Elle caught sight of the tall sculpture he had created with the help of his old companion, despair. She walked around it in awe, like a person seeing the sunrise for the first time. “What is this? Definitely not tin cans. This is a piece of the ocean cut into a cross section that shows the beauty, the cruelty, the savagery.” She would know. “You did this?”

“Sometimes I take a break from the paying work and do something that expresses—”

“Your soul?”

“No. Not my soul. The world in all its cruelty.”

“No wonder they call you an artist. This is poetry in metal.”

Other people said stuff like that. But somehow, it meant something coming from Elle.

He used his toe to unlock the wheeled stand, turned his sculpture in a circle and gave her the full experience. “It was a ship’s prow. I stood the piece on the broad end, let it taper toward the sky, carved and polished cruel waves along its length.”

“Yes... I can see what it was, and how you’ve used its shape to symbolize what happened—” she choked up “—to me.” Before he could speak, she held up a hand. “I know. Not to me, but your creation seems so personal. I suppose it will feel personal to each one who sees it. That’s why it’s genius.” She cleared her throat. “How did you get it off the beach, up the cliff to...here?”

“That effort involved my four-wheel-drive pickup, a winch and some creative swearing.”

She reached out to one of the bright, glittering points.

He caught her hand. “No, Sleeping Beauty. It will prick your finger, at the least, and you have enough injuries.”

“Oh.” She examined the razor-sharp sculpture, and again examined him. “You’re brilliant.” She walked to the cot and sat down. “Brilliant.” She faded onto the mattress on her side, tucked the pillow under her head. “Brilliant.”

Maybe sleep would cure her clumsiness. He hoped that was the case, because he liked having her here—which wasn’t what he should want. But she lifted his spirits, warmed his heart, helped him remember a time when the world was more than a messy wallow in the mud of guilt.

In his experience, he could want all he cared to. He’d wanted a lot of things in his day. Want availed him nothing. His common sense motto: Life’s not fair.

It never was. It never would be.

“I’m going to take the food and your clothes into the house.”

“Okay.” She didn’t open her eyes.

“You won’t be afraid?”

“As long as you come back.”

“I’ll always come back.” That sounded uncomfortably like a vow, so he offered her foam earplugs and muttered, “Ear protection.”

She inserted them and was asleep before he returned, and she slept undisturbed by the roar of the fire and the pounding of his hammer.

22