The Art of Appreciation (26 page)

Abby smoothed her newly styled hair. “What? George squeezed me in yesterday.”

“You know I’m not talking about your hair, Abby. I kind of liked it wild anyway. I’m talking about your eyes.” Abby dropped her hand to the table and twisted her napkin between her fingers. “I’d guess you aren’t sleeping much?”

“Not much.” No need to admit that her bed was too big, her house too quiet. “I’m sure it will get better—back to normal—when I get used to…you know…again.”

“Mmm hmm…” Sarah murmured. “Normal.
Normally
, it wouldn’t take me more than a week to get you out to lunch at McCormick’s.
Normally
, you wouldn’t miss David’s birthday for anything—you’ve known him forever, for hell’s sake.
Normally
, you would have given me all the gory details about what you did in California, and you know I’m not talking about surfing. And
normally
, you’d have come in talking about whatever horrors were wrought in the gallery while you were gone and dragged out some dusty book to show me where they went wrong.” She covered Abby’s hand with hers. “Maybe I don’t have the right to say this, but, whatever: What are you doing back here? I look at you, and you’re two thousand miles away.”

“It’s called a job,” Abby said, lifting her glass to drink and not bothering to dispute any of her friend’s observations. “I have one. Matt has one. Life rolls on, whether we want it to or not. It will get easier. Things will go back to normal.”

Sarah’s eyes were calculating. “Right.” She straightened her silverware and smiled at the approaching waiter. “Then, let’s get right back to normal.” Abby smiled, thankful that Sarah seemed ready to drop the topic. “Come to the Sox game with David and me this weekend. You’ve missed so much of the season, girl!” She straightened her napkin and started recapping games Abby had missed. “So, this is where we are now…”

Despite her best effort to pay attention to Sarah’s detailed recounting of the season thus far, Abby’s eyes glazed over after five minutes. Even after the conversation had moved on to wedding plans, the holidays, and why David’s family sucked, Abby only listened with half an ear. Her mind had started its two thousand mile trek to Santa Cruz once again.

Abby sighed as she looked at the detritus of the week, strewn around her living room. Newspapers covered tables and the cushion of her comfy chair. Shoes were landmines. Clothes covered the bright pillows on the couch, which were crushed anyway. She’d given up on sleeping in her bed days ago. Her parents had refused to return Salvador Dali, so she really was alone in her sty. Looking around, she sighed again. The things that made up her nest, her haven from the storm of the city, had lost their luster.

She picked up her bag when the doorbell rang downstairs, shouted out the window that she was on her way, and gave herself a quick pep talk. “This is fun, damn it. You love the Sox. Batter up.” The smile she tried out felt unconvincing. Desperate to avoid another inquisition from sharp-eyed Sarah, Abby thought of her chat with Matt the night before and smiled. Baseball talk and frustration led to all kinds of corny-but-fun metaphors.

Sure enough, Sarah’s examination once Abby was seated in the car was a close one. “Better,” her friend concluded. “Have a Sam Adams or two, and you’ll feel right at home.”

“Sam Adams? Do I look like a tourist?”

Sarah laughed and relaxed back into her seat. “Smaaat-ass,” she said in a broad Boston accent. Shifting gears, she peeked over at Abby again. “Maybe you still belong here. I’ll reserve judgment until after you tell me what you think of the new bullpen lefty.” She kept up her jibes at Abby and a running commentary on all things baseball, how much Narragansett beer she planned on inhaling, the comparative sluttiness of that day’s baseball h00rs…everything except an explanation of why they were meeting David at the field instead of all riding together, which Abby didn’t think about until they got to their ticketed seats and found David waiting, a nervous smile on his face.

Next to his face, or rather looming several inches above him, was the reason for the nervous smile.

Abby looked up at six-and-a-half feet of gangling limbs topped with an unruly shock of red hair and laughing blue eyes. She stomped on Sarah’s foot before forcing a smile.

“Abby, this is Conor Grady. Conor, Abby Reynolds.” David waited for Abby to shake Conor’s hand before he rushed back into explanation. “Conor just moved back here a few weeks ago—been trolling California, right?” He elbowed his tall friend. “We’ve been getting him up to speed on ‘The Nation.’”

