When every thing else heals, he wants to see it again.” She studied her hands and refused to give in to the tears that struggled for release. “I might have to have cosmetic repair done to my mouth. I’ll have scars, but he won’t know how bad until I heal.”
She watched Justin squeeze the steering wheel until his knuckles were almost white. “I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”
“I wish I’d never met them. But I did and what happened, happened.” She shrugged with more indifference than she felt. “So now I learn to live with a new face.”
“You have a perfect face.” He smiled and it even looked real. Her dad had said those exact words, but the sadness in his eyes betrayed his true feelings.
“I think the goo gives it an extra special glow.” She flashed one cheek and then the other at him.
“Definitely.”
*
This girl is amazing. After all she’s been through, she jokes. And she holds my hand.
Justin felt stupid over getting excited about that, but he was. She was unlike anybody he’d ever met and he didn’t want to screw it up.
Silence grew in the truck and even Eric Church singing about his hometown couldn’t dissipate the awkwardness. When they finally neared the gallery, he gave her a wink. “Are you ready for Spring Creek’s big gallery?”
“So, how did a town as small as Spring Creek end up with an art gallery?”
“It’s not exactly the Tate.”
“The Tate? You know it?”
Score one for small-town boy. “Well, I’ve never been to London, so I’ve never seen it. But I know it’s supposed to be pretty cool.”
“We went during spring break a couple of years ago. My parents don’t get modern art, but I thought it was fantastic. The first room we entered had this huge canvas, the size of a wall. The beauty was in the strokes, the color changes, and the texture. It was so deep, and rich, and big that it pulled you into it.” She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds and gave a deep sigh. “It was one of those pieces that you could just feel. Then Dad turned to Mom and said, ‘We can throw red paint on a wall and call it art.’ I was so embarrassed.”
“Yeah, don’t expect anything that spectacular here.” He parked against the curb in front of the gallery. Next to the door was a cat sculpted from car parts.
The gallery was narrow, maybe twenty feet across. Pottery was displayed on a three-tiered wooden shelf that stretched the length of the space. “These are cool.” She pointed to a row of jugs that had faces on them.
“Those are by an artist named Block. He’s a local guy.”
Some of the jug faces grimaced like gargoyles, while others grinned with an I’ve got a secret expression. The colors were bold, matching the attitude of the pieces. At the end of the row was a squat green-glazed pitcher covered in eyes. “This is awesome. The piece is studying the viewer. We become a part of the exhibit. I’d like to read his artist statement.”
A thin, gray-haired woman appeared from behind a curtain in the back of the gallery. “Hi, I thought I heard somebody come in.” Her eyes grew slightly larger when she saw Ryan, but she seemed more interested in Justin. She patted him on the shoulder. “It’s been too long, Justin.”
Ryan gave him a questioning look and he knew he’d have to explain his knowledge of art. But that would come later. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She turned to Ryan. “The artist once said he allowed the jugs to decide what to become. Welcome to our little gallery. Let me know if I can help with anything—I’m wrestling with a frame in the back.” She turned to Justin again, her face drawn, her eyes heavy with sorrow. “It’s good to see you.”
Justin mumbled, “Thanks.” The woman retreated to the room behind the curtain.
The atmosphere turned heavy. “So, who is this guy who frequents small-town galleries, knows about a gallery on the other side of the pond, yet won’t walk all the way to the art
She watched Justin squeeze the steering wheel until his knuckles were almost white. “I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”
“I wish I’d never met them. But I did and what happened, happened.” She shrugged with more indifference than she felt. “So now I learn to live with a new face.”
“You have a perfect face.” He smiled and it even looked real. Her dad had said those exact words, but the sadness in his eyes betrayed his true feelings.
“I think the goo gives it an extra special glow.” She flashed one cheek and then the other at him.
“Definitely.”
*
This girl is amazing. After all she’s been through, she jokes. And she holds my hand.
Justin felt stupid over getting excited about that, but he was. She was unlike anybody he’d ever met and he didn’t want to screw it up.
Silence grew in the truck and even Eric Church singing about his hometown couldn’t dissipate the awkwardness. When they finally neared the gallery, he gave her a wink. “Are you ready for Spring Creek’s big gallery?”
“So, how did a town as small as Spring Creek end up with an art gallery?”
“It’s not exactly the Tate.”
“The Tate? You know it?”
Score one for small-town boy. “Well, I’ve never been to London, so I’ve never seen it. But I know it’s supposed to be pretty cool.”
“We went during spring break a couple of years ago. My parents don’t get modern art, but I thought it was fantastic. The first room we entered had this huge canvas, the size of a wall. The beauty was in the strokes, the color changes, and the texture. It was so deep, and rich, and big that it pulled you into it.” She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds and gave a deep sigh. “It was one of those pieces that you could just feel. Then Dad turned to Mom and said, ‘We can throw red paint on a wall and call it art.’ I was so embarrassed.”
“Yeah, don’t expect anything that spectacular here.” He parked against the curb in front of the gallery. Next to the door was a cat sculpted from car parts.
The gallery was narrow, maybe twenty feet across. Pottery was displayed on a three-tiered wooden shelf that stretched the length of the space. “These are cool.” She pointed to a row of jugs that had faces on them.
“Those are by an artist named Block. He’s a local guy.”
Some of the jug faces grimaced like gargoyles, while others grinned with an I’ve got a secret expression. The colors were bold, matching the attitude of the pieces. At the end of the row was a squat green-glazed pitcher covered in eyes. “This is awesome. The piece is studying the viewer. We become a part of the exhibit. I’d like to read his artist statement.”
A thin, gray-haired woman appeared from behind a curtain in the back of the gallery. “Hi, I thought I heard somebody come in.” Her eyes grew slightly larger when she saw Ryan, but she seemed more interested in Justin. She patted him on the shoulder. “It’s been too long, Justin.”
Ryan gave him a questioning look and he knew he’d have to explain his knowledge of art. But that would come later. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She turned to Ryan. “The artist once said he allowed the jugs to decide what to become. Welcome to our little gallery. Let me know if I can help with anything—I’m wrestling with a frame in the back.” She turned to Justin again, her face drawn, her eyes heavy with sorrow. “It’s good to see you.”
Justin mumbled, “Thanks.” The woman retreated to the room behind the curtain.
The atmosphere turned heavy. “So, who is this guy who frequents small-town galleries, knows about a gallery on the other side of the pond, yet won’t walk all the way to the art
Similar Books
