Anyhow, Hamilton's latest acquisition had wings. Seriously. I was surprised because he didn't normally do angels or anything remotely religious. Snorting, I strolled over to the pool to check it out. And discovered that it wasn't an angel after all. Oh, the face was perfectly appropriate for your run-of-the-mill heavenly, young male but the wings were all wrong. They weren't feathered. They were more like a bat's wings, or maybe even the wings of a gargoyle.
The piece was considerably different than anything Hamilton had ever hauled home before. For lack of a better word, it was perfect. The attention to detail was incredible. It was almost as if the flawless gray stone had been poured into a mold, instead of being shaped with a hammer and chisel. If it weren't for the statue's drab color, you'd have thought the young man was alive, ready to shake your hand and introduce himself.
On top of that, he was the most beautiful guy I'd ever seen. I'm talking male-model material. Tall. Broad shoulders. Lean hips. But his most compelling feature was his mouth. Not that everything else wasn't crazy beautiful too. His thickly lashed eyes and high cheekbones. The straight blade of his nose. The wide jaw that tapered down into a squared-off chin. But his mouth was just too much. His upper lip was a wide arc over a full lower lip. Let's just say it was a verrry European mouth and leave it at that. He looked like a Paris runway model who just happened to have a set of wings.
So, he was an enigma. Way too beautiful to be a gargoyle and not quite the stuff of angels. With my hands on my hips, I circled the statue and soaked up the details. He wore a pair of long breeches that reached his knees, like a pair of loose shorts. A wide belt cinched them around his hips. From the belt hung a sheathed knife and a small pouch. His wide chest was bare, and so were his feet. For some reason, a few splinters of wood stuck out from beneath his soles.
His ripped physique would have made most girls drool. But I'm not like most girls and I'm definitely not the drooling-over-guys kind. Besides, in my opinion the work was so perfect that it was almost unrealistic. C'mon. Nobody that slim and lean had muscles that bulged like that. He was too perfect. Almost ridiculously perfect. Art shouldn't try to mimic perfection. It's meant to be the artist's expression of reality. Again, I snorted and shook my head as I moved away and got back to work, cleaning out the ashtrays. I was surprised how long it took me. I'm normally pretty efficient, but my gaze kept straying back to the sculpture beside the pool. With a last admiring glance, I headed back for the alcove and the door into the house.
"Did you see Hamilton's latest acquisition?" I asked my mom when I was back in the kitchen. I stuffed the paper bag with the cigarette ashes into the trash compactor.
"I haven't had a chance to get outside," she answered. "But I knew the girls got into one of his deliveries yesterday. They opened a crate they found in the garage. What's it like?"
"Perfect," I answered.
My mom lifted an eyebrow as she wiped down the marble countertop. "That's high praise from you, Elaina."
"I don't mean it's perfect from an artistic viewpoint," I told her. "It's just perfect in the everything-else department."
Mom gave me a questioning look as if to say, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You have to see it to believe it," I informed her cynically.
But despite my cynicism, I got pretty attached to the beautiful sculpture by the pool. Enough so, that I took my sketch book outside one afternoon and did a couple of drawings. The one of his face turned out pretty nice and it comforted me to think I could take his image with me when I left for Colorado, especially since the pictures I'd taken with my phone had failed to capture the expression in his eyes. There was also some solace in the idea he'd always be here whenever I returned home to Texas.
As the weeks passed, I got into the habit of checking on him every morning. Just to make sure he was still as gorgeous as I'd remembered. I was pretty upset on the day I found him covered with lipstick. I mean covered. Not just his face. Pretty much everywhere else, as well, right down to his knees. I could have killed someone. Two someones, actually. Didn't those girls know what oils and grease could do to a priceless art object like that?
I stormed back into the house and headed for the kitchen where I found my mom. "What the hell happened here last night?" I growled as I filled a bowl with hot, soapy water.
My mother's mouth tightened into a grim line. "The girls had some friends over."
"How many?" I asked, thinking there were at least twenty different shades of lipstick involved.
