I did, but he was going to tell me like he was reading my mind.
“When you were younger, all you did was chase skirt. You were obsessed. You were in love with the idea of beautiful young women and the thrill of the hunt. That’s why the nudes you painted in the past are still good. You put your youth into them. Being a horny young man is a fine thing any man can appreciate.”
I chuckled. He knew what he was talking about. He had a thousand stories about chasing girls before he met my mom.
He continued, “But at some point, that started to change when you started growing up, didn’t it?” My dad stood up and walked over to the painting of Tiffany that hung on the back wall. “When did you paint this nude of Tiffany? I haven’t seen it before.”
I stood and walked over next to him. “That? Probably six months ago?”
“Uh huh,” he nodded thoughtfully while looking up at it. “It’s not like the nudes you painted a few years back. You’ve grown as an artist. Tell me, why do you think this portrait of Tiffany is different?”
“The main thing is, I’ve been friends with Tiff forever. She’s not some girl I was chasing,” I chuckled.
“That is a substantial difference,” Dad said. “And let me guess, you painted Tiffany before you met Samantha, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. How can you tell?”
“Well, your painting of Tiffany has a clear, singular message. Despite Tiffany’s obvious beauty, the message that comes through the painting loud and clear to me is respect and caring. And love.”
I huffed a chuckle.
My dad smiled, “I don’t mean romantic love. I mean the love of genuine friendship. I know Tiffany has turned into a spoiled princess since she was a little kid. But she wasn’t that way when the two of you met in grade school. She was an innocent little girl with a big heart. You two were fast friends for years. And you put the purity of that friendship into your portrait of her. It’s unmistakable.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. When it came to art, my dad read me like a book.
“Anyway,” Dad said, glancing around, “all these new paintings of random beautiful young women you’re doing for Brandon don’t mean anything to you. Because now your focus has changed, hasn’t it?”
That’s when everything came together in my head. I said, “That’s why your painting of Grandad you’re working on is so amazing, isn’t it? He’s been going to your house every weekend for the last year, hasn’t he?”
My father nodded.
“He was helping you clean up and get your life back in order, wasn’t he?” I asked.
My father nodded as tears began dripping down his face.
“That’s why your portrait of him is so powerful,” I said.
My father rubbed the tears from his eyes with the side of his hand. “I put my heart into that painting. It’s a reflection of the love your grandfather has given me continuously since I was born. He has never stopped being my father. Even now, when I’m a big shot artist and a father in my own right, your grandfather is still there for me like I just fell off my tricycle and skinned my knee for the first time. I don’t think I could’ve cleaned myself up without his devotion. He has been there for me through all of it. When you have a child of your own someday, paidí mou, you’ll be able to understand how deeply I love you and how deeply your grandfather loves me.” My dad’s face knotted with emotion. His shoulders skipped in time with his restrained sobs.
I threw my arm around his neck and he leaned into me.
After awhile, he said, “I’m okay.” He faced me and a smile spread across his face. “Now you know why none of your paintings of Brandon’s models are working for you or Stanford Wentworth, don’t you?”
I nodded, “Samantha.”
“She was right in front of you the whole time,” he smiled. “I see how much you love that girl. I see it in the way you look at her. You’ve never had eyes like that for anyone. Well, maybe your mother, but that’s different. She was your mother.” He waved a hand, “You know what I mean. Anyway, your mother was a good woman. The best. I mean, is. Is a good woman.” My dad choked up when he said it.
I nodded.
“Look at that,” he chuckled and slapped my knee vigorously, trying to hold back more tears, “you answered your question yourself.”
I could tell that my dad was running away from the topic of my mom like it would kill him if he talked about it for one more second. I knew he still loved her like crazy. He’d never stopped, even after she left us.
I couldn’t blame him. If Samantha were ever to leave me, I’d be acting the same as my dad was right now. It would kill me for sure. Whoa, that was the last thing I wanted to think about.
I sniffed back some of my own tears and chuckled. “You just went all Platonic dialogue on my ass and made me figure things out myself, didn’t you?”
“Can you blame me? That Plato was one smart Greek. Am I right?” My dad was laughing as he said it.
I started laughing too.
“Come here, paidí mou.” My dad threw his arms around me and gave me a big hug.
When he released me, he squeezed my shoulders and looked me in the eyes. “Your heart has changed. You’re not a boy anymore. Your art needs to reflect that. Put the true love in your heart onto the canvas, and the whole world will appreciate it. It’s that simple.”
I nodded, “It is.”
“Now you know how to fix your paintings,” he grinned.
I did.
Art was all about heart.
Chapter 19
SAMANTHA
A cool pool of light illuminated my drawing table and my sketchbook. I was sketching cartoon wombats with various drug and bowel problems when Christos walked up behind me the next evening.
He started massaging my neck and shoulders.
“Oh, that feels good,” I sighed, setting my pencil down. “I didn’t realize I’d been so tense.”
“When aren’t you,” he chuckled.
“Hey! I’ve been getting better. I’m not the anxious girl you met months and months ago.”
“No, you’re not. You’re turning into an amazing woman.”
