Free Waters Fall by Becky Doughty Page B

arms, and his eyes drifted slowly back to the sculpture. “I think you pegged it. I’ve just never heard anyone say it quite like that. And I've heard a lot of responses to this piece, believe me.” He cocked his head and looked at her again. “Wander around a bit down here, then I want to show you some paintings by the same artist on the second floor. Take your time. I need to check in with Janelle.”
    At the mention of her name, a tall, well-formed redhead peeked around a corner and waved. “Hello. I’m Janelle, the curator here, but you’re in good hands with that one.” She nodded toward Tristan and winked. “If you need anything at all, though, you just look for me, all right?”
    Nora nodded. “Of course.”
    “Speaking of your good hands, Tristan, could you help me a minute? I’m doing a bit of rearranging over here and I need to borrow your man power.”
    Tristan grinned and flexed a bicep for the ladies. Janelle snorted, disappearing back around the corner, and Nora looked away, embarrassed and charmed.
    The studio was broken up into several sections. The artwork seemed to have no rhyme or reason to placement, yet each display flowed from one to the other seamlessly. If this was Janelle ’s doing, the woman had a gift for merchandising. Nora took her time just looking, studying brush strokes and textures, her shoes making no noise on the thickly carpeted floor. 
    When Tristan rejoined her, he let her meander, speaking quietly, commenting on the different pieces and artists. None, though, touched her like the statue up front. Tristan was directing her up the stairs, explaining the layout of the gallery on the second floor; she'd have to remember to ask him about the drowning woman ’s creator when they came back down.
    The second floor was also divided into sections, this time by artist. They wandered through the rooms with walls painted in deep hues, dramatically offsetting the artwork, and Tristan often stepped back to let her absorb pieces on her own. She appreciated his sensitivity and thoroughly enjoyed his non-aggressive sales technique.
    She recognized the work of the artist immediately. The paintings were like a flattened version of the sculpture downstairs. There were three dimensional elements to many of them; recycled odds and ends painted into the scenery. An old-fashioned metal seat-belt was the cinched waist on a shadowy figure leaning against a tree in the moonlight, shards of plywood layered into the side of a building. Some of the work was soft and subtle, mysterious and dreamy; other pieces were darker, shrouded in something that made Nora uncomfortable. She especially liked the paintings with swirling colors and organic structures, but there were a few that almost repulsed her in their heaviness. She couldn't imagine putting one of the darker pieces on anyone's walls, and she said so.
    “I hear that quite often. But when the muse hits, what's a man to do?” Tristan was standing behind her as she studied a stunning painting in blues and blacks, streaks of goldleaf rippling through the color like sunlight reflecting off turbulent water. Glancing at the signature of the piece, she saw it; a slashing T with a few squiggles following it like a tail. She spun around, alarmed that she’d spoken so bluntly.
    “ You did this? These are yours?” She pointed toward the staircase. “That... the drowning woman downstairs? You made her?”
    “ Isolde . And she's not really drowning. It's only what she wanted to do in her heart.”
    “ Isolde .” Nora repeated softly. “Tristan's Isolde . Of course.” She chewed her lip, not sure whether it was romantic or ridiculously cliché. Except that there was nothing cliché about the drowning Isolde downstairs, and the incredible creature came from somewhere inside this man's head. Something about that was very romantic.
    “Yes, my Isolde .” He grinned proudly. “It's how I think of her. How I think she thinks of herself; as mine.”
    Nora