A Different Blue(136)

I had whittled away the heaviness from the branches, creating hollows and sinews and shaping the

suggestion of lovers wrapped around each other while still maintaining the natural innocence and

simplicity of the merging branches. The branches were mountain mahogany, the wood a natural

reddish brown. I had rubbed several applications of black stain into one branch, and it gleamed

like a black jungle cat, the golden red tones melding with the dark stain so the black looked

like it was silhouetted in sunlight. I applied no stain to the other branch but had simply

buffed and glossed the golden red wood until it glowed like amber. The effect was that the two

limbs in the sculpture appeared to be different wood, branches from two different kinds of

trees. The result was a statement all its own.

I looked away. I felt hot and angry, and my chest was tight with a feeling Wilson always seemed

to stir in me.

“I'd rather not.”

“Why?” Wilson sounded genuinely confused by my refusal, since I was usually eager to discuss

my carvings with him.

“Why do you want my explanation? What do you see when you look at it?” I said crossly. Wilson

withdrew his hand from the sculpture and grabbed my braid where it hung over my shoulder. He

tugged it gently, wrapping it around his hand as he did.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. I'm preoccupied,” I protested. “And my art is not about what I see. It's

about what I feel. And right now I don't really want to discuss what I feel.” I tried to pull

my hair free from his hand, but he wound it tighter, pulling me toward him.

“I see limbs and love and lust,” Wilson stated flatly. I stopped resisting, and my eyes rose

to his. Wilson's gaze was wide and frank, but his jaw was clenched as if he knew he was crossing

that invisible line he had drawn for himself.

“I'm not surprised you see those things,” I said softly.

“Why?” His eyes were intense, and I was suddenly furious. I was in love with Wilson, no doubt

about it, but I would not be toyed with, and I sure as hell wasn't going to play kissy face ten

minutes after Pamela left.

“You've just spent the evening with Pamela,” I reminded him sweetly. “She is a beautiful

woman.”

Wilson's eyes flashed, and he dropped my braid, turning back toward the sculpture. I could tell

he was mentally counting to ten. If I made him angry, it was his own fault. What did he think I

was going to do? Wrap myself around him after he had ignored me off and on for months? I wasn't

that girl. But maybe he thought I was. I took several deep breaths and ignored the tension that

simmered between us. It was thick enough to slice and serve with a big dollop of denial. He took

several steps, his hands fisted in his hair, putting some distance between us.

I stood my ground, waiting for him to make the next move. I had no idea what he was doing here.

And he didn't seem to know either. When he looked at me again, his mouth was set in a grim line,

and his eyes held a note of pleading, as if he needed to convince me of something.

“You said your art is about what you feel, not what you see. I told you what I see. Now you

tell me what you feel,” he demanded.

“What are we talking about, Wilson?” I shot back. I walked toward him, hands shoved in my

pockets. “Are we talking about the sculpture?” He watched me as I approached, but I didn't