I really liked the way he said that. “So, what’s up?” I asked.
I felt Christos’ hot breath caress my ear, “I need to paint you…in the nude.”
“Do you mean you’ll take all your clothes off while you paint a picture of me?” I grinned. “Sounds like fun to me, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to sit still.”
He chuckled softly. “I meant you in the nude. But if you like, I could be nude too.”
“Mmm, I like the sound of that. But do we need the painting part? Maybe we could just focus on the part where we both get naked,” I purred. It had been awhile since we’d made love and I felt a burning need for Christos.
“I like where you’re going with this,” Christos said, “but I’m serious about this. I want to paint a nude portrait of you.”
“What?!” I practically jumped out of my chair. Sitting nude for a portrait was fine when someone else was doing it, but I didn’t think I could. “Why?”
“I want to paint you nude for my upcoming solo show at Charboneau.”
“Nude?” I gulped. “As in fully?” I winced.
“Is there any other kind?”
“You mean nude nude? Not just bathing suit nude?”
“Nude nude. Fine art and bikinis don’t go together. Bikinis usually go on hot rod magazine covers.”
“I know you talked about doing things differently after hanging out with your dad the other night. But I was thinking maybe you meant finding different models or something.”
“I did,” he grinned his dimpled grin.
Nervously, I said, “I didn’t think you meant me.”
“You,” he murmured seductively.
I squeezed the neck of my T shirt together, as if it were hanging wide open like an unbuttoned shirt and I was braless. But I was covered. Why did I feel the desire to wrap myself in blankets or maybe
step into a deep sea diving suit with one of those giant old fashioned diving helmets? Oh yeah, because Christos was suggesting not only that he paint me nude, but that he show off the painting in a public gallery where anyone could come in and see it. Worse, someone was likely to buy it and hang it over their mantelpiece.
How to break the bad news to Christos that his idea made me a tad uncomfortable? “Ahh…It’s awesome that you want to paint me. I’m totally flattered. But can’t we do it with me all dressed up? Like a regular portrait? Like your dad’s portrait of your grandad? He’s all dressed up.”
“I could do that, but I don’t think it would be the same.”
“Of course it wouldn’t,” I joked, “it would be a painting of me. Problem solved.”
He shook his head and smiled his dimpled grin. As always, it had panty dropping powers. But I wasn’t going to let it work its magic on me this time.
I shook my head defiantly.
“Here’s the thing,” he said confidently, “there’s a woman inside you that I’ve seen from day one. But usually, she only comes out when you’re backed into a corner. Most of the time, that woman you are meant to be is hidden from the world. You’ve spent so many years hiding that strong, confident side of you, you barely know she’s there. But I see it all the time. I want to paint that woman and share her with the world. I want everyone to know how amazing Samantha Smith is. Not can be, but is. You are amazing, agápi mou. And I want everyone to know it. I suspect that if you can find the courage to sit nude, your confidence will shine through in the portrait.”
“Can’t I be confident with my clothes on?” I asked nervously.
“You can, but it’ll be that much harder for your confidence to shine through,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because posing clothed doesn’t require the same courage as posing nude. If you’re gonna pose nude, you’re gonna have to dig deep and bring out your courage.”
“What if I end up being nervous while you’re painting me nude? Won’t that show up in the painting?”
“Yup. That’s why I’m asking you, not telling you. Feel free to say no. Because if you’re doing it because you feel obligated, that will show through too. You have to dig deep and find that intrinsic strength of yours and willingly bring it out so I can capture it in paint. You have to want me to paint you nude. Then we can show the world together how amazing Samantha Smith really is.”
“Wow,” I smiled, “I kind of like the sound of that! You know what would make me really look strong?”
“What?”
“If I wore a Viking helmet.”
“Huh?” he frowned.
“Like one of those Valkyries from Norse mythology? They’re totally badass. I would look awesome!”
He made a funny face. “Take a moment and picture a portrait of you, sitting in the nude, wearing a horned Viking helmet, and tell me that’s not ridiculous.”
My brows pinched together. “You were the one who suggested I look strong. Horns are cool.”
“Yeah, but nude? Maybe with a sword and chain mail armor and a big shield. But that would look like you were pretending to be strong. Strength doesn’t come from armor or weapons. It comes from inside, from your heart and your determination. That’s what I want to paint.”
“You have a point. But I still think nude with a Viking helmet could be awesome.”
He raised his eyebrows skeptically.
I frowned and folded my arms across my chest, “You’re the artist. Figure out a way to make me look awesome. It would be a first. I mean, you said it yourself, how many nude portraits of women wearing Viking helmets are there?”
“I’m guessing none,” Christos said.
“See? It’ll be a first!” I was totally into my idea now.
“I’ll have to think about it,” he said thoughtfully.
“Really?” I was kind of surprised.
“Really. Let me mull it over. It might actually work. But you’ll have to wear pigtails like Brunhilda.”
“What? I hate pigtails. They make me look five.”
“That’s the deal,” he grinned.
“Seriously?”
He shook his head. “Maybe not. Pigtails might be a bit much. But I’ll think about that helmet. So you’ll do it?”
