Coming of Age: Volume 2: Endless Conflict Read Free Page B

teenagers—until they came to one piece in the exhibit hall of American sculpture.
    Wells felt John’s hand leave hers as he stopped in front of a standing, larger than life marble figure of a woman. She was naked except for a sheet clutched around her waist. At first, Wells thought he was captivated by the coldly erect stone breasts, which was what you would expect from a man. Wells dismissed them as less than impressive.
    “What a face!” John whispered. “Such a load of anger!”
    Antigone Wells came back around and peered up into the face, which was bent slightly forward. It was a stern face, certainly, with eyebrows drawn together and full lips slightly pursed. But rather than anger, Wells read the expression as more consternation, confusion, or dawning realization. She looked down and, between the figure’s sandaled feet, saw locks of hair and an old-fashioned straight razor that was cocked open. The title of the work, carved into the base, was “Delilah.”
    “Have you dealt with many angry women?” she asked. Now that Wells thought of it, the figure with its long hair and hint of darkness, even on the creamy marble, reminded her of his daughter Callista.
    “Adele could have that look sometimes,” John said. “I often thought it was directed at me.”
    That was his wife, the woman who died. A drunk, as Wells remembered from their consultation long ago about having her committed.
    “I don’t know what she had to be angry about,” Antigone Wells said now in John’s defense. “She had a good life, didn’t she? Married to a successful man. Three talented and successful children. Big house in the smartest neighborhood—”
    “We made a lot of sacrifices to get there. I think she would have settled for less.”
    “Most women do,” Wells said sadly.
    “But not you,” he said, taking her hand.
    She pulled the hand free. “You don’t know what I’ve had to give up, either!”
    With that, she walked away. Wells would let him come after her—or not.
    But his footsteps followed quickly, and he called to her softly, “ Tig! ”
    She turned into his arms. “All right. You get to keep your hair.”
    Then she waited three beats before adding, “This time.”
    * * *
    Brandon Praxis had been called to a meeting in the corporate headquarters by someone he’d never heard of, a woman named Penelope Winston, “of the IT Department.” He didn’t recall PE&C ever having one, but he took it as a sign that the company was growing and expanding.
    When he arrived on the third floor, his aunt saw him in the long hallway, gave him a funny look, and pointed toward the far end. “She’s waiting for you in the media room,” Callie said.
    “What’s up?” he asked.
    “We’ve all had to go through it.”
    “Go through what?”
    “You’ll see.”
    In the conference room he found a young woman in her mid-twenties or maybe even younger, dressed rough in patched jeans and a tee shirt that said, “Forget the Clowns, Send in the Engineers.” But she was really cute, with tousled hair and big, bright eyes. She looked him up and down and gave him a grin.
    Suddenly he was aware of his own clothes: khaki work shirt with button-down pockets and shoulder straps, tactical pants with side pockets, and steel-toed boots. He didn’t look much different from any working engineer called in from a job in the field, except for the M9 bayonet in a sheath on his right hip and the ammo magazines in those extra pockets.
    “You must be the soldier,” she said. “I’m Penny Winston, your new in-house tech wizard.” She held out her right hand without getting up from her chair.
    He was already moving to sit on the opposite side of the black-glass conference table but changed direction and leaned over to shake hands. She used his change of momentum, just like a judo throw, to pull him around and steer his butt into the chair beside hers.
    “More comfy this way,” she said.
    She tapped on the tabletop, invoking touch-sensitive