Chapter 12

The piece was sorrowful, quiet, and soft, fitting the expression of my mood so well that I couldn't seem to stop playing it. I was a bit rusty, not having played a lot since my mother died, but the old flexibility eventually came back. It also came with memories of being taught on this very piano, which mixed with those of my first attempts at painting. Real painting as well, in Harry's, or at the time, Professor Stein's introductory class. My fingers flew over the keys, chasing the images like gold-diggers chasing the leprechaun's treasure at the end of the rainbow.

My grandfather left me alone after I'd withdrawn to this old study where my mother's piano resided, knowing I only came here when there wasn't enough space in my head to deal with the pain. It'd been the same when my mother died and, though the loss of Harry didn't come close to that agony, it was still more than I'd been prepared for, causing a big ball of sorrow to accumulate in my chest and pushing me deep into the old melancholia.

I couldn't hide here forever, but the thought of returning to the school where Harry would never teach again filled me with dread. Not a lot of people knew how close we were. He'd been the first person who understood my wish to keep my art away from prying eyes because it revealed too much of what I carried inside. Without him, I would've failed both my degrees three times over.

I'm so fortunate to have him as my teacher. Had. Had him as my teacher. I swallowed. Maybe it's time to pay a little of it back.

That thought made my fingers halt on the keyboard. I turned over a new idea in my head, not sure I was ready for it, but before I knew it, my feet propelled me off the chair. I left the study to bring my canvas down into the garden. Picking up a piece of coal, I started to draw the first lines onto the paper, remembering Harry's expression from a few days ago, when he joked with me in the hallway. That mixture of devilishness, good-natured bantering, and seriousness had been such a big part of him. I didn't want to let it fade.

I sketched away, a strange compulsion taking hold, making me lose myself in each new line of coal. I didn't even notice how the sky changed until it ended up a deep purple before the darker stage of twilight descended. When my eyes struggled to make out the lines, it finally woke me from the trance and I stood there, staring at the canvas. Feeling strangely empty, but also a little better, I carefully rolled it together and put it in a wooden tube.

I dearly hoped that Harry's wife would like it.

The next afternoon, I was back in the gallery. One of the to-dos on Casey's list had been to repaint the ornamental frames in stark white. Since I'd taken a couple days off from lectures after Harry's passing, I welcomed the routine task. Casey had offered to ask another friend to help so I could catch more of a break, but I'd just waved her off. Kneeling between the white, wet stickiness of the frames on the floor, the opening of a door had me lift my head in surprise.

Emmanuelle stood in the doorway. My heart did a small squeeze.

"Hey, you," I said, trying a smile and even somewhat succeeding.

"Hey, you," she said back and surveyed the ordered chaos.

Though her face was hard to read, her arms were crossed in front of her chest, and there was a touch of guilt in the way her fingers kneaded her woollen sweater above the elbows. "Sorry for all the trouble."

The apology made me blink, and I realised after a few seconds that she was referring to the frames. I cursed the sluggishness of my mind. Harry's death hadn't let me sleep well last night.

"It's okay. I'm sure it's going to look nice in white."

"Can I help?"

The softly uttered question made me feel a sense of warmth for the first time in what felt like days. "I'm done for today, but thank you for offering."

"No problem," she mumbled.

Nodding, I straightened and put another wet frame against the wall, mindful not to disturb the sheet that was taped to it to protect the surface from stains. With a sigh, I cracked my neck and stretched my back, conscious of Emmanuelle's gaze on me.

"Did you need something?"

She hesitated. "When we decided to change the colour of the frames to white, I didn't realise you would end up being the one having to repaint them all."

"Casey would have done it herself—"

"But she's out sick, I know." Emmanuelle again surveyed the chaos. "Are you sure you're okay doing all of this?"

It was unexpected how much the question rankled. "I may not be an art gallery manager, but I'm more than capable of painting a few frames. It's also no problem for me to pick up some paperwork or run some errands. You don't need to worry that I'll mess up the exhibit. I'll do my very best. You have my word on that."

"I didn't mean that at all." She lightly gripped my elbow as I strode across, making me pause before the door. "You have a full-time job, and I know first-hand how much work this is, and all on very short notice."

You have no idea.

"I know you're capable." A small smile spread over her face. "I received a copy of the invoice about the transport company you hired." She sobered. "I should apologise for not thanking you sooner for sorting that out, really. I'm sorry."

"No, please don't apologise. I'm sorry for snapping at you." I stared into her green eyes, bereft of words after seeing the swirling emotions inside.

Emmanuelle let go of my elbow. Then she pushed her hands deep into her pockets, almost as if she was afraid to touch me again.

"I'm done for today," I said, and suppressed the urge to shake myself like a dog. Both my mind and my body felt tired now.

I gestured her onwards before locking the gallery door behind me. It was already getting dark. An older couple walked arm in arm down the other side of the road, and suddenly it was difficult not to think about Harry. That's what always happened once my thoughts strayed away from what had happened. Some little thing would remind me of him, and then with a pang, I would realise that he was gone. How long would it take for the pain to go away this time? How long until I could walk into a lecture hall and not have a lump form in my throat?

When I turned around to Emmanuelle, she was scrutinizing me. Hesitating for a moment, she walked towards the edge of the sidewalk before sitting down on it. There were barely any cars parked here at this hour, giving us an unadulterated view of the small playground opposite the gallery, which currently looked very much abandoned. I felt the same way.

