by Karina Halle
I’ve never admitted that last part. The feeling that she left me here. That she moved on without me. It feels selfish and wrong to grieve someone’s death and yet be angry that they left.
A moment of silence passes between us, the only sound the soft chirp of the evening crickets.
Eventually, Claudio sits up straighter and lets out a melancholic sigh. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but I understand how you must feel. She sounded like a pretty special person. You were lucky to have had her in your life.”
“And unlucky now that she’s gone.” I exhale noisily, feeling like I can’t get enough air out of my lungs. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. She saw something in me that no one else did. You know, my parents … my mom tried her best as a single parent but she didn’t know what to do with me half the time. My father, he never even cared to make the time. But Robyn … sh-she cared. She gave me confidence, she made me a good writer, made me a better person.”
“You didn’t need Robyn to become more confident, to become more talented. Robyn was merely the artist and you were the work.”
I bite my lip, trying to understand. “What do you mean?”
“You were already those things. You were like … when I have an idea for my sculpture. You know how I said it’s sometimes already formed, already existing. You already exist, Grace, you just had Robyn bring it out of you. She was an archeologist and you were the dream.” A flash of intensity comes across his eyes and he looks away. “Robyn helped you realize these things about yourself, but she didn’t make you. She only helped.”
It feels like I have a lump of bread stuck in my throat. “But what if…” My voice sounds weak and shaky and I hate it. “What if I’ll remain buried now? Without her?”
He looks to me and gives a slight shake of his head, his eyes soft. “No. You are in the midst of uncovering yourself. Right here, right now. You will discover who you are. You will flourish.” He twists in his seat to face me, reaches over and places his hand on mine and just that simple gesture makes the whole world tilt on its axis, my eyes drawn to the sight of his tanned skin against my pale hand.
“I see it happening before my eyes. And it’s all you.” He gives it a squeeze, causing heat to curl down my spine.
Then he takes his hand away and I feel like I’m left hanging on an edge.
“Come on,” he says, getting to his feet. “I know what to do.”
I stare up at him blankly, my heart drumming so fast and loud in my chest that it’s making it hard to think. “What to do about what?”
He walks around and pulls out my chair. “What to do about Grace Harper.”
I get up, my feet feeling unsteady, and I’ve never felt so unsure about anything, and follow his lead into the house.
He goes behind the bar and grabs a bottle of red wine, inspecting the label before putting it back down and grabbing another. Then, having second thoughts, he grabs both, tucking one under his bicep, while grabbing two wine glasses with his free hand.
It’s a beautiful sight to see.
He nods toward his studio.
“In there,” he says, an order more than anything.
I feel somewhat honored to be invited into his studio, so I walk inside, looking around. Aside from mounds of unsculpted clay on the table and some sketches, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of work being done in here, at least nothing more than the last time I was in here.
He places the wine and glasses on the table, right on top of the sketches, then heads to the corner of the room where he grabs an old portable stereo from the corner, then throws a sheet off a stool. With his other hand, he picks up the stool and brings it over to me, placing the stereo at the edge of the table.
“Sit,” he says.
I sit down on the stool, feeling a rush of trepidation run through me.
He gives me a quick smile. “Don’t look so worried,” he says. He takes hold of my shoulders, his hands feeling large and impossibly strong on my bare skin, and then spins me so that I’m facing the table.
Then he pours us both a glass of wine and hits play on his stereo.
I’m not surprised to hear INXS blast out, a song I’m not familiar with.
“Ah,” he says, reaching over and turning it down. “Too loud, too loud.”
He leans across and grabs the first hunk of clay and drops it in front of me.
“We are going to sculpt,” he tells me.
“We?” I look up at him over my shoulder as he stands behind me.
He grins, a little bit charming, a lot devious.
He places his hands on my shoulders and spins me around again, this time giving me the once over.
“You will have to change,” he says. “I don’t want your beautiful dress to get ruined.”
I glance down at my dress. It’s strapless, with pink and white stripes. I think I got it from a cheap store like Primark.
I’m about to tell him I don’t care if it gets dirty, even though I’m still not quite sure what tonight is about to entail, when he starts unbuttoning the rest of his black dress shirt.
“Wha—” I say, my voice catching, unable to take my eyes away as he opens his shirt and takes it off.
Oh my lord.
I cough, nearly choking on my own spit since I’m salivating over him.
I know Claudio goes swimming early in the mornings, but I have yet to catch him in the act (I mean, I should, considering he’s seen me naked, something I hate being reminded of), which means I’ve never seen him without a shirt, which means despite my vivid imagination, I had no idea how hot he really was.
He’s ridiculously hot.
Like, footy player, movie star, rock star hot.
He’s got the V on his hips, the treasure trail, the six pack, the wide, taut chest with a dusting of chest hair, the sinewy shoulders and muscular arms, and the world’s most gorgeous skin tone. He’s got it all and he’s just standing there, like his unveiling is no big deal. He should have at least warned me.
