Lenora,

No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.

Aesop

Thank you for giving my son a home away from home. You broke down his walls, yet gave him shelter. I am forever in your debt.

Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer

Though I’d been in the same place as this woman several times over the years, we’d never been officially introduced. To me, she was a famous painter and Vaughn’s mother. I knew of her gallery in Los Angeles and had admired her art from afar (and her son from up close). Why had she reached out? Had Vaughn been in touch with her since he disappeared? Had he told her about me?

The idea filled me with foolish hope that maybe he was missing me, thinking about me. That perhaps he’d changed his mind after all. The morning sweets deliveries almost felt like a force of habit at this point. An apology, perhaps.

Maybe he’ll be at the exhibition. My mind raced into dangerous territory: hope.

The love declaration he’d made in his letter grew watered down by doubt with each passing day, but I had to admit, slipping into the dress Emilia had sent me felt like walking into his arms. I swore it had his scent.

It was Gothic, chic, and enchanting.

Christmas hung in the air like an overripe fruit. The sweet scent of pastries wafted in the chilly London air, and white and red lights wrapped around the English capital like a bow. Tate Modern was a brown, boxy thing on the southeast side of London. It wasn’t as posh and beautiful as Tate Britain, but today, it looked perfect to me.

Poppy held my hand, and Papa draped an arm over my shoulder as we walked across Turbine Hall toward the exhibition room. The minute I entered the space, I spotted my piece. It was impossible not to. It had been placed in the center of the room, surrounded by the other works of art, most of them pushed against the white walls.

Bursting from the bowels of the gallery with pristine brilliance and vivid colors, his tin face stared back at me in challenge. The Indian yellow of his cape battled for attention with the ruby red of his bleeding crown of thorns. He was alive, deadly, and godly.

My Angry God.

My heart beat faster when I realized a cluster of people orbited around it, staring. Some seemed to read the little explanatory sign underneath:

Angry God/Assemblage/Lenora Astalis

Material: nails, wood, thorns, paper, fabric, metal, glass, plastic, hair, blood

From the artist: When I started working on this piece, I had no idea what it meant to me. I wanted to immortalize the depraved ferocity of a beautiful man willfully marching to his own demise. The name, Angry God, derives from “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God,” a sermon written by the Christian theologian Jonathan Edwards and preached to his congregation in Northampton, Massachusetts in 1741. It is said that Edwards was interrupted many times during the sermon by people asking, “What shall I do to be saved?”

What will you do to be saved?

Would you go so far as losing the love of your life?

“Come, come, the woman of the hour is here.” Alma Everett-Hodkins curved her wrinkly, thin fingers around my wrist and pulled me into the throng of people, all of them sophisticated-looking professionals in black.

“I noticed her rare talent when she was merely eight.” Alma grinned knowingly as my father and Poppy stood next to us, smiling proudly and cradling glasses of champagne. I would’ve killed for a drink, but I needed to remain professional and, unfortunately, sober. People asked me questions about the piece and gave me their interpretations of it. I answered dutifully, trying to cling to the moment, to be there, to experience the now, and to push Vaughn from my thoughts—at least for the duration of the evening. This was the height of my career, the peak I’d been waiting for. It wasn’t fair that he was going to steal it without even being here.

Without even trying.

Pope stood on the other side of the room next to his floor-to-ceiling painting, talking to a cluster of young artists. There were many pieces of art in the exhibition, but most people were standing around my statue. Pride overwhelmed me. Maybe I really was good after all.

I craned my neck, stupidly looking for Vaughn among the crowd of people, but he wasn’t here. It felt so fitting; it was hard not to hope he’d show up, like in the movies, storming in frazzled and lovesick, with a Hugh Grant smile and a stuttered-yet-charming monologue that would rip everyone’s heart out, mine included.

“Did you have anyone in mind when you sculpted the face?” asked a stunning, blue-eyed woman with a brown chignon, the tips of her hair dyed lavender pink. She cradled a glass of red wine.