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commercial space, so I’m not allowed to have a stove, so this would be
really cool.”
“Good, so—”
“What’s through this door?”
I opened it and swept my hand in her direction. “After you.”
She went into the unfinished three-car garage with its high woodbeamed
ceiling and clean white walls. The floor was new concrete, and the
lighting was soft and indirect.
“Wow,” she said, pleasing me more deeply than I expected.
“You can use this for a studio,” I said.
Her attention snapped from the ceiling to me. “For?”
“Whatever you want. Clothes. Art.”
“The Collective is finished for me. I’m out.”
“What about your own thing?”
She sucked in her cheeks and crossed her arms. Somehow, I’d stepped
in a pile of shit I should have smelled a mile away.
“I have a studio.”
“In a condemned building you have no lease for.”
“It’ll be there longer than this marriage.”
“If it doesn’t fall on your head first.”
We regarded each other across the space I’d built a year ago for no
purpose whatsoever, and wanted for her as if I’d known she was coming all
that time.
“What’s option two?” she asked.
“The main house.” Instead of going back the way we came, I unlatched
the barn door and swung it out, hoping the way the light streamed into the
space might sell it. “This way.”
Hands in the front pockets of her ripped jeans, she followed me, taking
one last look back at the open garage.
“Was it always supposed to be an artist’s studio?” she asked.
“I had no plans for it. Or maybe I subconsciously knew you were
coming.”
We entered the house through the kitchen entrance. If she thought the
guest kitchen was nice, she made no indication that the main one was any
better at three times the size.
We climbed the stairs, where four doors stood around a main hall. Ella’s
eye caught a drawing I’d bought at auction.