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Guess she was right about that last one.
My latest sculpture is bigger, more daring, with quite a bit of welding work involved. I should be able to finish it within a couple of weeks. The money I make from it will last me a month or so, and after that…
I sigh.
Sculptures used to be a hobby. Now I sell enough to pay food and rent, but it’s not much of a career. The truth is, if I’m going to make ends meet while I wait for my art to take off, I need a job. Either that, or a sponsor, but I’m not a big fan of being beholden to another person.
Nothing like being in your forties and starting back at zero to make a man feel inadequate. No wonder Georgia’s not interested in me.
I pick up a wrench from the workbench and hang it up on the pegboard on the wall, then head across the space to the small separate room partitioned in the workshop. An army cot takes up the back wall, with my worn-out duffel bag at its foot. I stand in the open doorway, looking at the tiny room where I’ve been sleeping, and I think it might be a blessing in disguise that I drove Georgia away.
Again.
Sighing, I strip off my shirt and tug open my duffel to grab fresh clothes to change into. I pad to the tiny bathroom adjacent the workshop, little more than a pipe sticking out of the concrete wall and a toilet in the corner.
A woman like Georgia doesn’t belong in a place like this. She belongs in a mansion on the coast, watching the sun go down from her patio. She deserves more than I can give her.
And doesn’t that make me sound like a broken record? Even when I was eighteen years old, I knew Georgia deserved better than me. Didn’t stop me from trying to keep her by my side, though. Didn’t stop her from reminding me just how inadequate I was. Still am.
I strip off the rest of my clothes and turn on the water. It won’t heat up; this place doesn’t have hot water. Standing under the icy spray, I tilt my head up and let my shower shock me back to reality. I wash quickly and dress while my body’s still damp, finger-comb my hair, and don’t give a second glance to the commission piece I should be finishing.
My workshop is usually my sanctuary, but right now it makes me feel itchy and uncomfortable. The two stools Georgia and I used are still where we left them, her coffee cup on my workbench the last evidence that she was even here.
I grab the paper cup, eyes lingering on the red imprint of her lipstick on the rim. Tossing the cup into the trash, I square my shoulders and head out the door. Sliding the heavy steel doors closed, I hook the chain around the handles and shut the padlock. Then I head for my truck. It’s only a five-minute drive to town, and I need to get out of here. I’ll do some errands I’ve been putting off.
It’s also a good excuse to get out of there and try to clear my head of thoughts of Georgia’s mouth and body and taste and scent. Scrubbing my body with ice-cold water didn’t exactly help. My next tactic is distraction.
When I’m reaching for my truck’s driver’s side door handle, my phone rings.
Heart jumping, I grab it out of my back pocket and immediately feel like an idiot. It’s not Georgia calling, but it is the most important woman in my life.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“I’m twenty-four, Dad,” Christine answers sardonically.
“You’ll always be a kiddo to me.” I smile and lean against the truck’s door.
“Well, this kiddo is coming to visit you,” my daughter announces. “I just saw the Heart’s Cove Fringe Fest feature about you online. It made me want to come check it out before I move.”
I grunt. “They just started that online feature thing for this year’s festival.”
“I know, Dad. You looked amazing in it,” Christine says with a laugh. “I looked up Heart’s Cove. You didn’t tell me the town was so pretty!”
I was distracted by a woman with dark hair and dark eyes that reminded me of teenage love affairs.
“You sure you want to come all the way up here?” I ask. “I don’t even know if I’ll stay the summer.”
A little yip sounds from the vicinity of my right boot. I frown, glancing down at my shoes.
“Oh?” Christine hums. “That’s not what you said last week.”
I huff, distracted. “Things change, Bug.” Crouching down, my brows jump as I see a little ball of fur curled behind my front wheel.
“Well, you should stay in town until September, at least. Mark and I want to do a road trip, and Heart’s Cove is on the way up to Washington.”
“Huh?” I ask, propping the phone between my cheek and my shoulder while I click my tongue. The pile of fur shifts, and a raggedy brown-and-white head lifts. Gleaming dark eyes open, staring at me suspiciously.
“Washington, Dad. My road trip. I’m going to grad school at the University of Washington,” Christine tells me. “Remember? My dream? The only thing I ever talk about? Following in your illustrious footsteps?”
