The Reluctant Nude (10 page)

On one shelf stood a long line of black Moleskine notebooks, perhaps close to a hundred of them, all identical save for the different dusty finger marks smudging the spines. Fallon pulled the leftmost one down and opened it. Sketches in Max’s elegant style. Pencil, charcoal, ink. Dated close to seven years prior. The drawings on this page were of a woman with a severely hunched back and a pronounced nose. Beautiful images of the ugly. So
Max
, as she was coming to realize.

“You’re a strange man,” she murmured and replaced the sketchbook.

She climbed back up the staircase to peruse the ramshackle library piled in the corners of the loft. Lots of books but sadly most of them in French. On the table beside the bed, beneath an old analog alarm clock, lay another sketchbook.

Fallon slid it out and opened it to the first page. Herself. Her face, plus she’d know those hips anywhere. She flipped the pages, watching the progression of his renderings as they transformed, gradually, from exacting, rigid, anatomical studies to fluid figure drawings. Transforming as Fallon had, day by day. Each new series was dated and by the time she reached mid-September Max’s hand had relaxed, just as she had herself.

She flipped a few pages onward and gasped.

The date was Saturday’s, the day he’d forced her take the afternoon off by herself. Drawn before her on the page in fine, classical lines was both of them. Herself and Max, together.
Together.
And it was clearly Max, tattoos and all.

Her body buzzed hot with adrenaline.

The first of the highly erotic sketches had them wound in a deep embrace, kissing, him sitting cross-legged with her legs wrapped around his waist. This wasn’t pornography—nothing properly obscene was depicted, but still. She flipped another page, nerves jolting anew. The image of his body above hers. The next page, her on top of him.

She swallowed. “Holy shit.”

Fallon went back a few pages, confirming that these “studies” had only begun a couple of days ago, after the charged night at the bar and her doorstep. She was relieved he hadn’t created these images before then, before she’d flirted back.

She took another look at those most recent pages. He clearly knew his own body as well as he did hers. Fallon didn’t know which unnerved her the most—the subject matter or his undeniable talent.

No…she
did
know what disturbed her the most.

It was exactly how much she liked these drawings.

Chapter Seven

“Oh my God—what are you doing here?”

Two days after the tipsy spooning episode, Fallon opened the door of her rental cottage and gaped, shocked to find her best friend standing on the little porch at nine in the morning.

“Surprise!” Rachel held out her skinny arms and drew Fallon down into a warm, sister-quality hug.

“Whoa. I’ll say it again—what are you doing here?”

They hadn’t spoken for several days and Fallon had never mentioned where she was staying. She stood aside to let Rachel in, dumbfounded.

“Your mysterious sculptor called me a few days ago. Or he left a message.” Rachel set her purse down and glanced around the humble accommodations. “Do you have a coffeemaker? I just drove an all-nighter.”

“Yeah, hang on.” Fallon prepared a fresh filter and addressed Rachel through the kitchenette doorway. “Max called you?”

“He told me he was
macking you cray-zee,”
Rachel said in an overdone imitation. “And that you could use a familiar face. And he said to bring your CDs. I tried to call him back but the dude that answered after like fifty rings said it was a pay phone. I came anyway.” Rachel flashed her gigantic white smile, as big as she was small.

“He called you?”

“He did. Is that his actual accent? It sounds like a put-on.”

Fallon nodded and gathered mugs. “Yeah, that’s authentic. Did it sound like he was coming on to you?”

“A little bit.”

She nodded again, secretly disappointed.

“Not as much as I’d’ve preferred.” Rachel yawned deeply.

“So, he doesn’t actually know for sure that you’re here, now? Do you think I’m supposed to introduce you?”

“Maybe,” Rachel said. “He said come soon and this seems pretty soon.”

“Well, he doesn’t have a phone so we’ll have to swing by his studio. You may as well meet him, so when we explain this to friends over drinks someday I won’t sound like I made him up.” Fallon poured their coffees and they sat down at the rickety dinner table. “Where are you staying? And for how long?”

“Two days. That’s all I could get a sub for. And here, I hoped. Car’s out front.”

“Oh, man, vehicle access. I never thought I’d miss that.”

Rachel smirked. “Shame on you and your carbon footprint.”

“I’ll make an exception.” Fallon smiled, gratitude washing over her like warm water. “Well, I usually start the sittings at ten. Until four. But we can just drop by and let him know you’re here.” She breathed a sigh of relief. Deadline or not, she was glad of a day off this well timed. After the wine-fueled spooning and discovering Max’s NC-17 sketchbook, her cautious side wanted a couple days’ distance. Yesterday’s sitting had been a challenge—she’d been unable to rid her mind of those images.

Fallon’s phone buzzed to life on the counter.

“Wow, since when am I so popular?” She jogged to answer it, noting a New York area code. “Must be work. Hello?”

“Fallon, darling.” Donald Forrester’s voice drifted into her ear like a cloud of noxious swamp gas.

“I told you never to call me at this number,” she said, icy.