Abby and Conor exchanged tight smiles, each enduring both David’s ham-handed attempts to create a conversation between them and Sarah’s encouraging smiles when they managed to exchange more than a couple of simple pleasantries. Even Abby’s sharp pinch and whispered, “What were you thinking? I’m going to kill you!”—which was ground out when David and Conor started screaming at the umpire for a truly foul call—couldn’t shake Sarah’s beatific grin.

Eventually, though, David’s attention lapsed as he got more engaged in the game, and when Sarah left to get more beer, Conor leaned close to Abby’s ear. “I apologize for…yeah.” He chuckled as her face warmed. “I had no idea.”

“Me, either,” Abby said, mentally completing a thousand murders of her friends. “This is…ugh.” Her blush deepened as Conor laughed aloud. “Not you! You’re lovely. Wait! No! I mean—” She stopped there and, after a fresh resolution to kill Sarah, Abby sighed. “Can we just start again?” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Abby Reynolds.”

A large, warm hand enfolded hers, and bright eyes sparkled with mirth. “Conor Grady. It’s very nice to meet you, Abby Reynolds.” He raised her fingers to his lips and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.

“I have a—” she blurted, but she quit when she realized she was stymied by what word to use. “Boyfriend” sounded like she was sixteen…“significant other” was just silly…“lover”…
oh my God
…

“A headache? A question? A problem?” Conor teased, leaning back in his chair with a sly smile.

“I have a friend…” Abby finished weakly, realizing that there was just no good term for everything she felt for Matt.

“I do too. Lots of ’em. And a cat.” Conor nudged Abby’s shoulder with his own. “I get you—no biggie. But don’t you think it’s fun to watch them watch us?” Abby looked up, startled, to see both David and Sarah staring at her and Conor with identical astonishment before they looked away quickly. “Having a ‘friend’ doesn’t mean we can’t still enjoy this game, right?”

“Right,” Abby answered, relieved to see nothing but kindness in her intended date’s eyes.

She did enjoy the game—and the company. Conor was funny and genuine and nothing but a gentleman throughout the game and their late dinner afterward. Later, he offered to drop her at her apartment, sparing Sarah the slow torture Abby felt she so richly deserved.

As Abby dug through her bag for keys after waving goodbye to Conor, she was still smiling. Despite the awkward beginning, the evening had turned out to equal some of the best nights she’d ever spent with friends. It had felt normal and natural…and damned good.

“Abby, dear?”

She turned to see the elfin face of her landlady as she peeked around her door. Heavy night cream shone on her softly lined face and tiny pin curls of gray hair peeped from under a night scarf.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Case,” Abby whispered. “Was I too noisy coming in?”

“Oh, no, love. I was still catching up on my stories. Thank God for DVR.” They both chuckled. “I just wanted to tell you to be careful as you get up to your door. A big package came for you earlier today, and I signed for it. I had Henry take it up a bit ago, but you know him…” She huffed out a breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy. It’s like he doesn’t have a brain in his head.”

Recognizing the beginning of her landlady’s favorite rant, Abby patted the older woman’s hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Case. I’m sure I’ll find it.” She yawned. “I can’t believe it’s so late. Have fun watching your show.” She started up the stairs.

Wondering idly what she’d received and who’d sent it, Abby walked toward her door. She thought of Mrs. Case’s lumpy and browbeaten son and decided that wherever the package had ended up, she’d give his mother a good report in the morning.

She slowed when she spotted the box outside her door and mentally gave Henry props for dragging it up three flights of stairs. The container wasn’t huge, but the sturdy way the box was constructed told the story of something quite heavy inside.
Thank God Henry left the hand truck next to the box,
Abby thought, generously choosing to believe that it was foresight rather than laziness on his part. She unlocked her door and pushed it open. Then she examined the crate.

Her heart skipped when she spotted the logo for Claire’s gallery.

Sliding the plate under a bottom edge, she tipped the box against the back of the truck and rolled it to the center of her living room. A trip to her utility room yielded a short crowbar, and Abby levered off the top of the box. Taped to the underside was an envelope, which Abby set aside for a moment so she could lift aside packing material.

She gasped as the light caught the soft, pearly pinkish glow of marble. Abby yanked out packing, uncovering more of
Steamer Lane Swell
. When the sculpture was fully revealed, she sank down beside it and drew a tentative finger down the curve, remembering the first time she’d seen it in the gallery…the day Matt had confided that it was his favorite of all his sculptures.

