The Edge

Chapter 30

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Devine woke and sat up straight to see the morning sunlight shafting into the skylight.

He scrambled to his feet from his sleeping berth on the floor and faced off with Alex Silkwell, who was not looking as angry as her words might have implied, but more curious.

And perhaps a bit amused.

She had on the same clothes as the last time he’d seen her in the studio. Her hair hung wet and limp around her face. He actually liked it that way better than piled on top. The latter was too theatrical, he supposed was the word. The former just seemed more... truthful?

And why are you even thinking about that?

“Well?” said Alex, giving him a raised-eyebrow look.

“I had a spot of trouble in town and decided my cottage at the inn might be compromised.”

“So you picked my studio to be compromised instead?”

“I had few options. But I made sure I wasn’t followed.”

“Okay, but you were sleeping so hard I could have taken my time and killed you.”

Devine didn’t say anything to this, because he knew she was probably right.

She perched on a worktable. “What sort of trouble?”

“Just some guys who wanted me to do something I didn’t want to do.”

“Like what?”

Like die, he thought. But said, “Nothing important.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m willing to listen.”

She scowled at his flippancy. “You don’t look like the sort that anyone could make do anything.”

“You never know. So that’s why I came here.”

“The door was locked. I always lock it.”

He took out his pick gun. “Then you should strongly consider a stronger lock.”

Her scowl deepened. “Should I call the police? Isn’t breaking and entering illegal?”

“I swear I broke nothing.”

She seemed to think of something and glanced at the sketch of him on the easel.

Her face flushed. “I... you’re probably thinking...” She gave up.

“I think you’re an artist who sees creative opportunities in everything you see and everyone you meet.”

Her flush vanished, and so did her scowl and reserved manner. Her smile lit the room stronger than the sunlight, at least to Devine.

“You look like you could use some coffee. And food.”

“I could, yes,” he said.

“Come on. I’ll make you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s the least I can do for someone who entered but didn’t break, and who thought my studio would be as much of a safe haven for him as it is for... me.”

Her smile retreated with these words, and that bothered Devine far more than he had thought possible. He barely knew the woman, but he wanted to make her happy, to make her whole again.

They left her studio and she led him into the main house through a rear entrance that opened into a cathedral-sized kitchen.

“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?