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Sophy let out a sigh, examining the toes of her shoes as they scuffed in the gravel.
“You’re a wise woman, Ma,” she said lightly after a moment.
“I think so,” agreed Marion serenely.
“Did you get that last bit from Oprah?”
“Cosmopolitan.”
Sophy laughed.
“Is it really cowardly if I don’t go back to my job at the bar?” she asked, sobering. She had been going back and forth on the options all morning.
“No,” said Marion firmly. “The “get back on the horse” mentality has limitations and I never liked that you worked there in the first place. Your commissions are going quite well, aren’t they?”
“I get a decent amount, but not quite enough to cover expenses.”
“That should change when you win the sculpture competition.”
Sophy smiled despite herself.
“Mum, I haven’t even entered yet.”
“I have faith.”
“You said that when Mrs. Bell made me enter the science competition at high school.”
“And it was equally true then.”
“I came last.”
“But I’m sure you did your best.” Marion ignored her snort and went on, “You can pick up some extra shifts here if you need to. I think you have more of an affinity for cheese than nightclubs anyway.”
“What a depressing epitaph for a twenty-four-year-old woman.”
***
She had brunch with her parents at the vineyard before she returned to central Queenstown, managing with some difficulty to dissuade her dad from coming back with her to storm the police cells. Deep in thought, she went straight to where she could always best sort out her conflicting emotions: the studio. Someone had opened the blinds in her workroom and she unpegged the windows as well, sliding on her protective breathing mask before she uncovered Hades and picked up her chisel.
She had almost finished his face, was down to the more intricate details around the eyes and nose. As she worked, etching as delicately and precisely as she would were she applying cosmetics or surgical stitches to live human flesh, she considered her mother’s words.
The part about not over-thinking everything resonated especially deeply. Sophy had always had a tendency to think forward and worry about the future, rather than focusing on the present. Many of her reservations about a serious involvement with Mick were still based on hypothetical concerns, rather than the actual relationship and the actual man that she had.
The man that she wanted.
Because he was wrong: she did want him badly. She couldn’t entirely shift her…not precisely doubts. ‘Qualms’ was a better word. She had qualms. But the alternative was starting to look pretty bleak. She had been happy in the past, before she had met him; but she had been considerably happier still these past few weeks. With the odd glaring exception and not one of those incidents could be blamed on Mick, whatever she had thought last night in a breaking point of stress.
She didn’t know what was going to happen, couldn’t control it to an extent, and she was just going to have to accept that fact if she didn’t want to lose Mick or hurt someone that she loved. He had gone out on a limb for her and she had stayed safely in her retreat. He deserved better.
She was reaching for her phone when a quiet knock sounded on the door and she looked up, startled.
Dale stood in the doorway, his hands pushed deep into his jeans pockets, his hair windswept and his eyes anxious. He looked almost like a little boy, a blend of nervousness and defiance, as if he’d been caught in front of a broken window with a cricket bat in his hand. It was a far cry from his usual confident swagger.
“Hi, Soph,” he said, and wet his lips with his tongue. “Um – can I come in for a minute? Is that okay?”
***
“Good. Cheers for that, Bill.”