He’d looked and seen
her
, and Abby realized that she had never once been uncomfortable or nervous around him, not even that first day. Hell, she’d even teased him a bit. She remembered the sharp pang of disappointment when she’d seen Zoe slide her arms around Matt as if she owned him…and the relief when Abby realized that he wasn’t one of
those
men. She remembered the twist in her stomach when she’d first felt Matt’s finger against her neck at The Catalyst and the first time she’d watched him sculpt. She ran her palm over the stone, and her eyes filled.

A hundred memories of days spent lounging on the sand, listening to gulls and children laughing, or on a board with Matt’s hands, warm and rough, against her hips, the sound of his laughter across the water, the feeling of sunheated skin against hers, and cool, just-out-of-the-sea lips against hers…memories all contained in the curves and whorls of the sculpture Abby had thought long gone.

She drew a shuddering breath, reached out, and snagged the envelope that she’d laid aside, then she leaned against the cool marble to read. The first letter was from Claire:

Abby -

Matt’s had me holding this for you since before his show. He said it’s been yours since the first time you saw it. Don’t you love my silly, romantic boy? Come home to us soon.

Claire

Matt’s letter was even shorter:

Pretty -

Remember.

M

Did he think I could forget?
Abby wondered. Normally, she and Matt would be settled down with a bottle of wine or a drink right about this time, listening to music or watching a movie. But was that “normal”? The habit of a month versus a decade? Hadn’t she just been thinking cozily about how nice and normal a ballgame and a laugh with friends had been? Her head swam, her heart ached, and she realized that it was time to pull out the big guns.

Abby stumbled into her room and then into her closet. She pawed through the mess of clothes that had already accumulated on the floor until she found her overnight bag. Digging deep into the outside pocket, she tugged out a plastic bag and carried it with her to the sofa. Opening the bag, she pulled out Matt’s navy blue T-shirt and held it to her face, inhaling deeply and letting the tears fall.

After all of the accumulated lies she’d told herself recently, it turned out that “normal” was the worst lie of all.

“Y
OU’RE
L
OOKING
M
IGHTY
P
LEASED
with yourself this morning, Matt.”

“Don’t you believe in knocking anymore, Pesty?” He grinned down at the cup he he held, still basking in the glow of hearing Abby’s voice.

Claire snorted and tossed her sunglasses onto the kitchen table as she sank into a chair. “Since when have I had to knock?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Looks like your chat went well. Did you apologize for the massive manipulation stunt—sending that statue to Abby? And don’t give me innocent eyes, mister.” She pointed at him. “You know and I know that you were using it to get a certain reaction. Did it work?”

“That’s a lot of knowing, Claire,” Matt hedged. She crossed her arms over her chest, and he gave up, dropping into his own chair with a sigh. He leaned his elbows on the table and rubbed both hands over his face. His voice was muffled when he responded. “Did what work?”

“Is she coming home?” Claire’s voice was matter of fact.

Matt dropped his hands quickly. “Jesus, Claire! Is that what you think of me? That’s not what I was looking for.”
Really?
his conscience asked, and Matt had no answer to that. He did have an answer for his friend, however. “I have to respect what she said she wanted. Christmas. We re-evaluate then and make a decision.”

Claire raised three fingers. She folded one down dramatically. “Okay, first: she made that decision based on what she thought was best for you. This stupid timetable is all dependent on how fast you finish Baker’s inane statues. I refuse to call them sculptures.” She folded down another finger enthusiastically, causing her charm bracelet to jingle. “Second: do you even give a damn about those anymore? You made it pretty clear at the art show that you don’t. Far be it from me, as your agent, to encourage you to court a sure lawsuit for breach of contract.” Her expression softened as she placed a hand gently on his cheek, “But further be it for me, as your friend, to watch you this way. You
care
, Matt. I’ve never, ever seen that from you, not even with Kate.”

Matt covered her hand with his and closed his eyes. “Stupid, isn’t it? Almost forty and I’m…” He stopped, at a loss for words. He’d never felt quite as alone as he had these last weeks, and no amount of work was completely filling the void left by Abby’s quiet absence.

