Anything for Her - By Janice Kay Johnson Page 0,54

looked at him, he nodded at the work. “The stone.”

“Oh.”

It was something of the same concept as the stone man, but very different in execution. A woman seemed to be rising from what had to be the curl of a wave. Her arms were at her sides, but her torso was clearly outlined and both lithe and feminine. Her head was tipped back, as if she gazed at the heavens. Her face was detailed enough to express exultation, but far from precisely detailed. The entire piece was about movement and emotion.

“You’re an artist.” Allie felt like an idiot. Even though he’d said he didn’t carve realistic pieces, she’d still imagined this was a hobby for him. That whatever he did would be pretty. But this was so much more than that, she was stunned.

Discomfort showed on his face. “I may be getting there.”

“Getting there?” Then she saw what had to be his work in progress.

“This one isn’t done.” He sounded awkward.

Allie ignored him. The style of this piece was dramatically different. For one thing, clearly the details were going to be very fine indeed. The stone was a dark green, dull where it hadn’t been polished, gleaming richly where it had been.

“It’s, er, a torpedo, nose-down in the ocean floor.” Nolan was standing behind her as she reached out to touch a sea star, exquisite and real, textured like ones she’d seen in tide pools. And the arm of an octopus reached up to embrace the torpedo, the surface of it glossy and...

“Oh! Look at the suction cups.” Delighted, Allie touched them, then studied barnacles and a crudely formed crab scuttling up the barrel of the torpedo. There were lumps he had yet to carve into whatever creatures they would be. “The sea is making the torpedo its own,” she said in awe.

He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Allie turned to face him. “Why on earth do you waste your time on countertops?”

“To pay the bills. And because that’s where I started. Who I thought I was. A stonemason.”

“But that’s not who you are anymore, is it?”

He moved his shoulders as if to relieve tension. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

She shook her head. “You do know.” Then found she was still shaking her head in a kind of daze. “I thought we did the same kind of thing, only the materials were different. But I was wrong. There are artists who work with fabric, but I’m not one. I’m only a quilt maker. You’re an artist,” she said again.

“You are, in your own way.”

“No. I can’t seem to move past the traditional patterns. True artists use fabric in new ways. At most, I reinterpret, see ways a block can be turned on its head to be new, or how color can transform the traditional. That’s different. Remind me to show you pictures of some art quilts.”

Of course, he argued. They were still arguing when he took her back to the house and as he made a simple Alfredo sauce for noodles and took a salad from the refrigerator.

He talked about techniques, and she did the same, explaining what appliqué was while admitting she rarely did it.

“It’s finicky work. And that sounds silly, when the quilting stitches themselves are so tiny, but...it’s different, and I don’t enjoy it the same way. I’m actually making a combination pieced-and-appliqué quilt right now, though, only a wall-hanging size.” It could be a crib quilt, she’d thought, and knew that was what she’d really had in mind. She’d wanted it to be magical and treasured someday by a child. Maybe by her own. “I’ll have to show it to you.”

“Tell me about it.” He sounded as though he really wanted to know.

“The blocks at the bottom are the pieced ones. They’re rocking horses. With each row of blocks, the horses become more fluid. Eventually they leap free of their rockers. By the top, they’re running with manes and tails flying. I thought about giving the very last one, in the corner, wings,” she said a little shyly.

“It sounds beautiful. I do want to see it.” He took a swallow of his milk, his eyes never leaving her face. “Can you sell this one?”

Allie made a face at him. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided. Most of my quilts are for sale, you know.”

“As most of my work is.”

“Have you kept any of your sculptures, besides the stone man?”

“A couple of small pieces. I’ll show you.”

He did show her, and then he showed her his bedroom,