"Fifty or sixty. I don't think Kaylee and Kylee even knew half of them. It got pretty wild."
"They shouldn't drag strangers in here," I grumbled. "Hamilton has too many valuable things."
"I don't think anything's missing," Mom soothed.
I didn't tell her that wasn't the point. Most of Hamilton's art was too heavy to cart off so it wasn't going to get stolen. But they could have ruined something. They could have ruined him. They could have broken off one of his delicately carved eyelashes. They were so slender that I could easily imagine that happening.
The soapy water sloshed in the bowl as I huffed out of the kitchen. Back outside, I gently sponged the lipstick from his face, terrified the grease might have penetrated the rock, leaving stains. But the stone didn't appear to be porous, and when I was finished I could see there was no damage done.
I was so relieved.
"Looks like you were pretty popular last night," I murmured. With my finger, I lifted a red bra from the tip of his wing. I checked out the cups and wondered what it would be like to have a chest that big. You'd never see your feet. And you'd spend the rest of your life wondering what shoes you were wearing. "Don't you feel violated?" I asked him softly.
Not surprisingly, he didn't answer.
"Probably not," I added, realizing it was a pretty silly question to ask a guy. And an even sillier one to ask a guy who couldn't talk.
I checked his eyes, cast downward in a permanently melancholy expression, and decided that he looked like he agreed with me. Okay, I was probably just projecting my own quasi-feminist values on him but I felt like we'd bonded over the lipstick and bra.
After that, I took a bowl of soapy water with me when I checked on him every morning. Kaylee and Kylee had gotten into the habit of kissing him goodnight before they went to bed, and unless the weather was really cold, I usually found some lipstick on his face. I actually got to where I was disappointed when I found him clean, because I enjoyed the time I spent washing his face then checking with my fingers to make sure I hadn't missed anything. In particular, I loved running my thumb over the sensual shape of his mouth. It was just so…awesomely masculine.
And even though I was angry with the Double K's for the way they treated the fine piece of art, I was jealous too. I was envious of those nightly kisses stolen from the most beautiful creature on earth. I wanted some of that. But I was determined not to lower myself to their level. I refused to kiss the statue…no matter how much I wanted to…even though the urge grew stronger every day. All I can say is, when I finally broke down, at least I wasn't wearing anything on my lips.
It was early morning and I'd just spent an hour cleaning up beside the pool. There had been beer bottles everywhere, some of them lying in pieces on the patio. I cleaned up the broken glass and washed the statue's face. I knew my mother was upstairs in the master bedroom; I could hear the hum of the vacuum cleaner. The girls weren't home. After the party, they'd taken off with their friends. God only knew where they were "sleeping it off" and I doubt anyone else cared. But there was no one around. So, no one would see me make a fool of myself.
Just about then, my cell phone let out a loud screech and I jumped so high I almost went into the pool. I really needed to change my ring tone before I got to Boulder. The Bates-Motel scream was so ninth grade. I dug the phone from my pocket and talked to Amie for a few minutes. She's my best friend from high school who went to college in California, the traitor. She could have gone to Boulder and shared a place
with me but she elected to study math at Harvey Mudd. She even had a boyfriend already!
Naturally, she had to tell me all about Luke, giving me a blow-by-blow account of their latest make-out event. I paced across the patio and listened, saying "uh-huh" and "yeah" in the appropriate places, all the time watching the sculpture beside the pool. I hadn't told Amie about him. Why should I? I mean, she had a boyfriend. A real boyfriend with thick brown hair and hazel eyes. All I had was a statue…that belonged to Robert Hamilton.
Eventually, she hung up. And for several moments afterward, I stood gazing up at the statue, feeling envious of Amie and the Double K's and all the kissing going on without me. I was missing the boat. And the train. And every other form of romantic transportation.
