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“Now and then. I make a living illustrating.”
“What’s the difference?”
“How much time do you have?”
“Dumb it down.”
“Okay, condensed version.” She gestured to a painting as they walked. “Stands on its own, eye of the beholder. An illustration is connected to text, to serve a purpose, and—hopefully—they enhance each other.”
“Okay.”
They wound their way up, and to the mermaid.
“Okay,” Owen said again, with reverence. “Okay, she’s a beauty.”
“Mine.”
Ignoring Cleo, he ran his hand over the carving, the long fall of windswept hair, the knowing smile, the smooth breasts.
“She’s solid mahogany, Trey.” He glanced at Cleo. “What’s her name?”
Cleo had already given him points for helping Sonya, had added more for Jones. With the question, she doubled them. “Circe.”
“That works. Circe’s no lightweight.”
“The desk won’t be either,” Sonya warned.
“All right.” Rubbing his hands together, Trey nodded. “A challenge.”
“Somebody got it up there, so somebody can get it down.” Owen worked his way to it, crouched down to test the drawers. “Cherrywood, pristine. The wood’s a little thirsty. This and the mermaid need a good buff with paste wax. Don’t be using any supermarket spray shit on these pieces. Any of them. You can do the lemon oil, orange oil between, but once, maybe twice a year, you buff with a good paste wax.”
“We’ll get some.”
“None of my business.” Owen straightened, turned to Sonya. “But do you figure the two of you can maintain all this furniture the way it needs to be? Keep it dusted, protected? Not to mention the acres of wood floors?”
“No.” Sonya huffed out a breath. “No, I have to swallow getting a cleaning service. It’s on my list for next week, or the week after. I wish you’d take something, Owen. More than one something.”
As she spoke, a sheet slid slowly to the floor. Sonya gripped her elbows.
“That’s creepy. Come on, that’s just creepy.”
“Little bit.” But Owen walked over to the chest of drawers with the sheet now pooled at its feet. “Needs a little work. Got a handle missing. The bottom of this drawer’s cracked. Looks like some dog chewed on the front leg here. I’ll take it.”
“Really?”
“I can fix it. And maybe you’ll stop feeling so damn guilty.”
And with that, he earned more points on Cleo’s scoreboard.
“Look at the back, Owen.” Trey crooked a finger and grinned. “Somebody—probably a kid—carved his initials down at the bottom. ODP. Owen David Poole. Your initials, too.”
“Yeah, well. Like I said, I’ll take it. Let’s tackle the desk first. It’s going to be a bitch.”
It took some muscle, some geometry, and some inventive cursing. Sonya hugged one of the drawers to her chest as the men turned it, braced it, eased it into the studio.
“You deserve a lot more than beer.”
“Oh, oh, look at the way the light hits it! Can you put it over there?” Cleo ran ahead of them, spread her arms, swooped them down. “Right here, angled this way. Look how it’s already coming together in here. I’m going to name my firstborn Collin Oliver Owen.”
