“You came in here?" Josh asked, somewhat surprised.

Sarah nodded, her eyes distant. "Sometimes. When I was feeling sad. Or lonely. The smell of this place always reminded me of you. The paint and wood and turpentine. I'd sneak in and sit in the easy chair over there and just think. It made me feel like you were here with me, even though you weren't.”

“I'm sorry," he said.

“Don't be," she replied.

“It isn't your fault. Not all of it, at least.

I will say, though," she said with a steely glint in her eye, “it would have been better if you and Mom had actually talked about your issues, rather than her ranting and you just sitting there like a Lump. Or walking away.

“Yes, I know, you don't Like arguments. Grandma and Grandpa Sunderman gave me and Alex the whole lecture about how a soft answer turns away wrath. But a soft answer doesn't mean no answer at all. That's what drove Mom so crazy. She'd make a criticism and you'd act like you didn't even hear her. No one likes being ignored, Daddy."

Josh grimaced. It was startling to know his daughter had such a keen insight into his personality.

“How about we take a look at the new project?" he said.

“Changing the subject, huh? Real mature, Dad." Despite her sarcastic tone, she joined him at the bench. "So what's the theme?" she asked.

“See if you can figure it out," he replied. He already regretted drawing Sarah's attention to this. If she talks to Rachel about it, there'll be hell to pay, he thought grimly. Oh, screw it. She's not a little girl anymore. She's nineteen and an adult. It's time to treat her like one.

“I'm,...not sure," Sarah said. She glanced up at Josh. "I think I know, but..."

“But you're surprised your old man is letting you see it?" he finished.

“You know that a Lot of what I do is for mature audiences, Pumpkin.”

He modded towards the first piece. Carved in the finest white marble was the lying figure of a sleeping baby boy. Curled on his side, one of his tiny hands was cupped over his groin.

“Innocence,” he said.

He moved down a couple of steps. Leaning against the wall was an oil painting. In it, a young boy around eight years old was looking in a mirror. The lower half of his body was obscured, but it was obvious from the angle he was looking at his genitals. "Curiosity."

The next piece was a carving. Golden wood revealed a teenage boy lying on a bed. Fully nude, he held his erect member in one hand, clearly masturbating.

“Discovery.”

The fourth piece was a tableau in bronze. Done to one-half scale, the teenager from the previous piece was older. No longer a boy, but a young man. He was making Love to a woman, his phallus half-in, half-out of her cleft, caught in mid-thrust. His face was contorted in a rictus of ecstasy. The woman was on her back, her head hanging off the edge of the bed, her hands cupping her breasts. Her engorged nipples stood out like tiny golden spikes, polished to a high gleam.