"Sorry about this," I told the statue, feeling like I wasn't any better than those spoiled Hamilton girls. But I just couldn't resist. I'd fought it for weeks and I couldn't do it anymore. It was late December and I'd be leaving for school soon. I couldn't go without knowing how his very European mouth fit against mine. So, I lifted myself up on my toes and touched my lips to his.
I'd touched him before with my fingers—plenty of times—and I was used to the feel of the cool, hard stone. But as my mouth met his, the stone wasn't cool or hard. It was warm. His lips were soft and warm against mine. And not in a passive way, either. This is going to sound bizarre but…the statue was kissing me back.
Chapter Two
Startled, I jumped away from the statue and just caught a glimpse of lake-blue eyes before we started falling together. I went into panic mode. All I could think was that the statue was going to get chipped or broken and it wouldn't be perfect anymore. If that happened, I'd never forgive myself. And if anything happened to his elegant face, I'd end my life.
"No," I shouted, clawing at his shoulders and trying to shove him back upright. But I only weighed ninety-eight pounds and that wasn't enough to stop his downward momentum. He went over. The tip of his wing sliced through the plastic pool cover and we plunged into the water together.
Believe it or not, at first I was actually relieved because he hadn't hit the hard stone tiles on the patio. He'd probably settle at the bottom of the pool without any damage. Then I remembered that I couldn't swim. I can't even dog paddle. In fact, if I'd been on the Titanic when it sank, I'd have survived the shipwreck no problem…because I'd have been the first one in the lifeboat.
I should have yelled for help, though there wasn't much chance of my mother hearing me. But I never got a chance to call out. I was wearing a heavy pair of boots and started sinking right away.
I thought it was all over…and how upset my mother would be when she found me at the bottom of the pool. The idea made me try harder to reach the surface. But trying harder didn't get me anywhere. I continued to sink with a dreadful inevitability, like I was being sucked to my death. I was still holding my breath but feeling light headed, my lungs screaming for air.
Unexplainably, someone was suddenly in the water with me, helping me, pushing me upward toward the edge of the pool. I didn't know if a neighbor or gardener had somehow seen me and had jumped in the pool to help, or if I was getting aid from the metaphysical realm. Either way, I didn't question the source. Instead, I groped at the pool edge and dragged myself from the water then turned around and stretched out my hand.
But there was no one there.
Panicked, I tore at the blue plastic cover, thinking that my rescuer was in trouble and it was my fault. I could see something down there, at the bottom of the pool, and assumed it was the poor soul who'd helped me. As I ran for the lifesaving gear hanging on the wall a few feet away, I yanked out my phone and called 911. With the phone pressed to my ear, I dragged a long rod from the wall and thrust it through the hole in the plastic cover.
When I finally got a good look at what lay at the bottom of the swimming pool, I couldn't believe my eyes. It was the statue. And somehow, he'd come to life to rescue me. But it hadn't been without sacrifice. He no longer stood with his wings spread and his arms crossed over his chest. Instead, his once-superb frame was contorted and twisted into an unfamiliar shape.
Mom couldn't understand why I was so upset. The statue looked unharmed to her, meaning there were no chips. No cracks. No broken limbs or missing pieces. But she hadn't seen him before. She didn't know how perfect he'd been. And she couldn't possibly understand that he'd been alive in there when he'd helped me, and how I'd probably killed him.
I'm sure the rescue unit that responded to my call was annoyed when they arrived and discovered there was no one to save. They'd probably have reported me to the authorities, but they could see how upset I was. So they released the steel cable on the front of their red emergency vehicle, snaked it around the side of the house and winched the statue from the pool. My mom thanked them for their help and walked back with them as they rewound the cable on the drum.
Alone on the patio, I crouched beside my fallen angel while the sun poured down around us. "Please wake up," I whispered, my voice hoarse with emotion. "I'm so sorry this happened." I looked around, over my shoulder. "Nobody will see you. Only me. And I already know you're alive in there."
Which wasn't actually true because I was afraid I'd killed him. His eyes, formerly cast downward in melancholy contemplation, now stared upward in panic. My stomach twisted into a tight knot. And I knew that look in his eyes would haunt me forever.
