Waters Fall (6 page)

Several minutes later, Jake made his way into the kitchen and sat gingerly on one of the stools at the counter.

“Is there any coffee?” His raspy voice and accompanying wince caused a wave of guilt to wash over Nora, but only for a very brief moment. Just then, the kettle began its shrill whistling, and she gloated silently as he clutched his head with both hands. She meandered slowly over to the stove, turned the burner off, and the whistle subsided.

"Afraid not.
I made coffee this morning, but when you didn't get up, I took the extra to work with me, rather than let it go to waste. I'm making some hot tea if you want some."

Jake, elbows on the counter, still holding his head in his hands, didn't respond. Nora opened a cupboard door, withdrew two ceramic mugs, making certain they knocked together repeatedly,
then let the door swing shut with an obnoxious bang.

“Oops!” She apologized brightly, cocking her head and blinking vacuously. “Here you go. Pick your poison.” She set his mug down so that it clanked on the counter in front of him, and she had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. “Oh wait. You already poisoned yourself, didn't you? And now drowning? You aren’t by any chance trying to kill yourself, are you,
Jakey?” This time, it didn’t slip out. This time, she called him that on purpose.

Nora opened a drawer, pulled out a couple spoons,
rattling the silverware caddy unnecessarily, and closed the drawer again, with fervor.

"Please," Jake gasped. "Please stop banging things." He lifted his head and looked across the counter at her, his eyes pained and accusing.

She opened another cupboard, yanked out the basket of teabags, and slammed the door again, with as much force as she dared. “You mean
that
banging? That's what you want me to stop?” She shoved the basket across the counter toward him, and he had to grab at it to keep it from sliding right off the edge and onto the floor. “Have some tea, Jakey. A little peppermint might settle your stomach. And it won't kill you, I promise."

"Stop calling me that."

"What? Jakey? Why? I kinda like Jakey. In fact, I kinda like the fact that you don't." She was being mean, but she didn't care. The anger inside of her had found an escape hatch.

"Shut up, Nora."

"Excuse me?” She planted both hands on the counter opposite where he sat, and leaned forward, thrusting her face in front of his. She could feel her lips curling in a snarl, her words coming out ragged and loud. Suddenly, she was the teakettle, shrieking her boiling rage at him. “Did you just tell me to shut up? What's the problem? Am I talking too much? Too loudly? Or is it just that I'm saying something you don't want to hear? Huh? What is it, Jakey?"

"Shut up!" Jake ground out, and pushed away from the counter, away from her.

"Don't tell me to shut up!" Nora ranted. As though she watched from somewhere above them, she saw her hand come up, her still empty mug raised, then she hurled it across the room, barely missing Jake's head. It bounced off the wall behind him, leaving a noticeable gouge in the plaster, and crashed to the floor, where it shattered in an explosion of ceramic pieces.

Silence enveloped the room, and they both stood like
statues in the aftermath of her eruption. Finally, Jake moved. Nora stared at him as he tenuously made his way across the minefield of shards to the pantry to get the broom and dustpan. Without a word, he began sweeping the broken pieces into a pile, then scooping them up, and throwing them away. Nora, deflated and shaking, picked up her purse from the table, walked out of the kitchen, out of the house, and climbed into her car. She backed out of the driveway, and was almost at the end of the block before it occurred to her that she had no idea where she was going.

She simply could not face her office right now. She knew nothing would get done, even if she did return to the stack of purchase orders on her desk.

"What's happening to us?" she whispered. There were still no tears
.

7

Nora stopped at a gas station and topped off her
tank. She checked her watch; it wasn’t even noon yet. Three more hours before she had to be back to pick the kids up from school, since Jake was in no condition to do so himself. The fuel nozzle bucked in her hand, indicating the tank was at capacity, and those three hours seemed to stretch out interminably. She climbed back into her car and sat for several minutes, wondering how she’d fill her time without having to think about what was going on in her home.

A few weeks ago, on the way to a client's house in a neighboring town, she'd driven by an art gallery promoting local artists. In her line of business, the next best thing to a legendary piece of art was a piece of art by a local artist. What better way to use up a few hours today? Soon she was back on the road, a fresh cup of coffee in the console, and some old Seth Adams tunes blaring from the expensive speakers she
’d paid a little extra for when she bought the car a few years ago.

She pulled into a parking spot right up close to the entrance, and waited for the song to end before she turned off the engine. It was one of her favorites, a song called
Reckless
, about the kind of love that made you do crazy things. It always made her feel a little pumped up, and she climbed out of her car with a saucy grin on her face, still humming the chorus.

“Good song.”

Startled, she spun around, dropping her keys. A man leaned against the wall just outside the doorway of the studio, reminding her a little of Jake leaning against the kitchen wall, and it made her stomach do a quick shimmy. She hadn’t noticed him when she pulled in, but obviously he'd been there at least long enough to hear her choice of music.

