Becoming His Muse, Part Three (16 page)

“Would it help if I posed for you?”

I turn to face him. His deep green eyes are sincere and soft. He really is offering to help. I look back at the painting, because I know I’ll find myself there, whereas if I look any longer into his eyes, I know I’ll get lost.

“Ava,” he says, stepping up behind me. “I’m truly sorry.” I sense that any minute he might put his arms around me, and I’m afraid of how that might feel.

“I just need help with the legs,” I say. “If you could stand like that on the podium.”

He looks at the image and then climbs on the podium. He starts to undo his belt buckle, which makes sense since Jonathan is naked in the picture, but I start to freeze up, because the last thing I want to do is melt in front of him. The chemistry between us is still palpable, but I can’t give into it, even with his apology. A lot has changed for me in the last couple of weeks. I’ve gotten stronger. I want to stay that way.

“Wait,” I say. “Come sit here.”

I point at a chair not far from my easel. I reach for the small blank canvas sitting next to my supplies. This is the last painting I have to do. I set it on the easel as Logan, looking a little confused, takes the chair.

“Put your arms like this,” I say, showing him what I mean. “I'm going to paint your hands.”

***

The painting flows easily and, eventually, so does our conversation. He tells me he finished his manuscript. He just sent it off to Lowell this morning. He seems happy, even proud.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says.

“You finished it without me.”

“Just because we haven’t talked or spoken or slept in the same bed doesn’t mean you haven’t been with me, Ava.”

I nod. I know what he means. Once the sharp edge of the hurt wore off and Madeleine got me back in the studio, I felt as if part of Logan has been with me as well.

“Do you know how hard it is to be in the same room with you and not tear your clothes off?” He shoots me his sexiest, most devilish grin.

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t move your fingers!”

“I can’t help it,” he says defensively. “I’m imagining what they might do to you.”

“Stop.” But I can’t help smiling. We banter as if we haven’t had this painful break, as if we’re back to how we were before, except I know it’s different.
I’m
different.

This painting is almost done. It practically painted itself. And it’s beautiful. I rarely think that of my own work but the light and skin tone is just right. I will treasure this one.

“Can I see it yet?”

“No, but I think I’m ready to have you help me with the other one now.”

I swap the canvasses again.

“On the podium. Pants off,” I say bossily.

“Ooh, I like your tone of voice.”

He’s being flirty and playful, and he’s helping me with my art. But I haven’t forgiven him for his withdrawal. There is still hurt to appease.

He climbs up on the platform and rearranges the heap of blankets and fabrics lying there.

“Is this for in case I get cold?”

“Maybe.” I take steadying breath and prepare for his pants to drop. I remind myself I am an artist when I’m the studio. Not a friend, not a lover, not even an ex-lover.

He turns away from me, and I remember to lower my gaze. How could I have forgotten my basic rule? He stays turned away from me because that is how Jonathan posed for this painting. Logan steps his front foot forward in a lunge. The muscles of his legs and buttocks flex. I feel a familiar warmth spreading throughout my body.

“You don’t need my arms, right?” Not for the painting, I think, catching a double meaning in his words. My heart softens a tiny bit. I do need his arms… I push those thoughts away, pick a brush, and start finding the lines I need.

I can’t help scanning for certain details I don’t need for the painting… Like what hangs between his legs. But because I don’t need his arms for the pose, he has his hands cupping his genitals, even though he faces away from me, so I can’t even catch a sneak peek between his thighs.

“I feel very exposed,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“Painting.”

“But which part of my body?”

“My brush is reshaping the curve of the back calf.”

I think I see his back leg tremble. “Are you cold?”

“Talk to me while you paint. As if you’re touching me with your brush.”

“Okay. Well, I’m working on a shadow under the left foot right now. A couple more dabs of green and… good, that’s done. Now I’m touching up a highlight on the right buttock… And I’ve got to get the right length ratio from thigh to shin…” I focus on what I’m doing for a few moments before continuing.

“What next?” he says.

