Sculpting Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 2) by Samantha Westlake
Authors: Samantha Westlake
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very different type of sculpture artist than Onyx.
The man ahead of me, still hurrying along without a backward glance, disappeared from my view. I picked up my pace, trying to ignore how some of the floor coverings sucked slightly at my shoes, as if reluctant to let go. There, a doorway. I took a few more steps and came around the door, hoping that I'd find a better, cleaner area on the other side.
No such luck. I'd arrived, I saw immediately, at what had to be de St. James' studio and working area. The place was slightly more organized than some of the other rooms in the house I'd passed, but that wasn't saying much; it was a low bar to clear.
Inside this studio area, de St. James immediately headed over to a large, partially finished statue that stood in the middle of the room, where he crossed his arms across his bathrobe-clad chest and glared up at the thing as if it had just made some wildly offensive comments about his deceased mother. I, meanwhile, looked around the room and wondered if there was any surface safe enough to support my weight.
The room looked a bit like a workshop, albeit one where a homeless man (or a crazy artist) decided to make his new nest. Racks of chisels, hammers, and other tools hung on the wall, although it looked like most of the tools that had once decorated these racks were now scattered around on various benches and other surfaces. A heavy wooden drafting table was loaded down with sheets of paper and several hammers, and several other makeshift surfaces had been built out of stacks of paint cans with large boards laid across the top. Chunks of stone covered the floor; clearly, de St. James did his carving in here and didn't bother to sweep out the discarded pieces of rock from his creations.
"Thanks for giving me a few minutes of your time," I said, stepping carefully over a large five-gallon bucket of very dirty water with dozens of paintbrushes mouldering inside of it. "As I said, I'm from the Halesford Gallery-"
"Look, I got here on my own, no matter what anybody else says!" de St. James snapped at me. "And frankly, I don't care what you print about me. My artwork speaks for itself."
My mouth snapped shut at this non sequitur. "Okay," I said slowly, although I don't think he even heard me speak as he continued to rant.
I tried my best to listen, but the words didn't seem to make much coherent sense together. de St. James appeared to be telling me a combination of his personal history and, at the same time, attempting to decry critics' accusations that his work was anything less than groundbreaking. I wondered if he'd even really heard who I was.
I made a couple attempts to slip a word in edgewise, but de St. James clearly wasn't listening. Finally, I gave up and started poking around the workshop, trying to find a mostly safe place to sit. I figured that, sooner or later, he'd simply run out of steam and I could explain what I needed.
Eventually, I found a stack of two five-gallon paint cans that appeared mostly full, but weren't covered in dirt, dust, or dried paint. I pushed on them a couple times to make sure that they wouldn't topple over and then, once I'd assured myself of their structural integrity, plopped my butt down on top. It wasn't the most comfortable seat in the world (I thought briefly, regretfully of that couch back in Onyx's warehouse... which also held the added appeal of having Onyx on it with me as well), but it wasn't going to make my butt go numb after five minutes.
Now sitting, I crossed my arms over my breasts and frowned at de St. James. I tuned out his actual words, just focusing on watching his face, waiting for him to realize that I wasn't paying attention to his ramblings.
Finally, just as I was worrying that I'd need to clonk him with one of his own hammers, just to get his attention, he stopped talking and focused his eyes on me. "What?" he asked, perhaps finally realizing that I wasn't listening intently to the topic of his half-disjointed
The man ahead of me, still hurrying along without a backward glance, disappeared from my view. I picked up my pace, trying to ignore how some of the floor coverings sucked slightly at my shoes, as if reluctant to let go. There, a doorway. I took a few more steps and came around the door, hoping that I'd find a better, cleaner area on the other side.
No such luck. I'd arrived, I saw immediately, at what had to be de St. James' studio and working area. The place was slightly more organized than some of the other rooms in the house I'd passed, but that wasn't saying much; it was a low bar to clear.
Inside this studio area, de St. James immediately headed over to a large, partially finished statue that stood in the middle of the room, where he crossed his arms across his bathrobe-clad chest and glared up at the thing as if it had just made some wildly offensive comments about his deceased mother. I, meanwhile, looked around the room and wondered if there was any surface safe enough to support my weight.
The room looked a bit like a workshop, albeit one where a homeless man (or a crazy artist) decided to make his new nest. Racks of chisels, hammers, and other tools hung on the wall, although it looked like most of the tools that had once decorated these racks were now scattered around on various benches and other surfaces. A heavy wooden drafting table was loaded down with sheets of paper and several hammers, and several other makeshift surfaces had been built out of stacks of paint cans with large boards laid across the top. Chunks of stone covered the floor; clearly, de St. James did his carving in here and didn't bother to sweep out the discarded pieces of rock from his creations.
"Thanks for giving me a few minutes of your time," I said, stepping carefully over a large five-gallon bucket of very dirty water with dozens of paintbrushes mouldering inside of it. "As I said, I'm from the Halesford Gallery-"
"Look, I got here on my own, no matter what anybody else says!" de St. James snapped at me. "And frankly, I don't care what you print about me. My artwork speaks for itself."
My mouth snapped shut at this non sequitur. "Okay," I said slowly, although I don't think he even heard me speak as he continued to rant.
I tried my best to listen, but the words didn't seem to make much coherent sense together. de St. James appeared to be telling me a combination of his personal history and, at the same time, attempting to decry critics' accusations that his work was anything less than groundbreaking. I wondered if he'd even really heard who I was.
I made a couple attempts to slip a word in edgewise, but de St. James clearly wasn't listening. Finally, I gave up and started poking around the workshop, trying to find a mostly safe place to sit. I figured that, sooner or later, he'd simply run out of steam and I could explain what I needed.
Eventually, I found a stack of two five-gallon paint cans that appeared mostly full, but weren't covered in dirt, dust, or dried paint. I pushed on them a couple times to make sure that they wouldn't topple over and then, once I'd assured myself of their structural integrity, plopped my butt down on top. It wasn't the most comfortable seat in the world (I thought briefly, regretfully of that couch back in Onyx's warehouse... which also held the added appeal of having Onyx on it with me as well), but it wasn't going to make my butt go numb after five minutes.
Now sitting, I crossed my arms over my breasts and frowned at de St. James. I tuned out his actual words, just focusing on watching his face, waiting for him to realize that I wasn't paying attention to his ramblings.
Finally, just as I was worrying that I'd need to clonk him with one of his own hammers, just to get his attention, he stopped talking and focused his eyes on me. "What?" he asked, perhaps finally realizing that I wasn't listening intently to the topic of his half-disjointed
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