“I know,” Claire murmured. “Wanna hear number three? I don’t care, because here it is: I’d bet all Charles’s money that Abby feels the same. Go to her.”

“I can’t. She’s right. Baker will sue the shit out of me if he doesn’t get the rest of his statues by New Years’. This is my job, you know?” He released Claire’s hand as he looked out the window. “No matter how much I’d do it for love alone, I
like
being able to do what I love
and
make a living.” His thoughts turned to Abby and her encouragement for him to finish and profit from his success. “I want to be good enough…”

Claire turned his face toward hers once again. “Matt, I hope you’re not seriously thinking that Abby gives a damn about your money, what there is of it. Because if that’s the case—”

“Whoa.” He raised a hand, and she dropped hers to the table in relief. “Nothing like that. It’s just…being successful, you know? Her equal.” Matt paused, moving onto a different train of thought. “When I called, Abby was upset—crying—because of the sculpture, partly, and because she’d been out last night and had a great time. I think she felt guilty, which made me feel a little glad and a lot like a shit.” He took a swallow of his coffee before he set it down again. “Believe it or not, Claire, I did feel bad about sending
Swell
then. It wasn’t a completely nice thing to do.”

“Why did you send it, then?”

Rubbing his hands on the tablecloth, Matt thought before he answered. “I wasn’t trying to manipulate her into coming back, I swear.”
Not consciously, anyway
. “We talk every night, right? And I hear about all the crazy times she’s having, and all the work—really fascinating exhibits, Claire—and the hours she puts in are insane, but she’s falling into the groove again, and…I just wanted to be in her life physically. A part of me, a really good part that she sees every day. So I can be right there in the front of her mind.
Me.
” He looked down at the table and then glanced out of the corner of his eye at his friend. “Sarah and David surprised her with a blind date. Not my favorite people right now.”

Claire snapped her mouth shut. “All right. If being finished with Baker is what you need, let’s do it. He wants to meet with you next week for a progress report and delivery of the first statues, so I’ll set it up.” She reached out to squeeze Matt’s hands again. “If we have to feed you intravenously and run a catheter, I’ll get you out of here before Christmas, and that’s a promise.”

Matt smiled as he rose to his feet. “Let’s hope it doesn’t take that.” He shuddered. “Catheter? Good God.”

Matt slammed his front door when he heard Claire’s Lexus peel away from the curb. He loosened his strangling tie, tossed the jacket he’d so carefully steamed that morning in the corner, and poured himself three fingers of scotch. Tossing it back, he winced at the burn before pouring three more.

He toed off his shoes and sank down on the couch, feeling the leather cradle his body as he rolled his glass on his forehead. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

The meeting with Baker had been a complete disaster. It started to go downhill when the first statue was uncrated and Baker found fault with the terra cotta medium, then segued into snide comments about the models’ comparative endowments, and ended with Matt insinuating that Mrs. Baker would be the best judge of that. Slouching into his couch, shame at his outburst mixed with continued anger and a sense of wounded pride. Suddenly, the house he’d considered his haven was just too damned lonely.

No sound of humming from another room. No smell of paints or even the whisper of herbal scent. No firm hands on his shoulders or gentle fingers caressing his temples. No pale gold skin or laughing brown eyes to tempt and tease him.

No warmth.

Matt slumped forward, forehead resting on the heel of one hand as his elbow rested on his knee. Though he’d happily been alone for most of his adult life, it was just too hard now. He craved Abby’s companionship like he craved the sea.

His mind roiled, and his emotions crashed, and he came to a decision:

Fuck this.

Fuck Baker.

Fuck the fucking statues.

Fuck waiting.

One weekend wouldn’t make or break his ability to finish what remained of the stupid statues.

He paced his house, deep in thought. He was pretty sure Abby would be okay with having him for a weekend, and it might give him an opportunity to have a well-thought-out word or two with Sarah, who had continued to throw Abby together with that Conor guy. Maybe it was time for Pretty’s Boston to see them together, to know that a real guy was waiting for her on another coast.

Or maybe that would come off as über creepy and possessive,
a tiny voice in his head suggested. Matt stopped in front of his sculpture, now cast in bronze, and caressed the facsimile of Abby’s shoulder with a gentle finger.
If it’s creepy and possessive, so be it
, he thought wearily.
I miss her. I want to be with her. Even if it’s just for one weekend.

