The latest stone sculpture from Adam Whitaker, "Lingering Touch," is an undeniable masterclass in technique. Whitaker remains a virtuoso of the medium, offering a staggering display of carved angles that bleed into flowing lines with a precision few of his contemporaries could hope to mimic. It is, by all accounts, a beautiful object.

   Yet, for all its physical presence, the work fails to communicate; it is a meticulously constructed vessel that is, unfortunately, quite empty.

   Unless Whitaker manages to find something to ignite him, his upcoming exhibition is sure to disappoint those looking for art that does more than simply occupy space. "Lingering Touch" is a display of skill in search of a soul, but ultimately, the work lacks vision.

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   I'm not entirely sure what I wrote in my review that warranted an invitation to Adam Whitaker's estate (I'm not the only critic who's claimed he favors form over feeling), but I'm not going to miss out on the opportunity of what is essentially a company-funded vacation while I interview the most elusive artist in sculpture. Most people never even meet the man, and here I am, about to spend a week with him at his studio estate.

   The wheels of the town car groan across the gravel as we turn onto the drive. The entrance is so discreet that I likely would have missed it if I had been driving myself, with nothing but a modest "Private Drive" sign tucked behind a thick screen of oaks and maples.

   We serpentine through the woods for a solid mile, navigating a path of twists and turns with deep dips where recent rainfall gathered into shimmering pools. I'm beginning to think that we'll never find it, but then the car rounds a particularly large oak tree, and I finally lay my eyes on it— a seamless blend of timber and stone with expansive windows along the facade. The landscaping is minimal, but not missed, as the property is surrounded by naturally occurring trees, bushes, and shrubs. It's beautiful in a way that makes me feel as though I'm underdressed.

    As the car slows in front of the estate, I begin to second-guess my wardrobe choice. I selected this outfit in an attempt to look professional, polished, to be taken seriously as a young journalist. With my red hair thrown into an effortless bun, satin blouse tucked into denim trousers, and my tried-and-true pair of black pumps. It's the kind of outfit that says I have a master's degree and a very sharp opinion, even if my heart is currently thumping against my ribs. Looking at the soggy grass that awaits me, though, I fear I may sink right in.

    The chauffeur rounds the vehicle and opens my door with a practiced flourish.

   "Miss Pierce, we've arrived."

    "Thank you," I reply, eagerly taking his hand in an effort to maintain some dignity.

    As suspected, my heel immediately sinks, and I have to wobble over to the solid walkway.

   "Tell me," I start. "Do you know Adam Whitaker personally? Have you ever met him?"

    "I've met him, ma'am, but I wouldn't say that I know him."

   "What's the first impression?" I press.

   "You'll see," is all he says, and he gives me a quizzical look.

     I hate being a burden, so I insist on carrying my own things, and trek up the stately main staircase, leaving the chauffeur back at the car. I arrive to a solid wooden door, three times taller than myself, which opens with a knowing creak. A young maid steps aside with her arm out in a welcoming gesture.

     "Come in, come in!" the woman says.

      I dip my head in an appreciative nod. "Thank you,"

     "We've been expecting you."

     She's younger than I am, but not by much, probably in her late-twenties, early-thirties.

    "I'm Emily, Adam's assistant. I also happen to be his little sister. Can I get you anything?"

    "I didn't know he had a sister. Is he around?"

    "I'm afraid he's in his studio, working," she informs. "He said to apologize for his absence and that he'd meet you down for dinner."

     I follow her up the curved staircase to my room, the banister cool under my grip.

    "How was your drive?" Emily asks.

    "It was gorgeous! I imagine the view is part of the reason Mr. Whitaker chose this place." I say, looking out the floor-to-ceiling window before me in admiration of just how green it is.

    "Yeah, you could say that. Adam is very excited to show you his process. He took your review to heart, although I believe he felt you missed the mark in some areas."

    A forced laugh passes my lips, a disingenuous smile on my face as we continue up the staircase.

   "Well," Emily leads, as she opens the grand door to my room. "We've arrived. Would you like to tour your quarters?"

   "That won't be necessary," I say. "I'm sure I'll be able to make my way around, thank you."

   "Very well." Emily gives me a curt nod before stepping out.

   "Thanks again!" I call as she departs. She may very well be the one person to keep me sane during this stay; I'd better be nice to her.

