that,” Dorie replied, remembering how a chance remark of Tira’s in a local boutique had sent Dorie running scared from Corrigan. That was all in the past, now. “Corrigan explained everything to me. I was uncertain of him then, that’s all it really was. I’m not anymore.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry about you and Simon.”
Tira’s face tautened. “You can’t make people love you,” she said with a poignant sadness in her eyes. She shrugged fatalistically. “He has a life that suits him. I’m trying to find one for myself.”
“Why don’t you do a collection of sculptures and have a show?” Corrigan suggested.
She chuckled. “I haven’t done sculpture in three years. Anyway, I’m not good enough for that.”
“You certainly are, and you’ve got an art degree. Use it.”
She considered that. After a minute, she smiled. “Well, I do enjoy sculpting. I used to sell some of it occasionally.”
“See?” Corrigan said. “An idea presents itself.” He paused. “Of course, there’s always a course in biscuit-making…?”
Knowing his other three brothers’ absolute mania for that particular bread, she held up both hands. “You can tell Leo and Cag and Rey that I have no plans to become a biscuit chef.”
“I’ll pass the message along. But Dorie’s dying for a replacement,” he added with a grin at his wife. “They’d chain her to the stove if I didn’t intervene.” He eyed Tira. “They like you.”
“God forbid,” she said with a mock shudder. “For years, people will be talking about how they arranged your marriage.”
“They meant well,” Dorie defended them.
“Baloney,” Tira returned. “They had to have their biscuits. Fatal error, Dorie, telling them you could bake.”
“It worked out well, though, don’t you think?” she asked with a radiant smile at her husband.
“It did, indeed.”
Tira fielded a few more comments about her withdrawal from the social scene, and then they were on their way to the checkout stand. She deliberately held back until they left, to avoid any more conversation. They were a lovely couple, and she was fond of Corrigan, but he reminded her too much of Simon.
In the following weeks, she signed up for a refresher sculpting course at her local community college, a course for no credit since she already had a degree. In no time, she was sculpting recognizable busts.
“You’ve got a gift for this,” her instructor murmured as he walked around a fired head of her favorite movie star. “There’s money in this sort of thing, you know. Big money.”
She almost groaned aloud. How could she tell this dear man that she had too much money already? She only smiled and thanked him for the compliment.
But he put her sculpture in a showing of his students’ work. It was seen by a local art gallery owner, who tracked Tira down and offered her an exclusive showing. She tried to dissuade him, but the offer was all too flattering to turn down. She agreed, with the proviso that the proceeds would go to an outreach program from the local hospital that worked in indigent neighborhoods.
After that, there was no stopping her. She spent hours at the task, building the strength in her hands and attuning her focus to more detailed pieces.
It wasn’t until she finished one of Simon that she even realized she’d been sculpting him. She stared at it with contained fury and was just about to bring both fists down on top of it when the doorbell rang.
Irritated at the interruption, she tossed a cloth over the work in progress and went to answer it, wiping the clay from her hands on the way. Her hair was in a neat bun, to keep it from becoming clotted with clay, but her pink smock was liberally smeared with it. She looked a total mess, without makeup, even without shoes, wearing faded jeans and a knit top.
She opened the door without questioning who her visitor might be, and froze in place when Simon came into view on the porch. She noticed that he was wearing the prosthesis he hated so much, and she noted with interest that the hand at the end of it looked amazingly real.
She lifted her eyes to his, but her face wasn’t welcoming. She didn’t open the door to admit him. She didn’t even smile.
“What do you want?” she asked.
He scowled. That was new. He’d visited Tira’s apartment infrequently in the past, and he’d always been greeted with warmth and even delight. This was a cold reception indeed.
“I came to see how you were,” he replied quietly. “You’ve been conspicuous by your absence around town lately.”
“I sold the ranch,” she said flatly.
He nodded. “Corrigan told me.” He looked around at the front yard and the porch of the house. “This is nice. Did you really need a whole house?”
She ignored the question. “What do you want?” she asked again.
He noted her clay-smeared hands, and the smock she was wearing. “Laying bricks, are you?” he mused.
She didn’t smile, as she might have once. “I’m sculpting.”
“Yes, I remember that you took courses in college. You were quite good.”
“I’m also quite busy,” she said pointedly.
His eyebrow arched. “No invitation to have coffee?”
She hardened her resolve, despite the frantic beat of her heart. “I don’t have time to entertain. I’m getting ready for an exhibit.”
“At Bob Henderson’s gallery,” he said knowledgeably. “Yes, I know. I have part ownership in it.” He held up his hand when she started to speak angrily. “I had no idea that he’d seen any of your work. I didn’t suggest the showing. But I’d like to see what you’ve done. I do have a vested interest.”
That put a new complexion on things. But she still didn’t want him in her house. She’d never rid herself of the memory of him in it. Her reluctant expression told him that whatever she was feeling, it wasn’t pleasure.
He sighed. “Tira, what’s wrong?” he asked.
She stared at the cloth in her hands instead of at him. “Why does anything have to be wrong?”
“Are you kidding?” He drew in a heavy breath and wondered why he should suddenly feel guilty. “You’ve sold the ranch, moved house and given up any committees that would bring you into contact with me….”
She looked up in carefully arranged surprise. “Oh, heavens, it wasn’t because of you,” she lied convincingly. “I was in a rut, that’s all. I decided that I needed to turn my life around. And I have.”
His eyes glittered down at her. “Did turning it around include keeping me out of it?”
Her expression was unreadable. “I suppose it did. I was never able to get past my marriage. The
