He, of course, had no intention of going to Davy Malcor’s funeral. Him showing up would be disrespectful to the family, even if he’d like to pay his respects. Anissa had stopped by to check on him before she went to the church, pretending again that it was part of her job, but he knew she was lying. In this case he didn’t mind being lied to. He’d wanted to see her again too.
“You nervous?” he asked her, though he knew the answer. Anxiety flickered across her face. The truth about the night of Davy’s disappearance weighed on her as much as it weighed on him. He wanted to hug her and tell her it would be all right, but he wasn’t sure she’d want that. The night in his kitchen had been, he told himself, a one-off, a step out of time.
At her car door she turned to him. “You could come, you know.” He began shaking his head before she finished speaking.
“That’s not a good idea,” he said. “It’d only lead to trouble.”
“Not if you went in after it started, sat in the back, and got out before it was over.”
“I’ll pay my respects here, in my own way,” he said.
“And what way is that?” she asked, a teasing note to her voice.
“Through my work,” he said. He pointed at the studio, where he would hole himself up and think of Davy as he sculpted the little girl who was the last one ever to see him, a girl Gordon suspected Davy would’ve grown up and loved, had he gotten the chance. His hand moved to touch her hair, but he quickly thrust it in his pocket before he could make a fool of himself.
“You could come over,” he said. “After. You could tell me about it and then it’d be like I was there.”
She smiled. “I might need some more of your whiskey by then.”
He smiled back. “I’ll have it waiting.”
He watched her leave until her car disappeared around the bend, and he wished she didn’t have to face that funeral alone. Someone should be with her. But it was the last place he could show his face, no matter how much he wanted to be there for her, and for Davy, the three of them linked to that night and each other forever.
He turned around, walked back inside, through the house, and out the back to his studio. He opened the door and felt the light pour in. He breathed deeply, telling himself this was enough: this place, this work, this life. He’d stopped expecting more a long time ago. He thought about Anissa’s visit and wondered if maybe, possibly, there could be more after this day.
A noise behind him made him turn on his heels, forgetting the whiff of possibility that had just skimmed past him like the tip of an angel’s wing barely brushing his face—there, then gone.
The boy from the other night stood a few feet away, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his eyes blinking nervously.
“You said to come back another time,” he said. “And I could see your studio. My mom said I could.” The boy rocked back on his heels as he waited for Gordon’s answer.
It was the expression on his face that brought it back to Gordon—the cautious, hopeful look, the eagerness to be admitted. This time Gordon would not say no. Sure, it wasn’t a great idea for someone suspected of what he was suspected of to have a child of a similar age on his premises. But his goose was as good as cooked, as far as he was concerned. What was the harm in welcoming a boy who was only asking for access? He could do this one right thing.
He could not recall the boy’s name because only one name was on his mind: Davy. Goodbye, Davy, Gordon thought. I sent you away, yet you stayed with me. Today, he was having his own kind of memorial for Davy Malcor. Now he’d have an assistant for the task.
“What was your name again?” he asked.
“Stuart,” Stuart said.
“Well, Stuart, you couldn’t have come at a better time.”
Stuart’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes, I’ve got something very important to do today, and you can be my helper. I mean, if you don’t have anything else going on,” he said, feeling a warmth spread within his chest as he watched a smile fill the boy’s face.
“No!” Stuart said. “I don’t!”
Gordon beckoned him into the studio. “Well then, let’s get in here and figure it out together.”