“Damn,” said Devine. “How do you not get lost going from the fridge to the stove?”
“It comes with directions,” she quipped. “Seriously, the place was set up for a home with a dozen servants.”
“And how many do you have now?”
“You’re looking at her. I’ve got some eggs, fresh berries, ham, avocados, and home-baked sourdough.”
“All of that sounds great.”
She pointed to a cupboard. “Plates, utensils, and cups over there. How do you like your eggs?”
“Any way you care to make them.”
She brewed a fresh pot of coffee, and he helped her get the items out of the fridge.
“That looks new,” said Devine, staring at the Sub-Zero double wide.
“Courtesy of my dear, entrepreneurial brother. He’s been slowly fixing up the place.”
They decided on an omelet. He did the chopping and slicing of the onions, peppers, tomatoes, and mushrooms while she split and spooned out the avocado, put the fruit into a bowl, and put two slices of her sourdough in the toaster. She mixed the eggs and other items and cooked it in a stovetop pan.
Later, she sat across from him in the breakfast nook, sipped her coffee, and watched him chow down.
“You were hungry,” she observed.
He checked his watch. It was after ten. Shit.
“I usually eat before now. Where’s Dak?”
“Probably already at work.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“It’s a big house. He lives in one wing and I live in another.”
“And it all works?’
“So far.” She rapped on the tabletop. “So what happened last night? You said you had trouble with some guys? What kind of trouble?”
“Trouble enough.”
“Then you can stay here as long as you need.”
“Thank you,” said Devine, who was surprised by the offer, but also humbled by it.
“Are they after you?” she asked.
“Three of them aren’t.”
“So you, what, arrested them or something?”
“Or something, yeah.”
“So you’re not going to tell me what happened?’
“I thought I just did.”
She sat back and took him in, it seemed to Devine, line by line, crevice by crevice.
Artist as observer, he concluded. And it was a little intimidating, as though she could see through the flesh and bone and home right in on the thoughts right now hovering in his mind.
“You know what I really love about creating art?”
“No, what?” asked Devine.
“It’s all about perspective. Of both the artist and the viewer.”
He finished his coffee and rose to pour another cup and took her empty cup to refill. “How so?”
“You looked at my sculpture of the big penis roped and the testicles cuffed and concluded it was meant to symbolize women pushing back against a man’s baser instincts.”
He sat back down after handing Alex a full cup. “And it wasn’t?”
“From your perspective it clearly was, which is why you voiced that opinion.”
“And from your perspective?”
“You looked at it from a male’s point of view. As the artist I look at it differently.”
“You mean from a woman’s point of view?”
“I mean from a neutral observer’s perspective.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing,” said Devine half-jokingly.
“There can be, if one tries,” she said, her voice low, modulated, and serious.
“So, as a neutral observer?” he said, losing his amused expression.
She slid her finger along the top of the table. “Life can be unfair for anyone, those with a penis and those without.”
“Then why—”
“A man can be trapped by his own masculinity, or what is perceived as masculinity. Dick chained, balls cuffed. They feel they have to act in a certain way because that is what society as a whole expects. For some men it’s no problem. It’s who they are anyway. Rambo or whatever. But that’s not most men. So most men end up living a life that is not really... theirs. It’s dictated by societal expectation.”
“And women?”
“Women have a whole other set of problems and challenges and expectations that are impossibly unattainable. So you have people getting rich off selling crap to women to put on their faces, or lips or eyes, devices to suck in their gut and ass, or encouraging them to go under the knife to get bigger boobs or bigger butts or fewer wrinkles, or smaller boobs, or lesser butts, as the tastes of the money-grubbing influencers change. Or become skeletons so they can squeeze into latex miniskirts and cleavage-baring tops, without the benefit of personal chefs and trainers, all in the name of female empowerment. Which is one of the biggest hypocrisies I can think of, while others applaud, idolize, and enrich these people for telling females, particularly young and impressionable ones, that not rigidly adhering to their definition of physical attractiveness will doom them to be considered ugly by society. As though beauty and confidence and empowerment can’t exist in any shape, size, or color. But it’s all about the almighty dollar and it makes people do awful things to each other, but they rationalize it as actually helping those who are not perfect become perfect. So you see, it really is all about perspective.”
Devine laid down his fork. “Okay, men’s dilemma covered, neutral observer’s side taken care of, women’s challenges done. Now let’s hear your side.”
“Who says I have one?”
“All of what I saw in your studio says you do. Am I wrong?”
She rose. “Yes, you’re wrong. You done? I need to get back to work. You can stay here until your place is no longer compromised. And you can think about the fact that I asked you a simple question about what happened to you last night. And you had so little respect for me that you couldn’t think of anything other than to bullshit me. There, you finally got my side. Feel better?”
She walked out, leaving Devine sitting there thinking, first, that she was absolutely right in what she had said, and he felt like crap for doing that to her. And, second, that the more time he spent with the woman, the less he understood her.
And that had never happened to him before.
So am I losing my talent at evaluating people? Or have I just met my match in Alex Silkwell?
Chapter 31
Alex was in her studio when he left. Devine didn’t say goodbye. He just saw her through the window, but she didn’t see him because the woman was totally absorbed in her work. He did note that she had taken down the sketch of him from the easel. It was probably in the trash. He thought about telling her what had really happened to him last night, particularly after she had guilt-tripped him, and rightly so. But his loyalty to the mission prevented him from doing that. He didn’t yet know whom to trust in this town. Not even the woman who had given him sanctuary and made him a delicious breakfast. And whom he wanted, for some reason not yet clear to him, to help heal.
He jogged back to the inn, where he found Harper waiting for him out front.
The man was upset. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling and texting.”
“Sorry, I had my phone turned off,” Devine lied. He’d just not felt like talking to the lawman. “What’s up?”
The police chief’s ticked-off features hardened to a bristling scowl. “What’s up is your folks showed up to that hellhole with all the dead people inside and cut off access to everyone, even the state police.”
“Did they say why?”
“They didn’t say anything. Just flashed their fed creds and told us to back the hell off. They took the bodies and they have armed guards encircling the place while they do God knows what in there. The state police are pissed, I can tell you that. This might go all the way up to the governor’s office.”