“I will.”
“Think you can make a decision before Friday?”
“I’m sure I can.”
“I love you no matter what. You know that don’t you?”
Her eyes glazed over and tears spilled down her cheeks. She looked over at him and nodded, her throat closing too tight for words.
His arms opened and she stood, falling into his embrace. “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you more.”
***
That night as Tink lay in her bed, she knew if she wanted to get away from Raven, she’d need more cash than the two hundred dollars she had in the bank.
After all her father had sacrificed, she couldn’t ask him for the money. Besides, she knew malpractice insurance had gone through the roof this year, and whether he’d admit it or not, things were tight.
Perhaps that was why he’d spoken to her. Perhaps he needed that tuition money back. Everything he’d said about nursing was true; she just wished she had a plan B. She’d feel better if she wasn’t floundering about with no clear life path.
One thing Tink knew for sure. She had to figure this out on her own, and there was only one opportunity staring her in the face right now. She just wasn’t sure if she had the guts to go through with it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tink knocked on the door of Clay Ashton’s home promptly at 3:00 pm Wednesday. She was grateful for the large, overhanging roof that kept her out of the pouring rain. She didn’t have long to wait until the door swung open. This time an older woman in a maid’s uniform greeted her.
“Miss DuPont?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Mr. Ashton is waiting for you in the studio.” She motioned down the hall.
“Thank you.” Tink stepped into the entryway, water droplets hitting the tile floor.
“May I take your coat, Miss?”
Tink smiled and shrugged off her raincoat. “Thank you.”
The woman disappeared down another hall, leaving Tink alone to find her way. Luckily she remembered and followed the long hall to the door on the end. She tapped lightly.
“Come in.”
Clay was setting a canvas on an easel when she entered. He turned and greeted her with a smile.
“Alexandra. Right on time, my dear.”
She took a few steps into the room, and he stood, looking at her. And then, as if he knew, he shifted, taking a step closer.
“I—”
“Yes?”
She rubbed her palm on her the denim covering her thigh, the words sticking in her throat.
His head tilted to one side. “Have you reconsidered?”
She nodded.
“Splendid. You have no idea how pleased I am to hear it. I hoped you would. I also hope it wasn’t just the money. Your portrait will be phenomenal, Alexandra.”
“I’d like to be kept anonymous—as the model, I mean.”
“Of course. If that’s what you want, I’ll never divulge your name.”
“And if some patron, perhaps someone interested in purchasing it, asks you?”
“I won’t tell them.”
Her eyes swept over him. Could she trust him?
“To tell you the truth, it makes it even more unique and appealing when the name of the model is something they want to know but can’t get. Ups the value.” He grinned.
“Oh, okay. Well, good. Then it works for both of us.”
“Indeed.” He held his arm out. “You can undress behind there. You’ll find a robe you can slip into.”
Tink looked over and saw an Oriental folding screen. “Thank you.”
When she stepped behind it, she found the garment draped over a stool. Drawing in a deep breath, she quickly undressed and put on the robe. There was no belt, and really, why would there be? She’d only be slipping this off soon anyway. Still, she wrapped it around her, holding it tightly closed. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, took another deep breath, and then stepped out.
He barely turned from positioning a tall canvas against another easel. “I’d like you over there near the window. With this weather, the lighting is muted, but I think it could work with the rain-streaked windows as a backdrop. When I woke up this morning and saw the forecast, I must admit, I had hopes you’d change your mind, and I knew I had to come up with something different. The rain provides that, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
He seemed to be all business, and somehow that put her at ease.
She looked at the tall glass enclosure, grateful for the privacy the streaking rain provided. The solarium might be secluded, but it was a house of glass.
He continued arranging brushes and paints and drawing pencils.
She stood awkwardly and delayed removing the robe. “I thought you were using that smaller canvas.”
He glanced up. “I was, but when you said you’d changed your mind about modeling nude, I knew I had to do a life-size painting.”
“Life-size?” She swallowed. Oh, my God. He was planning to display this in some gallery—a life-size nude of her.
“Yes.” He paused and met her eyes, reading her nervousness. “It will be something to be proud of Alexandra. I promise.”
She huffed out a small puff of breath. Right.
“I see you don’t believe me.” He gave a jerk of his chin, his eyes dropping to the robe.
Here it was, the moment of truth. Could she really do this?
He waited patiently, his eyes locked with hers.
She lifted her chin. Where is your backbone, Tink? She pulled the robe off, tossing it aside.
His eyes swept over her, and she couldn’t help wondering if he was cataloguing every flaw—her small breasts, her overlarge nipples, her boyish frame, even the scar on her knee… When he didn’t say anything, she couldn’t help asking, “Change your mind?”
