Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 166(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
He came over and took the sketchbook from me. “Kristin’s supposed to come by for a session this afternoon. I’ll let you stay and watch if she’s comfortable with it.”
“I’d like that,” I said, curiosity overriding my jealousy. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“Who, Kristin?”
I nodded.
“No. I don’t have a girlfriend.” He returned to the sink to pour himself a glass of water. All at once, my curiosity condensed to a stone in my throat.
“Dad, I’m sor—”
“I should give you a tour of the studio.” He offered me the glass he’d just filled. “The sooner you’re familiar with the space, the faster you can take advantage of it.”
I met his gaze over the rim of the glass, and a current of understanding passed between us. He wasn’t going to explain the video unless I asked him to. In return, he wouldn’t mention the glass or how it got into his room. I could keep my dignity and my place in his home.
All I had to do was commit to an unspoken truce: I saw nothing. I heard nothing. There was nothing to discuss.
Eyes closed, I tipped the water into my mouth and swallowed.
The studio was unlike any classroom I’d ever worked in. He had all the best quality paints and more brushes than an artist could ever use in a lifetime. He gave me a spot at his drawing table and my own easel, and permission to experiment with whatever tools and supplies sparked my interest. If I’d ever doubted the authenticity of his interest in my art, his encouragement and willingness to share his workspace killed it dead.
I parked myself in front of the window with a massive sketchpad and some charcoal and started drawing clouds. That was my favorite way to warm up. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t fuck up clouds. You could only make them stormier.
“You pout your lips when you draw,” he said.
“Do I?” I asked, not the least bit self-conscious now that I was in my element. He’d sat in a nearby chair and watched me work for the past half hour in comfortable silence.
The chair squeaked as he shifted positions.
“Must be genetic,” he said.
“You do it, too?”
“No. Your mom did.”
That made me pause. “I didn’t know Mom could draw.”
“Not drawing. Her thing was photography. She had a great eye. I’ll have you know, I was her favorite subject until you came along. After that, we were constantly stepping on each other’s toes. Me with my sketchpad, her with her Nikon.”
“She never told me,” I said, not that I was surprised. It was just another piece to the mysterious puzzle that was my mother. I resumed shading, dragging a darkened finger along the underside of an especially foreboding cumulonimbus.
“She had a knack for capturing bodies in motion,” he said. “It was a nice contrast to my work, which centers on quieter moments, the things we do when we think no one’s watching.”
“I know.” I met his gaze. “I’ve been following your work for years.”
His smile betrayed a twinge of sadness.
“Why did she stop taking pictures?” I asked.
“That, you’ll have to ask her.”
A soft buzz disrupted the quiet that had settled between us. My father drew his phone from his pocket, thumbed at it, then frowned.
“Well, shit.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Kristin has the flu.” His chest rose and fell with a long, slow groan. “This is going to set me back.”
“Can’t you find someone else?” I laid the sketchbook on the floor.
“Sure, but even that would take a few days. I was hoping to finish the preliminary sketches this afternoon.”
The idea surfaced like a bottle in the ocean, a message borne from the deep.
“I could do it,” I said.
He took in my face, my posture, my folded legs, then shook his head. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
“It’s not like I don’t have experience.”
“This is different,” he said, his gaze hardening.
He was right. I’d seen the conceptual drawings in his sketchbook. This project was inherently sexual, unlike anything he’d attempted when I was younger. He was trying to turn an intimate moment inside out, to take the most private activity in which a person could partake and make it public. If I did this, I would be laying myself bare for his and everyone else’s perusal.
The thought of it scared and excited me. It made my toes curl.
“You’re letting me work in your studio and stay in this incredible apartment for free. Let me do this for you.”
“You’re here as my guest, Paige, not as a tenant. You don’t owe me rent or favors.”
“It’s not a favor.” The offer was as much for my benefit as it was for his. Maybe more so. “I want to do it.”
He stared out the window, scrubbing his jaw, his expression dubious. The chair creaked as he stood. He crossed the room and entered the walk-in supply closet, then brought out a blue terrycloth robe.