I sat in my black Lamborghini in the parking lot of the club where Katrina worked for an hour running over my decision. A minute for every picture my mother gave me of Katrina. I saw red when she first put those pictures in my hand. I wanted to physically lash out and hurt her when I saw the first one, but I didn’t. I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached.

My mother began to cry.

Maybe they were crocodile tears, but I’d learned my lesson. Even the worst psychopath had their own breaking point. I was responsible for Christine’s breaking point, I didn’t want to be responsible for my mother’s. My mother had a long journey ahead of her. I didn’t want it to be on my head that she didn’t arrive home safely.

After she left, I didn’t look at the photos.

I burned them in the stove. All of them.

They made the place stink so much of ink and chemicals I had to open all the windows and doors. It had started snowing again, but all the magic was gone. It was no longer a refuge. I looked around and saw it through my mother’s eyes. The cabin looked small and joyless.

I picked up my tools, went to my workshop and got to work with a mad man’s intensity. For two days and nights I carved, only stopping to eat and snatch a couple of hours of sleep.

I thought a lot during all those hours alone about what I wanted out of life, what mattered to me and what didn’t. As much as I wanted to push Katrina out of my head, I just couldn’t do it.

She was always on my mind.

I thought of the movie Manhattan, when the character played by Woody Allen was lying on his couch and talking into his tape recorder. He led himself to the question of why life was worth living. For him it was, Groucho Marx, Willie May, the second movement of the Jupiter Symphony, Louis Armstrong’s Potato Head Blues, Swedish movies, Flaubert’s Sentimental Education, Marlon Brando, Frank Sinatra, the incredible Apples and Pears by Cezanne, the Crabs at Sam Wo’s and finally … the face of his love, Tracy’s face.

Each of us had our precious things.

The things that made us care. The things that made us human. For me, the list was even more sparse than Woody Allen’s. Before Katrina came my life was empty and meaningless. I spent weeks sculpting something only to destroy it.

To me: Katrina’s face was everything. She made me a human being again. So what if my mother had paid her. I know we had something. Something more than money. Something rare and precious. I didn’t care if she danced for a living in the past. I cared only about the woman I knew.

When the carving was finished, I loaded it onto the back of the truck and stood looking at my cabin. Truly I had loved it. It had saved my life when my life seemed worthless and death was preferable. But that time was over.

I said goodbye to the mountain and left.

I went to see my mother and got the address of the club where Katrina worked. As I was leaving she ran out of the house and held me tight. “Please don’t think badly of me, darling. I did it all for you. Because I love you,” she said. I knew then, she hadn’t been honest about everything. Whatever it was I would find out when I found Katrina.

So, now here I was: Parked in my car outside the club where Katrina danced. Katrina was in there for sure. I knew because I called ahead. I was not storming in there to find she was not even on shift. It was not a very mountain man thing to do to check ahead, but Katrina was right, I was a total poser of a mountain man.

A leopard didn’t change its spots.

I was a billionaire.

I never took chances.

I always went for the sure thing.

I had planned to go in, sit on the periphery not to attract too much attention and just drink a beer, check out the scene. I’d planned to take it easy and slow, hang out for a while, and let her see that I was there. Once she’d spotted me across the room, I figured she’d come over, throw her arms around me and kiss me.

Her boss would get mad and fire her in front of everybody to which she would respond by flipping him the bird and rolling out her wonderful laugh with an arm slung around me, as we headed to the door. That was how I imagined it would go, that we’d take our time with it.

The reality of the situation played out very different.

I walked up to the doormen and they parted like the red sea to make way for me. They were all smiles. I didn’t even have to pay at reception. The benefits of arriving in a luxury sports car. I was whisked into an enclosure marked VIP. This was before I’d uttered a word. It was dark and cool with a loud stag party in progress. Already a plan was forming in my head.

A waitress in a long black dress with a long slit up one thigh arrived. I ordered champagne. The best the establishment had. I asked if Katrina was working.

She smiled. “As a matter of fact, yes. I think her slot comes up soon.”

“I’d like to have a private dance with her.”

Her smile lost some of its glitz. “Well, I believe Katrina is no longer doing private dances, but I’m sure any of the other girls will be glad to oblige.”

“But I only want a private dance with Katrina,” I said.

She cleared her throat. “If you’d like to wait I’ll get the manager for you and you can discuss it with him.”

A man in a black cut suit came hurrying towards me. He had sad eyes and a long pale face. He beamed at me effusively and repeated what the waitress had already told me. I took my JP Morgan Palladium Visa card out of my wallet, put it on the table, and pushed it towards him. It was made of actual palladium and gold and had no spending limit. His eyes widened the way a fisherman who suddenly found a prizewinning catch at the end of his line would.

“I’m prepared to spend an insane amount of money in this establishment for the privilege of one private dance with Katrina. Shall we start with a bottle of champagne for every dancer in this place …”

He gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Of course. I’ll … I’ll arrange something for you, Sir.”