His eyes flicked up to hers. “Absolutely not. You’re lovely, as I knew you would be.” He stepped to her and gestured for her to turn, angling toward the light. She was now mostly in profile. He gently tilted her head to the side. “Eyes downcast.”
She did as instructed.
“Weight on your right foot and bend the other knee.”
She did, lifting the heel of her left.
“Perfect. Stay just like that.”
Tink breathed in a deep breath and closed her eyes, imagining this was some sort of yoga position.
“Eyes open, my dear.”
She complied, staring at the drop canvas she stood on. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him working. He was doing what she knew from her limited experience to be gesture drawings, getting the structure of her body and the pose down.
“Is the room warm enough for you?”
“It’s fine.” She trembled.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Alexandra. You’re beautiful.”
She swallowed, surprised by how his words affected her. That was something she rarely felt, except maybe when Hammer looked at her.
Clay spent the first half hour doing rapid sketches that, as he explained, seized the essentials of the pose. He changed her position several times. Each sketch took only a few minutes to complete.
“Today, I’m just trying to get a feel for what works. I’ve actually been toying with the idea of recreating the famous painting September Morn by French artist Paul Emile Chabas. Have you heard of it?”
She shook her head.
“You can put the robe back on now. I have enough for today.”
While she did, he went to a bookshelf and pulled out a dusty art book. Flipping to a page, he turned it.
Her eyes fell on the image. It was lovely. Painted in muted golden tones, it depicted a young woman standing nude in the shallow water at the edge of a lake. Morning mist rose up from the water, and the early light illuminated her. She was in profile, bent slightly at the waist, her young breasts exposed but her arm positioned to cover her private parts. She looked off into the distance. It was easy to imagine the vie
wer coming upon her as she sponge bathed in the lake.
“It’s beautiful.”
“The lighting is exquisite, isn’t it?”
“Lovely.”
“The painting has quite a past. It was bought and taken to Russia and feared lost in the October Revolution of 1917.”
“Wasn’t that the one little Princess Anastasia died in?”
“Actually she was seventeen when she died, but yes.”
“I’ve always thought her story tragic.” Tink glanced at the painting. “Anastasia was probably this girl’s age.”
“As a matter of fact, they were about the same age.”
“Who was she?”
“Chabas never identified the model. It’s said that on the first day of painting, she entered the morning water and instinctively recoiled at its chilliness. Chabas approved of this pose, saying that it was perfect. For two summers he worked on the painting, half an hour every morning. Finally completing it on a September morning in 1911.”
“So that’s how it got its name?”
“Exactly.”
“And he never told who she was?”
“Never. He only spoke of her years later when he was accused of exploiting her.”
“Really?”
Clay nodded. “In 1935, responding to claims that the model was living in poverty, Chabas explained that she had continued posing for him until she was twenty-eight, when she married a rich industrialist and had three children.”
She laughed. “Do you believe it?”
He shrugged. “A lot of women came forward after the painting became famous, claiming to be her. Chabas’ explanation seems the most realistic.”
“I like that he never gave up her identity.”
He nodded. “Anyway, it resurfaced in 1935 and was eventually donated to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The painting caused quite a sensation at the turn of the century with discussions of censorship and indecency.
“Over the next few years the work was reproduced in a variety of forms, even pins and calendars. Millions of reproductions were sold, though Chabas – who had not copyrighted it – didn’t receive any royalties.”
“None?”
“Not a dime.”
“Well, that sucks.”
He chuckled. “Indeed. He believed it was his masterpiece. Some critics have described the painting as kitsch. It hasn’t been on exhibit since 1975.”
“Because of those critics?”
“Who knows. It would be tragic if that were the reason.”
“So the critics… they didn’t like it. But you want to recreate it?”
“Do you think it’s kitsch?”
“I think it’s beautiful.”
“I agree. The first time I saw it, it spoke to me. I think it’s the very definition of all that is innocent. It makes me think of what it would have been like to be a young man and to have come upon this scene, perhaps viewing the female form for the very first time.”
She looked at him. His eyes were on the image in the book.
“It’s one of the reasons I became an artist, to move people with my work the way this painting moved me.” He stood quietly for a moment, then returned the book to its shelf. “What do you think, Alexandra? Would you like to be the model for a painting like that? I don’t have a lake, but the rain-streaked windowpanes of this glass solarium offer something unique, don’t they?”
She couldn’t deny that, and she couldn’t lie about wanting to model for him. She would like to be in a painting like Chabas’. “Yes.”
He smiled. “Excellent.”