“Um, working on filling in part of the left thigh, and now just a little more cadmium red on the right foot… ”

“And?”

I step back from the painting to assess. I think I’m pretty much done. I scan each part of the picture, reexamine the light and shadows…

“Keep going,” says Logan, softly. “I like imagining you touching me like this

I’m about to say I don’t need to keep going but then I feel an inkling of inspiration. I load up my brush and silently approach the podium.

“Like this?” I say, lightly dragging my brush along his ankle. He shudders and then slowly turns toward me. He looks down at his hands, which cannot conceal what’s grown hard under them. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it, knowing you were looking at me so closely.”

He bends down and grabs some blankets to cover himself. For a brief moment, I witness all his glory. I paint a circle on his kneecap.

“Why did you come here, Logan?”

He offers me his other knee. “To say sorry.” I paint another circle.

“Anything else?” I hold my brush poised in front of him.

He’s covered himself up but now lets the blanket drop from around his shoulders and chest.

“To ask for another chance.”

I touch the tip of my brush to each of his nipples. They shrink and harden.

“So ask.” I draw a line between his nipples and then circle around his heart.

“Please, Ava, will you give me another chance?”

He’s sitting on the podium offering himself to me.

“Another chance to break my heart?” I push my brush against the skin over his heart.

He sighs, and I see sorry in his eyes, and regret.

“I’m sorry, Ava. I thought if I pushed you away you would be safer. I could see the stress and worry building in you because of the risks you were taking to see me. Dr. T said he was worried about you, too. I thought maybe he was getting suspicious. When you didn’t jump at the chance to run off to New York, I knew you were committed to finishing your degree. I didn’t want you to crash and burn, Ava. That’s why I pulled away.”

“But it hurt so much. I felt so broken.”

He gives me a soft half-smile. “That was our agreement at the beginning, wasn’t it? I said I would break you.”

He did say that. He talked about breaking up, breaking down, breaking even and breaking open.

“I’m stronger now.”

“I know.”

“I don’t have to give you another chance.”

“I know that, too.”

“So why should I?”

“Because you’re dying to know how someone who writes about love actually loves, when he finally lets himself.”

His deep green eyes reach into mine. My breath catches. He said the L word. He watches me, trying to gauge my openness to his invitation. I find the words to ask him,

“What is love to someone who writes about love?”

He pauses and closes his eyes. Then he opens them and says,

“Love is like stealing stars. It’s like taking light born billions of years ago and swallowing it whole and then sharing it with another. It’s starfire incarnate.”

I set my brush down and climb onto the podium.

“I’m dying to kiss you,” I whisper.

“From now on, it’s all I want to live for.”

We make love amid the red, green, gold and purple blankets with more tenderness that we’ve ever shared before. I give myself to him without losing myself at all. We move slowly and sensually. Like Gustav Klimt’s painting,
The Kiss,
we are two bodies twined and loving.

We agree not to see each other until the art opening. We’re too close to the end of the year to risk getting caught now. And we’ve both survived weeks apart, so we know we can handle a couple more. I make one exception: I stop by his office and give him his present. He turns the book lovingly in his hands, saying thank you several times. He sets it on his shelf next to his grandfather’s pipe. Then he kisses my cheek. Before this can lead to anything else, I duck out of his office. I’ve learned something about patience. And now we have a plan.

After Logan finishes marking projects, he’ll return to New York to work on his novel edit and publication, and after I finish my exams and attend convocation, I will go home, pack my things, and join him the following month. No one will ever need to know about our affair. We can explain our chance meeting in New York and begin our new life from there.

I work on finishing the edges of my paintings and dressing them with hanging hardware when I’m not studying for exams. Soon it’s time to set up the Mellman Gallery for the show.