“Now now, don’t be like that,” he said, patronizing as always. “You probably don’t know how much I have invested in this project, but trust me, it’s considerable. I think I have a right to ask after the progress…?”

“I told you November. Now fuck off.”

“Fallon, really—”

She pushed the
end call
button and tossed the phone onto the sofa, rubbing a hand across her forehead. She made a disgusted noise.

“Forrester?” Rachel asked, incredulous. “God, what a skeez.”

“I know. He makes it sound like some amazing favor he’s doing me.”

“Instead of extortion? What I’d pay to give him a hard kick in the—”

“Listen, we’re not talking about him. This visit’s for us, okay? I’ve been dying to explore more of Cape Breton.”

Rachel nodded, obediently dismissing her anger. “And so you shall. Good thing I learned to drive in the city—the narrow roads here are crazy.”

Fallon looked at the microwave clock. “We’ll head over to Max’s soon. He runs in the mornings. I’m sure you’d love to catch him in the bath but let’s wait ten more minutes. Then you’re taking me on a little trip into civilization.”

“Artists go running?”

Fallon grinned to herself. “This one does. This one’s full of surprises.”

Max did a little dance of uncertainty, caught halfway between the ringing door and the whistling kettle. He chose the door, pulling it open and then dashing across the studio to flip off the burner.

“Good morning,” he shouted to where he assumed Fallon would be. Then he sensed something different about her energy—she wasn’t alone. He turned to find her standing alongside a tiny woman with a halo of kinky, curly dark hair, even wilder than Fallon’s.

“Why, hello.” He returned their matching smiles and crossed the studio. “I’m Max Emery.”

“Rachel Stein.” She came forward and shook his hand warmly with her child-sized one, black eyes smiling. She was five-feet-nothing and at least three inches of it belonged to her authoritative heels. Pretty in a quirky, bohemian sort of way.

“It is good to meet you,” Max said.

“You too. Thanks for the invitation. Wow, this place is rad.” Her eyes scanned his sunny little empire. “I could get a tan in here.”

Fallon shouldered her bag, looking uncertain. “Do I get the day off, in light of this underhanded surprise visit?” she asked Max.

“Yes, I suppose.” He frowned internally, sad to lose the momentum of the last couple of days, the trajectory of both their rapport and his progress on the statue. He suddenly wished he hadn’t made that call. “Will you stay for coffee? So that I may grill your friend for personal information about you?”

“Um, sure. We don’t have anything scheduled.” Fallon put her bag down and dragged a pair of folding chairs over.

Max prepared the mugs and joined them, leaning on the edge of the worktable. “So Rachel, you are Fallon’s flatmate?”

“Housemate, yes. And therapist,” she added with a smile.

“Don’t listen to her,” Fallon said.

Max glowed to see her so clearly pleased with this morsel of normality. “What do you do for work?” he asked Rachel.

“I’m a teacher. High school life sciences, in Queens.”

He tried to picture this petite thing exerting authority over a classroom of rowdy urban teenagers. Strangely enough, he found he could.

“Fallon and I went to grad school together,” Rachel added.

“I see. And how is she as a housemate?” He caught Fallon shifting in her seat, torn between protest and permissiveness.

“Oh, she’s a dream. Clean, dependable, fabulous cook?” Rachel looked to Fallon for confirmation.

“I suppose.”

“Her eggplant parmesan is famous. And she wears seamed pantyhose and lipstick when she vacuums,” Rachel added. Fallon kicked her ankle with her sneaker. “Just kidding. She wears a French maid costume.”

Max smiled and turned to Fallon. “What else don’t I know about you?”

“Nothing terribly interesting,” she said, sounding shy.

“She’s very modest,” Rachel said warmly. “Although that’s probably not the side of her
you
see—”

Fallon interjected. “So, anyhow. What will you be doing while we’re off exploring?” she asked Max.

He shrugged. “I could do some gardening. Does Fallon do any gardening?” he asked Rachel quickly, knowing she’d happily supply any information he asked for. She clearly enjoyed teasing her friend as much as he did.

“Oh, a bit. Our yard’s about as big as a napkin, but she does some veggies. I’ve managed to kill all the cucumbers she planted back in August. Sorry,” she added to Fallon.

“I don’t suppose you brought any of the music I requested?” Max asked.

Rachel nodded, curls bouncing. “Oh yeah, I grabbed all the albums out of her car. I sure hope you like Elliot Smith and Van Morrison.”

“It’s not for me.” He aimed a smile at a pinked-faced Fallon.

“We should get going.” Fallon looked around, seeming to realize she was the only one who’d finished their coffee, or even started it. “Soon, I mean. There’s a lot I want to see.”

“What do you think of Fallon’s boyfriends?” Max plowed on, shameless.

Rachel pondered this question a moment. “They’re not bad, actually.”

“Thank you,” Fallon said graciously.

“Most of them are named Paul,” Rachel added.

“Only two of them.”