“I guess?” I smiled nervously. “But no spread legged crotch shots, right?”
He grinned, “What, no wide open beavers?”
“You keep talking like that and you can forget it,” I giggled.
“I’m kidding. You only see beavers in porn, or maybe tattoo art. I don’t want to scare off the fine art buyers.”
“What! Are you saying my lady bits are scary?” I stood up from my chair and turned to face him.
He jumped out of range. “I’m sure some men might feel that way…”
I lunged at him, but he dodged. “Take that back!”
“I was thinking of gay men!” he said as he jogged out of the studio. “They’re probably afraid of your beaver because they’re worried about getting their dicks too close to those huge teeth!”
“Huge teeth? Is that supposed to be an apology?!” I shouted as I chased after him. “Anyway, mine doesn’t have any teeth! And it doesn’t look like a beaver! Come back here! I’m going to tear your nuts off and feed them to the squirrels outside!”
“Wouldn’t you rather feed them to your beaver?” He called as he ran into the living room.
“It’s not a beaver!” I shouted as I followed him around the couch. “It’s a pussy! You said so yourself!” As I was about to grab his shirt tail, he jumped over the couch, out of reach. “At least you could call mine a lion or a jaguar. There’s nothing sexy about beavers.”
He ran to the far side of the living room and stopped. “What do you mean? I bet male beavers think female beavers are totally hot. The guy beavers are probably like, ‘Dude, check out that chick’s tail. It is so big and flat and rubbery, you could use it as a swimming pool cover.’”
“Swimming pool cover?” I scoffed, creeping toward him, one step at a time, hoping he wouldn’t notice I was stalking him like the jungle cat that I was.
Christos frowned, backing up a step. “What? Beavers spend a lot of time in the water. They think about these things.”
“Beavers build dams! What does that have to do with swimming pools?” I asked skeptically, inching toward him.
“Duh. A dam causes water to pool up, hence pool covers.”
I shook my head, moving slowly forward. “I don’t think so. Anyhow, why the obsession with beavers all of a sudden?”
“You’re the one who’s been drawing wombats all the time.”
He was almost at the base of the stairs. If I moved slowly enough, maybe he’d be lulled into a false sense of security so I could catch him. I cracked a smile, “You’re incorrigible.” I took another step toward him.
“What are you and your jaguar gonna do about it?” he taunted.
“My jaguar is going to eat you alive,” I growled. If he ran upstairs, he was mine. There was no way he could escape.
At the last second, Christos dodged right and ran toward the front doors. He was outside quicker than a cheetah.
“Come back here!” I shouted as I ran after him, right on his heels.
===
My breath pumped in a steady rhythm under the covers of darkness. The movement of my body and the liquid feeling of my limbs consumed my focus.
Christos was only a few paces ahead as we ran along the dark streets outside the Manos house toward the trailhead nearby. I meant, our house. Where we both lived.
I still managed to find time to run three days a week, despite all the craziness in my life over the last several months, and was in good shape. But Christos stayed several steps ahead no matter how fast I went. Despite all the drinking he’d been doing, he was still an amazing athlete who put me to shame. I could tell he could leave me in the dust if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He teased me with the proverbial carrot on a stick. In
this case, it was a hunk of man meat on the stick. Or should I say his man meat on a stick. Either way, I wasn’t letting him or his stick get away.
When we reached the trailhead, he bounded up the slope like a weightless gazelle. Now he really did leave me in the dust, but I pumped my legs hard to keep up.
My heart pounded and my lungs burned when I reached the top of the trail. Christos stood at the edge of the small clearing, taking in the view. I took note of Spiridon’s old wooden bench, the one where Christos and I had kissed many moons ago under the stars. I think it had been the first time I’d ever been topless outside in my entire life.
I’d shared so many wonderful firsts with Christos since we’d met. And I hoped that we would share thousands more over our lifetimes.
This clearing was also the place where Christos had first sketched a picture of me, the caricature showing me as a painter with the inscription, “World Famous Master Artist Samantha Smith. You can totally do it!” I still had that picture. Christos had bought a frame for it and it hung next to my drawing table in our studio.
Our studio.
This clearing was the place that Christos had said that only his family ever visited. I had been such a bitch that day. I’d wrongly accused him of bringing all his girlfriends up here to get their pants off and screw them. I’d been too dense and too angry to realize he was already calling me his family when he barely knew me.
Wow, how prophetic that had been.
And of course, this clearing was the place I had mocked Christos and told him his nude paintings were just trashy trophies of all the women he’d had sex with. I’d said that his paintings were an invasion of the women’s privacy, nothing more than exploitation porn on fancy canvases. Funny. That’s exactly what my mom had said when she saw Christos’ studio during Spring Break.
“That’s not art,” Mom had said, “That’s pornography. I hope you would never consider debasing yourself by deigning to strip for Christos. I should hope I’ve taught you better than that.”
I chuckled softly to myself as my mom’s words echoed in my head.
“What’s so funny?” Christos asked.
“I was just remembering what my mom said about your nude portraits when she was visiting.”
Painless (The Story of Samantha Smith #3) Page 34