It takes several days. Moving Ronnie’s sculptures into the space requires a fair bit of work. He’s managed to get all but one of his sculptures finished. I’m impressed by the Rodin influences in his work. His figure drawings are exquisite and beautifully framed. Even Dr. T admits he’s exceeded all expectations. Four of us two dimensional artists — 2 oil painters, 2 acrylic painters and 1 printmaker — have our work covering most of the wall space in the gallery. The sculptors’ work, Ronnie’s included, dominates the center of the room. We’ve left an entire corner for Derrick and Casey, as they requested. They plan to set up their installation the night before the opening. All I know is that puppets are involved, which is more than they’ve divulged to Dr. T, their advisor.

In another corner, the caterers will set up wine and hors d’oeuvres. A classical trio is booked to play music, though I think there is a sound component to DnC’s presentation. I noticed they had a lot of electronic equipment and wires in their loft. Anticipation builds for the show.

***

True to her word, Caroline Simmonds drives out with Warren and my mother.

My father, not my most avid supporter, is, expectedly, tied up with work.

“He sends his love, Honey,” says my mom, kissing my cheek. “He promised he wouldn’t miss the actual convocation and seeing you walk across the stage to get your degree.”

Caroline gives me a compassionate glance. When she hugs me, she whispers, “I’m sorry your father can’t see how much he has in you. It’s his loss he couldn’t make it.”

“I’m glad you and Warren are here. That means a lot.”

Warren’s eyes are already roving around the gallery. “Wow, Ava. Impressive work.”

I slide my arm through his and walk him around the gallery, out of earshot of our mothers. “So how’s Devina? Did you ask her out yet?”

Warren actually blushes. “I did but…”

“But what? She’s crazy about you.”

He shrugs. “She turned me down.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense.”

He seems stiff standing beside me. We’ve stopped in front of my risqué painting of Jenny. He glances at it, and then looks away quickly. He glances at me, and then looks away just as quickly. Finally, he sighs and says,

“She told me she’ll say yes when I’m not in love with you anymore.”

Now his eyes meet mine with a fierce intensity.

I glance away. “Warren, I…”

He grabs my hand and touches my chin, turning my face back to his. He’s smiling now, and there’s even laughter in his eyes.

“Ava, I
know
. I know you don’t feel the same way about me.”

I feel so bad. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I try to explain. “I just…” But I don’t even know what to say.

“It’s okay,” says Warren. “Listen, I just believed the stories our parents told about us. About us growing up and marrying each other. I just automatically wanted what they wanted for me. I never questioned it. But you did.”

He looks around at the gallery, at my paintings covering two of the walls. “You, on the other hand, questioned their plans and made your own decisions. I’ve watched you do that these last few years.”

“You have?”

“Not all of us are as courageous as you are, at least not at first. Some of us need someone to show us the way. It’s not easy to stand up against the conventions we grew up with.”

“Some things are a lot harder,” I say, thinking of the hardships that Logan, and others like him, had to overcome.

“Maybe,” he says, thinking through a thought. “But pain can be a powerful motivator. Comfort, however, is not.”

The gallery is beginning to fill up with students, their families, and the faculty.

“It’s not like it would have been a painful set up, Warren. I don’t know… We might have…I think it could have been good.”

Honestly, it’s kind of weird, but I
can
picture a comfortable, happy life as Mrs Warren Simmonds.

He smiles. “Thanks for saying that.” He slides his arm over my shoulder and draws me into a half hug, but it doesn’t feel romantic, it feels friendly and brotherly. “But I think I know you pretty well, Ava. You’ve questioned convention when it comes to what you want to do with your life and I don’t doubt you’ll make unconventional choices when it comes to your love life, too.”

Oh, boy. If he only knew the half of it.

“I feel better now,” he says as we stand side by side staring at Jenny’s naked torso. “I needed to tell you all that so I could start to let it go.”

“What about Devina?”

“She’s smart to wait. She’s testing me. Waiting for me to grow up.”

I squeeze his hand. “Sounds to me like you’re pretty ‘growed’ up, Mr Simmonds.”

I lean into his shoulder, surprised to be feeling myself also letting go of this childhood notion of our little happily ever after.

“You’re a catch, Warren. I hope we’ll always be friends.”

“Right back at you, Ava.”