When Hamilton got back from his trip a week later and checked out his latest acquisition, he assumed that what he saw was what he'd received. Not surprisingly, he decided to return it to the seller and demanded a refund.
I could have shown Hamilton and my mom the photos I'd taken, or the sketch I'd drawn before the pool incident. I could have tried to convince them that the statue hadn't always looked like the "ugly relic" that Hamilton had labeled him. But some private instinct warned me that might not be a good idea. Hamilton would probably think I was lying and claim that I'd created the picture on my computer. Mom might think there was something wrong with me.
And beyond all that, whoever had shipped the statue to Hamilton might know something that would explain what had happened that day beside the pool. If I ever got a chance, I wanted to track that person down and talk to them about the statue—which I now thought of as an angel because of the way he'd saved my life. And I couldn't track that person down unless I knew where the sculpture had come from. For me to learn more about him, he had to go back.
So, with the help of the gardener, Hamilton dragged the twisted stone out to the garage and shoved it back into its crate. My mother printed out a label and the shipping company picked up the wooden box a few days before Christmas. The statue was gone.
For some reason, its absence dragged on me like a heavy weight. Up until then, I hadn't realized how important he'd become to me or how much I'd looked forward to seeing him every day. And it killed me every time I thought about what I'd done to him, how I'd ruined him. At Hamilton's place, I moved more slowly, taking forever to finish my work. I was one big ball of guilty regret.
By that time, the Hamilton mansion was decorated top to bottom with pine boughs and berries and about a million red plaid ribbons that I'd painstakingly tied into bows. It looked appropriately festive and I thought maybe Hamilton would give Mom a few days off before Christmas. Instead, he made her go shopping with him downtown. Seriously. I'm thinking this guy is probably related to Scrooge. But at least their shopping trip gave me a chance to get online while they were out of the house. I logged onto the shipping website and printed out the label for the last shipment that had left the house, complete with address. I think I would have followed that statue anywhere. I was just lucky he was headed to Colorado.
I had a place to go when I reached Boulder, an "upstairs" apartment in a house that I'd found online. It was a small studio over a garage but I could tell from the pictures that it had plenty of light and that was the main attraction for an artist like me. The place was furnished and the kitchen was supp
lied with a few essential cooking utensils; at least that's what the ad said. And there was a washer and dryer in the garage that I was supposed to share with the three engineering students who rented the house downstairs.
It's amazing how much stuff you can cram into a VW Rabbit when you set your mind to it. I had my computer, of course, as well as bedding, towels, all my clothes, shoes, boots, my portfolio full of assorted drawing paper and a lot of books.
I'd told my mom I'd spend the night in Kansas but the weather looked good and I was enjoying my first big road trip so I drove straight through the night. It was four o'clock the next afternoon when I pulled up in front of my new home, a yellow wood-frame two-story place built in the thirties or forties. At the side of the house, a wooden staircase climbed up to my apartment over the garage.
I was dead tired but couldn't leave all my stuff outside in the car so I started carrying things in. Having been a flatlander all my life, I wasn't prepared for the thin Colorado air and the altitude about knocked me out. Lucky for me, there was a guy standing beside my car when I went down for a second load. He was really nice, kinda cute with slightly wavy, almost-blond hair and—best of all—he offered to help. Turns out he was one of my downstairs neighbors. His name was Levi.
"We're planning a party to kick off the semester," he told me as he helped me carry the last armload of books into my apartment. "Me and my roommates."
"Sounds like fun," I told him. "When is it?"
"Friday night, two weeks from now. You might as well come since it'll be too noisy up here to sleep."
"Thanks for the warning," I snickered as I walked him back to the door. "I'll try to be there."
So, things were looking up. Maybe I'd have a kinda cute, helpful boyfriend the next time I talked to Amie. The prospect should have lifted my spirits but, somehow, the idea of a boyfriend made me feel depressed. For some bizarre reason, I felt like I belonged to someone else and I was cheating on him.
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