“What are you doing?” I manage to ask.
His plush lips curve into a smirk.
“You have a problem?” he asks playfully. “Put this on over your dress.” He reaches over me, placing his shirt on my shoulders, holding out a sleeve. “My shirt is already a wreck.”
I glance down at his shirt. It looks spotless.
I reluctantly put my arms through the sleeves. I expect it to feel hot and damp from sweat, but the shirt is cool, and it smells like him, like spicy almonds. I busy myself by buttoning it up, then rolling up the sleeves, averting my attention from his chest.
“You’re not going to put on a shirt?” I comment after a moment, trying not to look at him.
He shrugs. “I can if it makes you uncomfortable. I often work like this. It gets hot in here, and dirty. Messy.” He says dirty and messy with husky deliberation, drawing the letters out, exploring each word. I fight the urge to squeeze my legs together to quell the throbbing. “I figure, I’ve already seen you naked. It’s only fair.”
Thanks for the reminder.
“So what exactly are we doing?” My voice is practically squeaking.
“We are going to make art,” he says. He perches on the edge of the stool and gestures to the clay. “Go for it.”
I stare at him, agape. Go for it? Go for what?
“I see,” he says after a moment. “How about you tell me what you’d like to create.”
“Uh, nothing?”
“Is that so?” His brow quirks up. “If you could create anything right now, put something into this world that wasn’t here before, make something exist, give birth to a creation, you wouldn’t know what to make?”
I rub my lips together, trying to think.
“Okay,” he says with a chuckle. “How about some wine first.”
Aye. Wine. What a good distraction.
I reach for my glass and take a hearty gulp. He does the same with his and then takes out a lump of clay. I watch him
as he palms it over and over again, and I can’t help but imagine those same hands doing the same to my body. Then his fingers do the work, expertly pushing and prodding and stroking and…
I have another gulp of wine. The fact that he’s shirtless in front of me and handling that clay like I’d want him to handle my body is too much. Add in the fact that his face is creased in concentration, his tongue occasionally sliding out of his mouth, and I’m a goner.
This was a mistake.
I mean, what am I doing here? I should go upstairs and try to write. Hell, I should go upstairs and put my vibrator to work. Anything but the torture of watching him do this.
I never thought I’d ever be jealous of a piece of clay.
Then he pauses, his fingers hovering in front of his creation. I can’t tell what it is— it’s an abstract oval with curved holes and slits. Naturally my mind is making it sexual.
His fingers trace over it, but he’s no longer pressing hard. It’s like he’s thinking with his fingers.
Can you imagine what those fingers would do to you?
Okay, I’m going to need to step outside and take a breather.
As if sensing this, he leans back and turns his head toward me. “See? Easy.”
I snort. “Easy? You were making love to that thing.”
“Make love? I like that.” He laughs. “Well, isn’t that the secret to any great piece of art? You equate it to sex somehow. Sex and art are always intertwined.”
“Maybe in sculpting.”
“Not in writing? Aren’t you writing a romance?”
“It’s supposed to be women’s fiction…”
“But there is a romance, no?”
“Yeah…”
He gives me a weighted look before he says, “Perhaps you need to add more sex.”
“That would be a first,” I say. “And anyway, that scene doesn’t come until later. I was going to fade to black it anyway.”
“Fade to black?”
“You know … imply they have sex but don’t actually show it.”
His brows knit together in pure confusion. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“Because…” But I don’t really have an answer.
Because it’s easier that way?
Because I don’t want to have to live vicariously through my character?
Because I don’t think I have what it takes to write a convincing love scene since my own experience with sex has been … lacking, at best.
“There is no need to shy away from it,” he goes on, his voice lower. His gaze seems to bore into me. “I know perhaps back in Scotland and England things are modest, but here sex is … well, it’s more than natural. It’s a way of life. It’s the joy in life.”
How did this happen? How did I end up in his studio incredibly turned on, with him shirtless, talking about sex?
I open my mouth, not sure what I can say to that, when he suddenly slaps his palm down on the table and goes, “Ooh!”
He reaches over and turns the volume up on the stereo.
I exhale internally, unsure where the conversation was going to go.
The moody opening strings of INXS “Never Tear Us Apart” fills the studio.
“You know this song, yes?” Claudio asks me. His eyes have completely lit up, looking almost manic. I nod.
“Two worlds colliding,” he sings softly, more to himself than anyone. “And they will never tear us apart.” Like his lyrical speaking voice, his singing voice is just as smooth. Then as the guitar hits the familiar notes, he raises his hands in the air, pausing for a moment before he plays an imaginary drum roll.
“Ah yes,” he says as the rest of the song kicks in. “That right there. Goosebumps.”
He grabs my hand and places it on his forearm where his flesh is raised and hot. “Feel that. Have you ever had music do that to you?”
Well, fuck. Now I have goosebumps.
But it’s not from the song.