“Yes. It is. One of my favorites,” she said, regaining her composure. She bent over and picked up her keys, wondering why she wasn't even a little embarrassed by her juvenile behavior. How long had it been since she'd driven around with her music as loud as the speakers could handle, singing at the top of her lungs? She'd kept the windows rolled up today, but only because she had paperwork and sampler books in the backseat. She smiled as she straightened up again. Nope. She wasn't embarrassed at all. In fact, she was feeling just a little reckless herself right now, thanks to Mr. Adams.

As though reading her mind, he asked, “
Reckless
, huh?”

“You know Seth Adams?” she asked, looking over at the man. He just stood there, watching her, an appreciative grin on his face. She thought perhaps he was flirting with her.

“I know his music.”

“Do you like him as an artist, or just my song in particular?”

“Your song?” He raised a dark eyebrow in question.

“My song,” she confirmed, closing her car door behind her. “I've claimed it.” She strolled jauntily toward him, daring him to challenge her. She knew she looked good today, in spite of the terrible situation she’d just run from. She was wearing one of her favorite dresses, an apple green vintage Lana dress, with a wide-belted waist and a snug bodice, softened by the periwinkle sweater she layered over the top of
it. The skirt was full, the hemline falling just above her knees, and her peep toe sling-backs showed off a flash of bright pink toenail polish. With all the rush of getting the kids to school on her own shoulders this morning, she’d only had time to brush out her hair and leave it hanging in sleek straight lines around her face, but even wind-blown, she knew it was her best look. At least, Jake always said so.

“And how do you go about claiming ownership of a song?”

“Exactly the way I just did,” she stated, shrugging one shoulder with a little toss of her hair. “I guarantee you the next time you hear it, you'll think of me.”

Where did
that
come from? She could hardly believe those words popped out of her own lips.

“In that case, I like your song in particular.” He was definitely flirting with her. “So,
what can I do for you today?”

Oh, good grief. Pick up lines? She stepped up onto the sidewalk in front of him, and was somewhat unprepared for how tall he was. Even in her heels, she had to tip her head back to meet his gaze, and she was grateful for the gigantic sunglasses she wore, covering much of her face, and hopefully, most of her blush. The way he was smiling made her think he had a good idea of what was going through her head, glasses or no glasses. She had to get back to business with him, quick, before he misinterpreted her behavior altogether.

“Does that mean you work here?”

He was casually dressed in a pair of jeans, not something she'd expect an art gallery curator to wear.
“I saw your sign out front when I was driving by, and it says you show local artists' work. I'm a decorator, and I'm always looking for good art. I'm hoping to find some here,” she finished lamely, running out of words.

He looked out across the parking lot toward the sign, as if trying to remember what it said, then nodded.
“Sure. I can show you around.”

“Well, don't let me take you from your work. I don't have
anything in particular I need right now; I just want to see what's available. I have a few hours to use up.” She stumbled over her words again. “I'll just wander.”

He tipped his head toward the doorway.
“Come inside. You're not taking me away from anything. I'm just hanging around here, bugging Janelle, because I have nothing else to do either. I was expecting a shipment this morning, and it still hasn't shown up.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Apparently, it's our lucky day. You’ve got a few hours, so if you’ll have me, I’m all yours.”

He stuck out a very large hand.
“Tristan, at your service.”

“And I'm Nora.” She shook his hand, her face burning over his suggestive comments, his low voice like a velvet caress, and she wasn't surprised when he didn't immediately release her, but drew her through the door instead.

“Welcome to my world,” he said, letting her fingers slip slowly from his grasp. She removed her glasses, her eyes widening with delight.

Sculptures graced the tops of podiums and pillars, wall nooks, and low platforms; water
nymphs, botanical creations, geometric shapes in metals and plasters, marble and wood. Hanging from the ceiling, beneath the warm glow of focused lighting, were structures looking as though they'd just floated in from outer space or from deep beneath the ocean. Blues and greens, silvers and purples, shot through with sienna and gold, the colors were organic and unearthly at the same time. It was eclectic and otherworldly, the haunting music of Celtic instruments playing softly in the background.

“Oh, my.”
Nora's eyes were drawn to one sculpture in particular, a piece full of both movement and stillness. A child, or a young woman, poised with arms extended, hair swept up in a swirling pattern above her head. The remnants of a dress turned in and out around her body, and her feet were tight together, toes pointed. She wasn't standing, she was being lifted off her feet.

No, she was sinking.

“Oh.” She said it again as she approached. Something in the posture, in the lines, pulled at her heart, and without thinking, she reached out to run a hand along the curve of the girl's hip.

“This one,
hm?”

“Oh, my.”
They were all the words she could manage.

“What do you like about her?” He asked after several contemplative moments.