     I place my things down in the corner of the room and immediately flick my shoes off. What was previously mud cracks off the heel and dusts the floor with little chunks of earth.

    "Shit, shit, shit!"

      I drop to my hands and knees in an immediate effort to clean up the mess I've made, plucking each clump of dirt from the white shag of the rug. If it's at all up to me, this place will look like I was never here by the end of the week. I don't want to make Emily's job any harder than it has to be.

     Once I am satisfied that the rug is earth-free, I rise to my feet and cross to the window to admire the scenery the estate has to offer: nothing but treetops for miles, like florets of broccoli stretched out before me.

     The interior of the room is inviting, yet minimalistic. Everything seems to be designed in a shade of greige: ecru walls, cement-colored hardwood; the bedframe looks as if it's constructed from driftwood, and in the corner, there's a chaise lounge the shade of cigarette ash. It doesn't come off cold, per se, thanks to the fabrics and furnishings Whitaker has chosen. The bed is topped with what looks like a marshmallow of a duvet, and while not the color I would have chosen, the velvet of the chaise lounge is indulgent under my fingertips.

     My favorite pumps are filthy, and I can't very well track mud everywhere I go, so I slip into a pair of sensible flats. My hands smooth down the front of my blouse as I let out a sigh. I'm not usually one to get anxious, but with nothing else to do other than to wait around for dinner, my heart rate has gotten the best of me.

Just then, my phone rings.

    “Hello?” I answer it.

    “Genevieve! Did you make it okay? How’s reception out there?”

     It’s my editor, calling to check on me.

    “Hey, Eric. Yeah, I just got here. Reception shouldn’t be a problem.”

    “Good, good,” he replies. “What do you think this Whitaker is expecting with asking you up there for the week?”

     “I don’t know entirely,” I respond. “Supposedly, he wants me to ‘see his process.’ I think in hopes of changing my mind about the review or something.”

     “Does he really think he's so charming that meeting him is going to make you retract your statements? You’ve got more pride in your work than that.”

     “I don’t know, Eric. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you about the article tomorrow.”

     With that, I hang up the phone. I can talk to Eric tomorrow. Besides, there’s not much to tell at this point. From what I can see so far, Adam Whitaker seems to be like any other artist.

      In an effort to calm my nerves, I decide to touch up my makeup. My mascara has betrayed me, leaving smudges in my undereye, so I wipe them away and add a dab of concealer to brighten. The lipstick I applied this morning, on the other hand, has disappeared entirely, so I reapply my favorite shade of all time, Velvet Teddy, a taupe that looks right at home in my monochromatic accommodations. I'm just touching up the corners of my mouth when I hear footsteps approaching. It must be Emily, to announce the start of dinner.

     The walnut door sighs as I open it. Emily is just outside, a silent sentinel in the hall.

    "He's waiting in the dining room, Miss Pierce." she says, lips tight around her teeth.

      I smooth my satin blouse one last time before shakily proceeding down the curved staircase. My hand rises with agonizing slowness as it finds the railing, the only solid security I can grasp before descending into the danger zone that is the dining room. Emily follows silently, no doubt tasked to tend to me during my stay.

     Upon reaching the landing, she ushers me into a room branching off the main hall. A long, rustic dining table dominates the space; its raw edge appearing as if it were carved directly out of one of the many trees outside. Though it could easily seat a dozen, every chair along its sides remains empty.

      A bouquet of the most fragrant flowers commands the center of the table, overlooking a single, flawless place setting. The escort card reads "Miss Genevieve Pierce," in elegant, swirling script. I linger over the lavish display, lost in the beauty and artistry of it all for what feels like minutes, until a deep, deliberate clearing of a throat snaps me upright.

     "Ahem."

      I look up.

     He stands behind a chair at the end of the table, tall and impeccably poised, radiating a quiet authority. His features are sharp, precise—jawline and cheekbones sculpted as perfectly as his artwork. There is a taut control in the way he carries himself, every movement is as if he owns the space without ever needing to assert it.

     When he finally turns to meet my face, however, his focus settles just slightly past my cheek. His eyes are striking, a piercing blue so pale they verge on icy gray, holding an intensity that is impossible to look away from. His hand glides briefly along the back of his chair before he sits.

      "Thank you, Mr. Whitaker, for having me," I say as I take my seat, the legs slightly squeaking against the hardwood beneath.

       His attention shifts toward the sound of my voice. "Adam, please. It's my pleasure."