Sweet Hope (Sweet Home #4)(17)

“Come here and see,” I urged, and reluctantly, Elpidio moved to my side and crouched down, careful our bodies didn’t touch. I knew the instant he saw what I was referring to, as a quiet exhalation escaped his lips.

Elpidio ran his hand down his face. “It does,” he agreed in a graveled voice.

“Does the effect of bleeding fit with what inspired the piece? We don’t want to change what it’s meant to represent,” I asked. Elpidio hadn’t named any of his masterpieces, nor provided any background on what inspired them, what the art was meant to portray. As a sculptor, its conception could only ever be explained by one person, him. But as the curator, not knowing anything about the sculptures’ backgrounds made them a nightmare to stage.

“Completely,” he replied breathlessly. Seeming completely taken aback, Elpidio sat on the floor, content to watch the moon-shadows project what looked like black rivulets trailing along the concrete below.

Slumping to my knees beside him, I waited for him to speak. I was used to artists having unconventional methods when exhibiting their work, but Elpidio appeared to be completely at a loss with this process.

Leaning forward, I traced a long a black shadow on the polished concrete floor with my finger to gain some form of composure. When I looked back up, Elpidio was watching me. His gaze was a touch softer than before and his expression was warm.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I know I can get carried away at times. Your work…” I sighed and flushed red in embarrassment. “It makes me all kinds of crazy.” I sputtered a nervous laugh and went back to tracing the shadows near my knees.

Elpidio didn’t speak for several seconds, but then asked, “What do you think he’s bleeding?” Surprised, I glanced at him. Elpidio jerked his chin to the marble statue of the man before us.

“What do I think he’s bleeding?” I asked, confused.

He gave me a stern nod.

As I studied the sculpture, his form bent over as though in agony, I said, “Pain? Blood? Rejection?”

Elpidio’s eyes were unfocused, lost in concentration.

“Is that right? Is it pain? Blood? Something else?”

Elpidio’s eyes abruptly met mine. “Guilt.”

Guilt…

I looked at the sculpture again, this time with fresh eyes. Now I felt the guilt. Each dagger, a sin the man should not have committed… The marble man was breaking apart because of his guilt.

“You… you ever felt guilt like that, Aliyana?”

My heart fluttered at the way Elpidio spoke my name, his tongue wrapping around the Spanish pronunciation perfectly. As I met his eyes, his gaze implored me to answer his question.

Sadly I shook my head. I didn’t carry anything close to the level of guilt portrayed in this piece. In fact, I doubted many did.

Teeth clenched, Elpidio abruptly got to his feet and darted for the exit.

“Are you leaving?” I asked, my voice laced with disappointment. Elpidio stopped dead in his tracks.

“Yes,” he growled low. His voice was broken, but I didn’t think it was in anger, more in distress.

I sensed how badly he wanted to leave. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and his broad muscled back bunched impossibly tight under the thin material of his shirt.

I didn’t want him to go. I wanted him to explain every piece to me like he did with the man split by daggers. I wanted to see this world he’d created through his eyes. I wanted to talk to the man whose work I cherished more than any collection I’d ever studied or seen. I wanted him to explain his life-journey so I could create the exhibition his genius deserved. And if I were being true to myself, I wanted to get to know him too.

“Please,” I whispered desperately and Elpidio cautiously turned to face me.

The expression he wore wasn’t welcoming. In fact, it could only be described as downright threatening. But I had an insatiable need to know more. I didn’t know Elpidio, not at all. But something inside of me wanted to help him heal.

One thing was true. I knew his work. I’d had a glimpse of the real man inside through every curve of his marble creations. He could hide behind the tattoos and long hair, but he couldn’t hide what he displayed in plain sight. His sculptures were him screaming to the world that he was flawed.

“You never name your work,” I stated as Elpidio’s eyes tensed in overt agitation. I stepped forward, looking up nervously through my long lashes. “Your work… you never give them titles.”

Elpidio shrugged, but that flash of insecurity—or was it reluctance?—I’d seen earlier, again washed across his face. I stepped forward again. He didn’t back away as we stood toe to toe.

My hands were shaking. He was so beautifully fascinating… that Latin skin, those forbidding facial tattoos, the heavy coating of ink that covered the real man who lay beneath.

“Why?” I asked. “Why leave your beautiful pieces nameless? Naming them gives them life. A baptism of your creation, so to speak.”

He glared at me. I swallowed hard, feeling rattled. But Elpidio, this time, leaned forward to me, and a chill ran down my spine in anticipation of what he would do.

“Naming them makes it all too f*cking real,” he whispered, his hot breath skirting past my face.

“I don’t underst—” I went to argue, but Elpidio cut me off with his severe expression.