There was a certain relief in having a plan. Matt returned to the living room to call his mother for information on things to see in Boston. Although he’d never visited the city, his mother was a native and frequently traveled there on business. He wanted to impress Abby by showing her around the least-touristy spots of her own city.

Matt changed out of the monkey suit and plopped into his hammock before he dialed. He couldn’t stop smiling as he waited for his mother to answer the phone. Though he was sure he could happily go through the weekend without ever leaving Abby’s apartment or his hotel room, Abby deserved to be very sure that she was more than a body to him. She was everything. She’d come to his world and immersed herself, and he planned on doing the same for her.

“Is this my prodigal son? After months of silence? Be still my beating heart.” Janet Clarke’s voice was low and pleasant, her tone teasing.

Matt smiled and lay back, watching the restless movement of the tide as memories of all the times he’d heard that voice washed over him. “Ha ha, Mom. Ha ha. How’s my favorite girl?”

“Old and getting older.” Matt knew she’d be making herself comfortable, probably with her feet on her desk and hands folded at her waist in preparation for a long chat. Though she’d always been busy in her role as a financial consultant, she’d never stinted on time with him. “When is my only chick going to settle down with a good woman and put my mind at ease?”

Recognizing his mother’s standard opening lines in their ongoing tussle over his domestic situation and knowing that she expected a breezy joke in response, Matt opted to answer by staying quiet.

“You’re kidding!” Janet sounded astounded.

“You wound me.” Matt dropped one foot onto the sand to set the hammock swinging. “Am I that hideous?”

“Yes. A perfect wretch since the day you were born. I hope this isn’t a stupid girl.”

“I haven’t noticed any particular infirmity, aside from the fact that she can put up with me.” He dropped the light tone. “You’d like her, Mom. Seriously. Smart, funny, beautiful. Her name is Abby.”

“Close to your age?”

“Ouch. You really know how to hurt a guy. Yes, mother. Close to my age.”

“Good.” Matt could picture his mother running her long fingers through her short salt-and-cayenne hair. “Nothing worse than an old goat chasing after a young girl. Embarrassing. Do I get to meet her?”

“In time. She’s back in Boston tying up some loose ends with her job.” Bending the facts a little to avoid a drawn-out discussion had to be forgivable.

Janet whistled. “Long distance, huh? Tricky.” She sighed, and Matt imagined that she was thinking about her own experience with his dad. He’d never asked either of them for any details, but right now he’d give anything to know exactly what had gone wrong between them. The suspicion that his dad wasn’t enough for this woman who’d remained at the top of her field when lesser men and women were long retired had irritated him for years; now it felt vital that he know the truth. He struggled with the right way to ask, but in the end, he didn’t have the guts to pry into something so personal.

“We’ll evaluate the situation when we get together at Christmas,” he said evenly. “In the meantime, I’m thinking of surprising her for a weekend in Beantown, and I thought I’d ask the native where I can take my girl.”

“First, don’t say Beantown.” Matt could hear the shudder in his mother’s voice. “Next, I’m proud of you for giving this a chance and not being afraid of a little space. Last…is she a professional woman?”

“Yep.”

“Excellent. But forget the surprise. Schedules can be a bitch, Matt. We can’t all be beachcombers-slash-brilliant artists.”

Matt wondered if the hint of bitterness he thought he heard in her voice was real or the production of his oversensitivity. “We’re not so bad, are we, Mom?”

Janet’s voice was warm. “Of course not. You just sometimes need a hint to remember that life’s not all playtime. Ready for some ideas?”

An hour later, Matt hung up and hurried into the house to jot down everything his mother had suggested before he forgot what she’d said. It hadn’t taken her long to lay out a weekend itinerary of her favorite places. The rest of their conversation turned into a detailed debriefing about all things Abby. Matt suspected that was the real reason he’d had the impulse to call his mother.

Plans set in motion, he threw all his energy into his statue, determined to have a good start before he saw Abby again. Maybe Claire’s idea of his finishing the damn contract with Baker and getting out of California before Christmas wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

Matt dropped off to sleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He’d gone to bed without working until his hands hurt for the first time since Pretty had left for Boston. His dreams were sweet.