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“That’s why you disappeared and live out here all by yourself.” She couldn’t not ask. “What happened?”
His hands moved to rest on his stomach. His good hand over the damaged one.
Now it was his turn on the hot seat. She could feel his angst from across the room as if it were a living thing. The subject was one he didn’t discuss.
His words came slow and low as if being pulled from him. “I was starting a new piece. One I was excited about. The wood I had chosen for the sculpture was a particularly gnarly piece. I had the vision of using the natural twist and turns to my advantage. To create a look of a rippling brook.”
He paused, lowered the recliner and sat up. His elbows went to his knees.
Laurel’s heart broke for him. He sounded and looked so defeated. She slid out of bed and padded over to him. He smelled of pine and wood smoke. It suited him. When she could see his face, she sank to the floor.
He remained hunched over. His good hand continued to protect the bad. As if he didn’t realize she had moved, he continued, “The saw blade hit a knot that I hadn’t seen. The wood jumped. By the time I could react, two of my fingers were gone and half of the third. After the doctors were through, I was missing all three.”
“I’m sorry, Brandon.”
He looked at her. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. I’m the one who did it.”
“It was an accident.”
He clenched and unclenched his hands. “One that I should have prevented.”
“So that’s why you quit working.” Now his attitude made more sense. Yet what a waste of talent.
“I had a couple of surgeries and some physical therapy. I was out of action for six months. When I started back, as you can imagine, I was hesitant with the saws. What really got me was I couldn’t hold and move the chisels and sandpaper as I once had. I wasn’t in the same place as I had been artistically.”
He leaned back and looked at her, the firelight making the ridges of his cheekbones harsher. “Now you can understand why I’m never doing another sculpture.”
“That’s a shame. You do such breathtaking work.” Her chance of getting her job back faded. Or maybe she could open her own agency. Excitement ran through her at the idea.
“I did.”
“Have you thought that maybe your sculptures might be good but in a different way?”
He studied her a moment. “Is this an agent talking or an art lover?”
“Couldn’t it be both?” She placed her hand on the arm of the recliner. “The difference might enhance your work. I hate to see you waste your talent.”
“How am I supposed to work with this?” He raised his hurt hand and shook it in the air.
Laurel controlled her reaction to seeing the majority of his hand missing. The long red scar running the length of his hand hadn’t faded. She clasped his hand between both of hers.
“Let go. You don’t want to touch me.”
His hand felt odd between hers yet there was warmth and strength there. A zip of excitement went through her at his touch. She’d experienced the same emotion when she’d seen his picture. Her reaction had propelled her to cut it out and place it in a safe place. This man needed her reassurance, the world’s reassurance.
He lowered his hand, but she wouldn’t release it.
“Do you know what I feel?” Her look met his.
He watched her.
“I feel strength, talent, and expression.” She squeezed his hand. “All those qualities are here. They still exist. Just as they did before but in a different form. They need to be used and tried.” She had his attention. He watched her with such intensity it was as if he were looking straight into her heart. Even in the dimming firelight, she could see his eyes questioning. “I can imagine the beautiful works this hand can create. If you would give it a try.”
He pulled his hand from hers. “That has passed. Long ago. Don’t confuse me with the fame and fortune of before. That’s over.”
Laurel hesitated a moment, forming her words. “How long ago since you have worked?”
“Over a year.”
