Now the dome of the head, coiling seams, compressing, adding a slit, until she left an opening only wide enough for her hand.
She studied the work—yes, simple, basic, rough—letting the clay stiffen a bit before cutting another dart, the shape of a football, on the sides. Her transition from neck to skull.
She darted the front, taking her time to create the chin and neck. Repeated on the back with the subtle changes from damage, and the years.
Rising again, she walked around the worktable, studying the roughed-in faces, the sketches.
She sat, made her commitment by using her thumb to draw down the depression of the left eye socket.
“Here we go,” she mumbled, and began to roll a small ball of clay. “I don’t know what I’m trying to prove, but here we go.”
The eyeballs, the corners of the eyes, the lids—she structured with fingers and tools.
As was her habit, she jumped from feature to feature, roughing in the eyes, moving on to the nose, the chin, the ears, and back again. Shifting, as her mind and hands demanded, from face to face.
The mouth, so perfect on the then, and with that hint of smug. On the now, that drawn-up corner—not a smile, she thought, adding clay, scoring with a square-edge, pushing with her thumb, her fingers. Flawed, yes, flawed, but it was bitterness hardening those lips.
As the snow fell, she worked in silence. No music today, no background. Just the clay, giving under her hands, building, forming.
She felt it, real as life even before she went back to the eyes. The anatomy, of course, with the folds, the tear bags, the creases; but it was always the life in them, the expressions that opened the windows. The thoughts and feelings of a single moment, or a lifetime, could come through the eyes.
And here, in the face of a lovely teenage girl, the eyes shined with confidence—borderline arrogance. In the woman, the eyes reflected not just the horror and fear of one night, but the results in the face and the mind and the heart of a woman who’d lived through it.
*
While Simone worked, so did Patricia Hobart.
Snow fell outside her window as well, as she studied someone else who’d lived through it.
She’d about had it with Toronto, wanted a change of scene, a change of place. Bob Kofax offered just that.
He’d been a mall security guard on the big night, had survived two gunshot wounds. His story, his survival, had garnered him more media exposure than Patricia deemed appropriate. Added to it, he continued to—in her opinion—feed off her own brother’s misfortune by continuing to work at the mall.
A slap in the face!
Bob, it seemed, considered his survival a message from a higher power to make the most of the gift of life, to help those in need, and to start and end each day with gratitude.
She knew this, as it said so on his Facebook page.
Part of making the most would be celebrating his fiftieth birthday with his wife and his two children—one of whom was gay and “married” to another gay, which just offended every fiber of Patricia’s being. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they’d adopted some Asian kid. At least his other son married an actual woman and had a couple of real kids.
The whole damn fam planned to hold the big bash with a week of fun and sun in Bermuda.
Their various Facebook pages held all the details she needed, including—for God’s sake—a countdown clock.
Bob turned fifty on January nineteenth.
After some thought, Patricia chose her identity, her look, booked her flight and a luxury room at the same resort.
Then she got down to the fun part, planning the best ways to kill Bob before he reached the big five-oh.
*
Two days before Christmas, CiCi’s house illuminated the season. She lit her house brightly enough that, on a clear night, its glow reached the mainland. From her tree hung armies of Santas, mythological creatures, gods, goddesses, and hand-painted balls.
The fire snapped cheerfully. At dusk she’d light the dozens of candles inside, the glass lanterns outside, while the caterers set up the spread for her annual holiday open house.
Christmas Eve was for her and Simone, and Christmas Day was for the family. But tonight was for the island and was one of her favorite nights of the year.
It got a boost when she opened the door to Mi.
“Merry, happy everything.” She gripped Mi in a hard hug before grabbing bags.
“CiCi, the place looks amazing. Just like you.”
“I’m so happy to see you. Let’s get your coat, your bags. Let’s get you a drink.”
“It’s only two in the afternoon.”
“It’s Christmas! We’ll make it mimosas. You can take one up to Simone—and lure her down here, so I can have my girls for a while. I think she’s hiding in her studio so I won’t bug her about what she’s wearing tonight. How’s your family?”
“They’re really good.” Mi pulled her cap off her razor-straight bob. “CiCi, Nari’s engaged—well, will be tomorrow night. Everybody knows but Nari. He—James—asked my father for her hand, and earned serious points for that. He’s asking her on Christmas Eve.”
The boy from Boston had staying power, CiCi thought, pausing with a bottle of champagne in her hand. “She loves him?”
“She loves him.”
“Well then.” CiCi released the cork with a cheerful pop. “We’ll drink to her happiness. How about you? Anybody caught your eye?”
“Mmm. Some catch the eye, but…” She shrugged. “No one’s caught the heart and mind along with it.”
“You hold out for that. Sex is easy. Love’s complicated. Now, you take this up to Simone, have a little BFF time, then make her come down here. The three of us are going to have another drink, some gossip, then we’re going to make ourselves gorgeous.”
Mi bounced up two flights of steps, a glass in each hand.
When she turned into the studio, into the music that masked the sound of her boots on the stairs, she saw her friend painting some sort of red wash over a statue.
The nude bent back fluidly, nearly forming a circle from the feet to the crown of her head. She held a bow, with an arrow notched, pointing straight up.
Power and grace, Mi thought. And beauty. She could and would say the same about her friend. Simone wore her hair—a deep brown with bold red highlights—in a short braid, had jeans splattered with clay and paint with holes in both knees, a similarly splattered sweatshirt with ragged half sleeves, and bare feet with toes painted midnight blue.
She felt a rush of love, a click of all’s right with the world, and a little tug of envy for Simone’s effortless artistic style.
Simone stepped back, angling her head to study the work, and spotted Mi.
She squealed (a sound CiCi heard two floors below, causing her to grin), splattering red wash as she tossed down her brush.
“You’re here!”
“With mimosas.”
“You’re better than a dozen mimosas. I can’t hug you. I’ve got paint all over me.”
“Oh, screw that.” Mi set the glasses aside, grabbed Simone, danced in a circle. “I missed you.”
“Goes double.” She took a long breath. “Now it can be Christmas.”
“Let’s drink to that. Or I can drink to that while you finish what you’re doing.”
“It’s finished.”
“Who is she?”
“The Archer. She’s a shopkeeper I saw in Sedona. She had this … bold serenity.”
“You captured just that.”
“You think? Well.” Simone picked up the glasses.
“I love this room,” Mi said, taking one of the glasses. “It’s so you. So different from my lab—which is so me. But here we are.” She gave Simone’s hand a squeeze before she started to wander. “These are inspired by your trip out west?”
“Most, yeah. I’ve sent a couple pieces to my agent so she can see where I’m heading. Anyway—”
“She looks familiar,” Mi began, then lowered her glass, turned. “Is this Tiffany? I haven’t thought about her in years, but…”
“Yeah.”
Curious, Mi stepped closer, angled her head. “There’s a face on the other side?”
“You can pick it up. It’s done.”
Mi lifted it, turned it carefully. “Oh. I see.”
“One from before, and one from now. I should’ve put it away,” she realized. “We don’t want all that spoiling things.”