiate his contract, and ended up renegotiating himself right out

the door. It just so happens that I think your work will gel nicely with the entire exhibit. In

fact, I think your work will stand out. I've been holding back 'Bird Woman' and a few other

pieces, simply because they demand a certain kind of audience. I think we will be able to sell

'Bird Woman' for $5,000 at the exhibit, where it might sit for months in the gallery.”

I gulped and swore under my breath. Tiffa just winked at me. “That's a bargain, luv. Someday

your work will sell for far more, I guarantee it. 'Bird Woman,' 'Rubicon,' 'Witch,' and the one

you named 'Armor' are the only pieces I have left. All of those will be stunning, but I need

more. What do you have completed?”

I had carved one called 'The Saint.' It was St. Patrick immortalized in wood, though the stooped

man with a shepherd's staff walking in the curling flames that appeared to dance around him

could easily be mistaken for something entirely different. The one Wilson had named 'Loss' was

in the basement too, covered by a sheet beside my workbench so I wouldn't have to see it. It

might be my best work yet, but it hurt to look at it. And there were several others, including

the intertwined branches that I had frenetically lost myself in a month ago.

“I can come up with ten.”

“Then it's set. Get me the pieces, and I will make it happen. And Blue? Don't tell Darcy. It

will be our little surprise.”





I finished my shift at the cafe late Thursday night and headed for home, my mind on Saturday's

exhibit, on the carvings I had assembled, and on the call to Reno I hadn't yet made. They must

think I was nuts. Detective Moody had left two messages on my voicemail and I'd received another

from Heidi Morgan at the lab. I told myself after the showcase I would call them.

A big part of my indecision was Wilson. I had shared this journey with him, and in the last

month I had hardly seen him. He'd become my best friend, and I missed him desperately, and was

angry with him for pulling away. I'd decided “space” was just another one of those, “it's not

you, it's me” slogans people use when they want to end a relationship. But friendships weren't