"Join me," the artist said and lightly patted the space next to her, and there was simply no way I had the energy to refuse her. Reluctantly, I sat down.

We stayed there for a couple of minutes in silence, the quiet and the fresh air slowly starting to relax me and at some point, I put my arms behind me, resting my weight on the palms of my hands, my legs comfortably crossed at the ankles. Emmanuelle still didn't say anything. I heard myself start to talk.

"My friend … died yesterday. I knew him for many years, and his death was very unexpected. It caught me unprepared." I could feel her gaze, but I was afraid the spell would break if I turned my head. "He was … well, he was more than just a friend, really. He was a mentor and a confidant, and I relied on him. He let me be me, you know? Didn't stop him from asking questions or pushing me out of my comfort zone, but it was like he always knew just how much or how little he could. And now … he's left me. As if he was swept away by the current, there one second and gone the next. And I wish…" I swallowed around the frog in my throat and continued in a whisper, "I just wish I could have shown him the one thing he always hoped for the most."

Coming out of my shell and putting myself out there. It was such a scary thought. I didn't know whether I could do it or not. But now, he would never get the chance to see it and I felt betrayed, as if fate had robbed me of the possibility to even try. Maybe I was deluding myself. It wasn't fate's fault; it was mine. I didn't try hard enough, too scared of how the world could hurt me to really make an effort. I let him down.

"It hurts. He died before his time, and I'm not sure I can quite forgive him for that." With whom would I talk about my art now? Who would challenge me to go that one step further? Who else would ever get me the way he had?

I had no idea why it was so easy to tell Emmanuelle how I felt, something I hadn't managed with any of my friends in all the years since my mother died.

We looked up into the cloudless sky, the view of the great expanse making me inhale deeply. A lone cyclist passed by. Oddly, he had a caged pigeon on his baggage porter and a small satellite dish on his handlebar. There was an upside-down coat hanger attached to a foil helmet on his head. I blinked. Even the bird was sporting a silvery helmet. Was he an alien conspiracy theorist? Was the bird his means of communication to the outside world? The strangeness woke me up. Here I was, feeling equally as strange, sitting on the sidewalk next to a woman with a trust fund equalling Bill Gates"s yearly income.

"Why are we sitting here?"

"You looked like you needed a moment," she stated before putting a hand on my thigh. Her touch travelled through the fabric of my jeans to the inside of my chest, making my fingers tingle. "I'm sorry for your loss."

The words replaced the tingle in my chest with hurt, and I was unreasonably angry at her for taking that light feeling away again so soon. "So what, you made me sit down here because you knew I needed to spill my guts as some kind of coping strategy?"

"Maybe. Or maybe I simply get how difficult it sometimes is to allow yourself to acknowledge your feelings." Her grip on my leg tightened. "Something I get the impression you're not so good at."

How could you possibly know that?

"No," I admitted, feeling exposed from her ability to read me so easily.

"We think we're made of stone, but that's really not the truth. You're allowed to feel angry. You're allowed to feel sad. And you're allowed to say that you miss someone out loud. Sometimes, it even helps."

I heard the subtle encouragement in her words, even though her gaze was directed away from me.

Well, it won't hurt to try.

I expelled a breath. "I miss him. I miss him very much." I expelled a second one and with it some of the misery and tension that had gripped me the whole day. Not all of it, but enough that the next breath I took hurt a little less than the previous one, and I managed the first genuine smile since I'd heard about Harry. "Thank you."

"No thanks necessary." She good-naturedly nudged me with her shoulder before taking her hand off my leg. I regretted the loss of contact as soon as it occurred, wishing her hand to return to where it had been, despite the confusion it triggered.

We got up from the ground when the streetlight burst into life above us, whisking away the stars.

I started speaking before I could even finish forming the thought. "Would you … I mean, do you…" I stopped, fumbling with the sentence before a deep sense of embarrassment shot through me. "Never mind."

"Would I what?"

When I wanted to shake my head, her expression made it impossible for me not to come out with it. But inside, thoughts whirled through my brain. It wasn't okay to ask her this.

"I need to go to the wake tomorrow."

When I didn't continue, she sighed. "Just ask me, Sam."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable. You don't even know Harry, I mean … What I meant is…" I took a deep breath. "I don't want to go alone."

You could ask Casey, I berated myself. But I didn't want to. I wanted to go with Emmanuelle. And now she probably thought I was crazy. Or weird. Or had a problem with judging appropriateness. Running into each other at the coffee shop was one thing, but going to a wake with someone you didn't really know was quite another. Our friendship was still so very new.

Surprise swept over her face, chased by compassion, and both made me duck my head. "You know, that was a stupid question. Just forget I said anything."

What the fuck are you doing?

"I'll come with you."

My head snapped up, shocked at her answer.

"When is it, and should I meet you somewhere?"

"I'll pick you up," I got out. "It's at three p.m., so half an hour before?"

Emmanuelle nodded gracefully, curling up one corner of her mouth. "Sounds good to me. You know where to find me."

Indeed, I do.

I realised how much less awkward I'd felt this time, despite all the sadness I held inside. I also realised that neither Emmanuelle's fame nor her trust fund stopped her from sitting down on a grimy sidewalk in the middle of Providence simply to have a conversation. The back of her trousers was dirty when she opened her car door, but only her tuneful chortle rang out when I pointed it out.