Nora considered her answer, trying to understand what moved her so deeply about the creature. “I don't know, really. I feel like I...can relate. But relate to what?” She asked the question more of herself than to the man who stood on the other side of the sculpture studying her reaction. Up close, she could see red- and blue-coated electrical wires woven in and out of scrap metal, forming the girl's neck and face, her arms, and feet. The billowing dress was tattered canvas, painted the color of light shining through water, and her hair looked like it might have been fashioned from the strands of an unraveled mop, crimped and rippling through unseen ocean currents. The upturned face, incomplete features made from pieces of broken pottery, euphoric from a distance; shattered up close.

Could she put any of that into words?

“She’s like a perfect combination of pain and pleasure, of suffering and joy. Like she’s surfacing and drowning at the same time.” She paused before she continued, knowing her words were going to sound silly and formulaic, but she didn’t really care. “It’s as though she embodies the essence of a woman’s soul.”

Tristan didn't respond for so long, that Nora finally looked up at him. She was surprised to see him staring at her, a curious expression on his face.

“What?” She tucked her hair behind her ear, self-conscious beneath his unguarded gaze. “Did I say something stupid? I'm no art connoisseur, you know. I just like pretty things.”   

“Stupid? No.” Tristan crossed his arms, and his eyes drifted slowly back to the sculpture. “I think you pegged it.
I’ve just never heard anyone say it quite like that. And I've heard a lot of responses to this piece, believe me.” He cocked his head and looked at her again. “Wander around a bit down here, then I want to show you some paintings by the same artist on the second floor. Take your time. I need to check in with Janelle.”

At the mention of her name, a tall, well-formed redhead peeked around a corner and waved.
“Hello. I’m Janelle, the curator here, but you’re in good hands with that one.” She nodded toward Tristan and winked. “If you need anything at all, though, you just look for me, all right?”

Nora nodded.
“Of course.”

“Speaking of your good hands, Tristan, could you help me a minute? I’m doing a bit of rearranging over here and I need to borrow your man power.”

Tristan grinned and flexed a bicep for the ladies. Janelle snorted, disappearing back around the corner, and Nora looked away, embarrassed and charmed.

The studio was broken up into several sections. The artwork seemed to have no rhyme or reason to placement, yet each display flowed from one to the other seamlessly. If this was Janelle
’s doing, the woman had a gift for merchandising. Nora took her time just looking, studying brush strokes and textures, her shoes making no noise on the thickly carpeted floor. 

When Tristan rejoined her, he let her meander, speaking quietly, commenting on the different pieces and artists. None, though, touched her like the statue up front. Tristan was directing her up the stairs, explaining the layout of the gallery on the second floor; she'd have to remember to ask him about the drowning woman
’s creator when they came back down.

The second floor was also divided into sections, this time by artist. They wandered through the rooms with walls painted in deep hues, dramatically offsetting the artwork, and Tristan often stepped back to let her absorb pieces on her own. She appreciated his sensitivity and thoroughly enjoyed
his non-aggressive sales technique.

She recognized the work of the artist immediately. The paintings were like a flattened version of the sculpture downstairs. There were three dimensional elements to many of them; recycled odds and ends painted into the scenery. An old-fashioned metal seat-belt was the cinched waist on a shadowy figure leaning against a tree in the moonlight, shards of plywood layered into the side of a building. Some of the work was soft and subtle, mysterious and dreamy; other pieces were darker, shrouded in something that made Nora uncomfortable. She especially liked the paintings with swirling colors and organic structures, but there were a few that almost repulsed her in their heaviness. She couldn't imagine putting one of the darker pieces on anyone's walls, and she said so.

“I hear that quite often. But when the muse hits, what's a man to do?” Tristan was standing behind her as she studied a stunning painting in blues and blacks, streaks of goldleaf rippling through the color like sunlight reflecting off turbulent water. Glancing at the signature of the piece, she saw it; a slashing T with a few squiggles following it like a tail. She spun around, alarmed that she’d spoken so bluntly.

“
You
did this? These are yours?” She pointed toward the staircase. “That... the drowning woman downstairs? You made her?”

“
Isolde
. And she's not really drowning. It's only what she wanted to do in her heart.”

“
Isolde
.” Nora repeated softly. “Tristan's
Isolde
. Of course.” She chewed her lip, not sure whether it was romantic or ridiculously cliché. Except that there was nothing cliché about the drowning Isolde downstairs, and the incredible creature came from somewhere inside this man's head. Something about that was very romantic.

“Yes, my
Isolde
.” He grinned proudly. “It's how I think of her. How I think she thinks of herself; as mine.”

Nora nodded mutely, still reeling at the idea of this man, with his large, work-roughened hands, creating something so
wildly feminine. How could he possibly know what it was like, that feeling of breaking apart, of coming undone from the inside out?