“You have them too,” he says appreciatively, eyeing my skin. “You will see, when the concert comes, you will have them all the time.”
“Can’t wait,” I manage to say, taking my hand away from his arm. The concert is in a week. I don’t know how I’m going to survive until then. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the rest of the month. Thank god Vanni is coming back tomorrow and I can go back to hiding and working. I shouldn’t be alone with this man. I’m getting too confused. It’s too much.
“What’s happening here?” he asks, gesturing to my face. “You’re thinking and it’s not good.”
“That’s what I do,” I remind him.
“And maybe that’s why you can’t create. You think too much.”
“Well, we can’t all be visited by the muse.”
“Oh, that?” he asks, looking incredulous as he jerks his thumb at his sexy abstract thing. “That’s not a product of the muse. That is just me messing around. That’s what I do. I create just to create and then I destroy it. See?”
He reaches over and pounds his fist into the clay sculpture, flattening it, and I actually gasp at the destruction.
“What did you do that for?” I cry out.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “And that’s how you need to go into it. It’s okay to make mistakes, it’s okay to not know where you are going. You can always mash it up and start again.”
He gets to his feet. “Here,” he says, coming over to me. He stands behind me, his hands on my shoulders and … shit.
He’s massaging them.
His touch feels hot, even though his shirt.
“First, you need to relax. You are too tense. Drink more wine.”
I reach for the glass and finish it, though the reason I’m tense is because he’s fucking massaging me. And I’m not about to tell him to stop.
“Okay, good,” he says, and then leans down, his mouth at my ear. My eyes flutter shut, my body poised to shiver from his breath at my neck.
Dying. I’m already dying.
“Relax,” he murmurs, resting his chin on my shoulder. He takes his hands and runs his palms down over my biceps, over my forearms, all the way to my hands. He guides my hands to the clay in front of me, placing my fingers along the edges, moving them as he would move.
I know there’s a different INXS song playing now, but all I hear in my head is The Righteous Brothers “Unchained Melody” because Claudio is full-on Patrick Swayze right now and I’m a pixie cut away from being Demi Moore. If he starts kissing my neck, I’m going to lose it.
But he doesn’t. He just stays pressed up against me, guiding my hands.
“Let me show you,” he says softly into my ear, sending sparks down my spine. “Then you will know.”
I try to do what he says. I relax back into him.
And the moment I surrender, the more my fingers begin to move on their own, kneading, creating.
“See,” he murmurs, “you just need to stop thinking so much. Let go.”
But it’s too hard to let go. I cling to my worries like a battle axe. I worry about what this means. I worry about what’s next.
I worry that this man might want me. And if he wants me, I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Because I want him, too.
And nothing good can come out of hooking up with my agent’s ex-husband. Not if I truly want to start my career over. Not if I want to stand on my own two feet. I don’t care if the divorce was a long time ago, if there is no love lost between them. You don’t do that. And you especially don’t do that to Jana.
She would make me pay.
“Grace,” Claudio says softly, pausing my fingers. “Do you see?”
I kind of zoned out, so I blink and look down at the clay.
I see a face looking back at me.
At first I don’t know whose face it is. Naturally, I don’t have the skill to make anything lifelike. And yet I know who it is.
It’s my heroine.
“Do you see?” he repeats, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I nod, a flush of pride moving through me, and turn my face slightly to his.
His eyes are right there.
His mouth is right there.
It would take no effort for his head to dip down one inch and press his lips to mine.
Oh lord. He’s going to kiss me.
He has to.
My eyes drop to his beautiful lips and they part slightly.
But when I look up, he’s staring deep into my eyes instead, and I can count every thread of gold in his dark irises, every black lash that frames them.
“You just needed to let go,” he whispers. His gaze turns hot, desire flickering across his face.
Then he straightens up. “More wine?”
He removes his hands from my arms and grabs the bottle, pouring us both another glass. With space between us, it feels like all the air has come back into the room, sobering me up a little. I sit up straight, remembering to breathe.
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing the glass.
“Prego,” he says. He sits back on his stool, hooking his feet around the legs. “Now you know how to create. Now you can do it on your own. You just needed someone to show you. Just like Robyn showed you how to be an author. Now you are an author. Just you.”
I take a sip of wine and give him a grateful smile. In some ways I feel like Claudio has taken it upon himself to fix me, help me face some things about myself, help me deal with moving on.
And that’s all you are to him. Just a project, something to mold. You’re like another piece of clay, ready for transformation.
Nothing more than art.
Ten
Grace
A knock at my door pulls me out of a deep sleep.
“Grace.” Claudio’s voice sinks into me like I’m still dreaming. For a moment I’m confused, because I could have sworn I dreamed about him, a dream that was vague and nebulous, but the feeling still remains. The feeling of having a heart so swollen with love that I still feel it coursing through my veins, leftover fragments of my imagination.
Then the feeling turns into one of pain.