“A decent percentage. Anyway, they’re all right. Quite academic, I’d say. Quite a few engineers.”

Max smiled. “That doesn’t surprise me. She seems rather analytical.”

“I
am
actually in the room,” Fallon said.

Max ignored her. “So who exactly is this man who wants a sculpture of Fallon with her clothes off?”

Fallon stood so brusquely her chair toppled over backward. “We better go and start our day.” She aimed a pointed look at Rachel before politely righting the chair.

Rachel set her untouched coffee on the table and picked up her purse. “It was great meeting you.” She offered her hand again.

“Would you like to come back for lunch?” Max asked. “Fish chowder?”

“As seductively
un
-Kosher as that sounds, I was hoping to take Fal out for a girl’s lunch. We’ve got some catching up to do.”

“Very well. Perhaps some other time.”

Fallon smiled tightly and fairly dragged her friend from the studio. “I’ll stop by tomorrow to check in,” she shouted through the screen door as it swung shut.

“She likes bass players!” Rachel added as they disappeared, then made a noise like she’d been pinched.

“Thanks a lot for that,” Fallon said once the door creaked closed behind them. She smiled, flustered but relieved to have gotten away with any dignity still intact.

“Oh
my God,
is he not the sexiest person you’ve ever been in a room with?”

“I think he is,” Fallon agreed, only half-reluctantly. “You should see him with his shirt off.”

“Damn. So have you…you know?” Rachel wiggled her eyebrows lewdly.

Fallon worked hard to suppress a smile. “What?”

“You know.
Voulez-vous…couchez
’d
avec
him?”

Fallon laughed. “No. I’d call you if that happened.”

“Yeah, you better. He obviously likes you, though. He
likes you,
likes you,” Rachel teased. “Have you done
anything
?”

“Not really. I mean, apart from him staring at my naked body all damn day. And we did sort of…spoon. But I was pretty drunk.”

“Ooh, Fallon. Drunken spooning counts. Hell, anything counts with a man who looks like that one.” Rachel pulled her phone out of her purse and took a snapshot of Fallon blushing. “Did he grab your boob or anything good?”

Fallon snorted, so happy to have her friend here, to be having this sort of ridiculous conversation again. “No, no boob-grabbage. He kind of kissed me, once. A while ago.”

“Kind of? And just once?”

“It was a bit inappropriate. Not super-sketchy or anything, just a little too pushy for me, at the time.”

“Damn. I’d let him push me onto just about any old thing he fancies. Good kisser?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Fallon said. “No tongue or anything.”

“Well, he
is
French, right? You should do a little cultural anthropology. Straight from the source. I’m telling you, Fal, you should sleep with him.”

“Technically, he’s Canadian now. And I don’t know if I even want to.”

“Why the frig not?”

“He’s too good-looking.”

Rachel pulled a skeptical face.

“Think about it this way,” Fallon said. “Firstly, where do I go from there? I can’t just go sleeping with some controversial French artist with a six-pack. What if it breaks me? What if I never meet anyone after who can…”

“Cleanse your palate?” Rachel offered.

“Yeah, pretty much. He might ruin me for normal guys. And secondly, he’s so out of my league it’s like he’s playing a different sport.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re gorgeous!”

“Yeah, thanks, Mom. But it seriously bothers me. I feel like some insecure junior high school kid around him sometimes. He reeks of sex like that guy from our ethics course reeked of Drakkar. He’s like some different species. He’s probably into things I can’t even pronounce.”

“That’s such bullshit,” Rachel said. “You need to think about it differently. I was just hypothesizing about this the other day, right? You need to
fuck to the competition
.”

“What on earth does that even mean?”

Rachel cleared her throat in a teacherly way. “So, you know that phrase people use when they’re talking about sports or darts or any sort of competitive thing—‘playing to the competition’? If they’re playing against someone lousy, they don’t try. They don’t need to. But if they’re playing against someone really good, or better than them, they play
way
better because they have nothing to lose, right? It like raises the bar?”

“Sure…”

“So you think he’s out of your league—and you’re wrong, obviously—but fuck him anyway, Fal, and I’m sure while you are you’ll feel like the only woman in the world who’s qualified for it. I bet it’d be great for your sexual self-esteem.”

“That is a weird-ass theory,” Fallon said as they reached the cottages.

“Whatever. I was up all night driving. Just send me the pictures.”

An hour later they sat down at a table in an Indian restaurant in Sydney.

“Wow, I never thought I’d miss being in a city,” Fallon said, staring out the window at the passing cars.

“If you can call this a city.” Rachel perused the menu.

“So. What have I been missing back in New York?”

“Well…” Rachel trailed off as a waiter came to fill their water glasses and take their drink orders. “There is
one
thing.”

Fallon leaned forward on the table, intuition already twisting her stomach into a knot. “What?”

Rachel reached for her purse and rifled through the contents for a moment. She did something to her hand then held it up. A small diamond winked from her ring finger.

“Oh my God!”

Rachel nodded, smiling so wide it looked painful.