Eventually, Claudio sits up straighter and lets out a melancholic sigh. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but I understand how you must feel. She sounded like a pretty special person. You were lucky to have had her in your life.”
“And unlucky now that she’s gone.” I exhale noisily, feeling like I can’t get enough air out of my lungs. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. She saw something in me that no one else did. You know, my parents … my mom tried her best as a single parent but she didn’t know what to do with me half the time. My father, he never even cared to make the time. But Robyn … sh-she cared. She gave me confidence, she made me a good writer, made me a better person.”
“You didn’t need Robyn to become more confident, to become more talented. Robyn was merely the artist and you were the work.”
I bite my lip, trying to understand. “What do you mean?”
“You were already those things. You were like … when I have an idea for my sculpture. You know how I said it’s sometimes already formed, already existing. You already exist, Grace, you just had Robyn bring it out of you. She was an archeologist and you were the dream.” A flash of intensity comes across his eyes and he looks away. “Robyn helped you realize these things about yourself, but she didn’t make you. She only helped.”
It feels like I have a lump of bread stuck in my throat. “But what if…” My voice sounds weak and shaky and I hate it. “What if I’ll remain buried now? Without her?”
He looks to me and gives a slight shake of his head, his eyes soft. “No. You are in the midst of uncovering yourself. Right here, right now. You will discover who you are. You will flourish.” He twists in his seat to face me, reaches over and places his hand on mine and just that simple gesture makes the whole world tilt on its axis, my eyes drawn to the sight of his tanned skin against my pale hand.
“I see it happening before my eyes. And it’s all you.” He gives it a squeeze, causing heat to curl down my spine.
Then he takes his hand away and I feel like I’m left hanging on an edge.
“Come on,” he says, getting to his feet. “I know what to do.”
I stare up at him blankly, my heart drumming so fast and loud in my chest that it’s making it hard to think. “What to do about what?”
He walks around and pulls out my chair. “What to do about Grace Harper.”
I get up, my feet feeling unsteady, and I’ve never felt so unsure about anything, and follow his lead into the house.
He goes behind the bar and grabs a bottle of red wine, inspecting the label before putting it back down and grabbing another. Then, having second thoughts, he grabs both, tucking one under his bicep, while grabbing two wine glasses with his free hand.
It’s a beautiful sight to see.
He nods toward his studio.
“In there,” he says, an order more than anything.
I feel somewhat honored to be invited into his studio, so I walk inside, looking around. Aside from mounds of unsculpted clay on the table and some sketches, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of work being done in here, at least nothing more than the last time I was in here.
He places the wine and glasses on the table, right on top of the sketches, then heads to the corner of the room where he grabs an old portable stereo from the corner, then throws a sheet off a stool. With his other hand, he picks up the stool and brings it over to me, placing the stereo at the edge of the table.
“Sit,” he says.
I sit down on the stool, feeling a rush of trepidation run through me.
He gives me a quick smile. “Don’t look so worried,” he says. He takes hold of my shoulders, his hands feeling large and impossibly strong on my bare skin, and then spins me so that I’m facing the table.
Then he pours us both a glass of wine and hits play on his stereo.
I’m not surprised to hear INXS blast out, a song I’m not familiar with.
“Ah,” he says, reaching over and turning it down. “Too loud, too loud.”
He leans across and grabs the first hunk of clay and