A Different Blue(139)

doors that were firmly shut. “He is going to die when he sees your pieces on display! I can't

wait!” She squealed girlishly, and I felt a wash of intense affection sweep over me. But like

the tide, the wave of love was yanked back into the sea of my disappointment as my thoughts were

focused once again on Wilson.

“I didn't tell him.”

“Yes, luv, I know. I invited him!” Tiffa whispered theatrically. “I told him he had to come

tonight. I said there was a brilliant new artist whose work he had to see. I sent him tickets

and everything. Did he bodge it up then?”

You could say that. I felt pretty bodged up. “I don't know what Wilson's plans are.” My voice

sounded flat and cold, and Tiffa's eyebrows shot up. It wasn't quite true, but I didn't

elucidate.

“Hmm.” Her eyes scoured my face. She pursed her red lips in contemplation. “He bodged it

good,” was all she said. Then she looped her arm through mine and pulled me forward. “Come see

how we've arranged your pieces. They are breathtaking, Blue. I've already had a slew of people

ask after them. You are already a hit.” I let myself be pulled along and vowed to forget Wilson

and the way he had looked at me. I was “a hit.” Tiffa said so, and I was going to do my best

to enjoy the moment, surreal as it all was.

'Bird Woman' filled an entire corner. She was elevated on a black platform. The lighting

overhead turned the wood into liquid gold. For a moment, I saw the sculpture as others would,

and my breath caught in my throat. There was only the hint of a woman in the dramatic sweep of

wood and the suggestion of outstretched wings. It was the reason I hated to title my sculptures;

the title limited it. I didn't want to do that. I wanted people to interpret what they saw

without influence from me.

A few people stood around it, studying it, turning their heads this way and that. My heart

pounded so loudly I thought it would shake the room and its precious contents. Tiffa glided

toward the man who seemed most enamored by the woman encased in wood. She reached out a graceful

hand and touched the man's sleeve.

“Mr. Wayne, this is the artist.” She slid her other hand down into my own. Mr. Wayne turned

toward us. His silver hair was slicked back from his face. It was an interesting face, more

suited to a mobster than an art connoisseur. He was powerfully built, and his black tuxedo fit

him well. He seemed surprised by the introduction, and his mouth curved as his gaze met mine.

“I want her,” he said bluntly, his voice as accented as Tiffa's. He must work at The

Sheffield, too. I felt heat flood my face, and Tiffa laughed, that tinkling waterfall sound that

said, “You are so wonderful – I adore you!”

“And you may have her. The sculpture, that is,” Tiffa responded with a mischievous twinkle. “

This is Blue Echohawk.” She said my name as if I were someone very important. I tried not to

giggle. I settled on stone face. It was my go-to face when I had no clue of how to respond.

“Your work is beautiful. But more importantly, it's fascinating. I find myself getting lost in

it. That's when I know I want something.” Mr. Wayne raised the glass of clear liquid he was

drinking and sipped it thoughtfully. “I almost didn't come tonight. But Tiffa can be quite