***
Over their sessions during the next two weeks, Clay spoke to Tink on many art topics, from the Classic Tradition, to Romanticism, to Realism, to Modernism, and Contemporary. From Cezanne to Matisse, whom he loved, and from Picasso to deKooning, whom he abhorred.
She sometimes asked him questions.
“Has your wife or girlfriend ever posed like this?” she dared to ask one afternoon.
“Once, but that kind of thing can be a test for all concerned. Modeling is very hard work, as I’m sure you’ve come to realize.”
“Amen.” Her aching muscles attested to that.
He grinned at her reply but continued working.
Finally, he settled on a last pose—turning her to the side and bending her forward.
“Holding a pose for several minutes can be tiring. I’ll give you plenty of breaks, especially since this may be a difficult one.”
“Thank you. Tell me about how you paint.”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes. This is fascinating.”
“I’ve found a dilute wash of a color like Raw Umber is ideal for the initial drawing. I use it to sketch the outline. If I make a mistake as I draw with the paintbrush, I can easily wipe it off or soften the mark with a little turpentine applied with a clean brush.”
“What’s the next step?”
“I’ll paint in a dark background, again in a dilute umber or sienna wash, perhaps with a touch of blue added. Then I fill in the interior of your form with a thin wash of ochre.”
“And after that?”
“I’ll paint the shadow areas with a mixture of burnt umber and a dash of red. Then paint in the highlights with a thin mixture of ochre and white. Then blend highlights and shadows a little. I’ll often repaint the darkest shadows with burnt umber and red. I’ll touch up the highlights with ochre, white, and red. Then model your form by blending the tones and leave it to dry thoroughly.”
“And then you’re finished?”
He chuckled. “No, Alexandra. This is a long process. Then I’ll repaint in more detail with paint containing more linseed oil. The finishing touch will be to modify the underlying colors with glazes.”
“Ah, glazes. The frosting on the cake?”
He grinned. “Yes, Alexandra, the frosting on the cake.”
She smiled back, and he winked.
After that, the hours passed quickly.
CHAPTER NINE
Tink lay on her stomach on the wooden dock at Shades’ and Skylar’s house. The warm afternoon sun beat down on her bare back. A splash of water droplets hit her face, and she squinted open one eye. “Hey!”
Desiree laughed from the water, pulling little Ethan in a floaty. “Come on in, Tink. The water’s great.”
“No thanks. I need some sun before days like these are gone for good.”
Desiree stuck her tongue out. “Party pooper.”
The dock shook with footsteps, and Tink turned to see Skylar walking toward them with a pitcher in her hand. “Margaritas, ladies?”
“Yum.” Tink reached back and retied her bikini string, then sat up. Jessie, Ghost’s ol’ lady, flipped over on her beach towel and shaded her eyes with her hand. “Do you have any plain juice?”
Skylar sat cross-legged on a towel and set down a stack of plastic cups and the pitcher. “Last night you didn’t want any wine, and last week you wouldn’t eat those scrambled eggs I made. The truth, right now, Jessie. You’ve been dropping all kinds of hints. Are you preggo?”
A big ol’ grin split Jessie’s face.
Sherry, on the other side of Tink, squealed in delight. “A baby! Oh, my God! Congratulations!”
Skylar hugged Jessie’s shoulders tight. “Sweetie, I’m so happy for you.”
Tink jokingly scooted away. “Don’t sit by me. That shit’s contagious around here.”
The girls giggled.
Skylar poured cups of Margaritas and passed them out, turning to Jessie. “You don’t get any. I’ll get you juice.”
“How far along are you?” Sherry asked.
“It’s early yet. I just saw the doctor last week. I’m due in late April.”
“That’s wonderful, Jess,” Tink said. “Really, I’m so happy for you. Ghost will make a great dad.”
“How did Ghost react when you told him?” Skylar asked.
“He was thrilled… once he got over the shock.” Jessie laughed.
“You should have seen his face. He just stared at me for the longest time, repeatedly asking me what I meant. He got pale and had to sit down.”
Skylar almost snorted her drink out her nose and covered her mouth with her hand.
Jessie smacked her arm, grinning. “It wasn’t funny. It kind of pissed me off.”
That had Skylar laughing even harder. She waved her hand in front of her face, shaking her head like she was trying to get Jessie to stop talking so she could catch her breath. Finally, she gasped, “Oh, my God, I’m dying. I cannot wait to give him hell. He gave Shades so much shit when I was pregnant, and I plan to return the favor.”
“Please don’t,” Jessie begged. “He’s already freaking out.”
“No way, babe. Payback’s a…” and then quieter, “bitch.”
“You suck.” Jessie pouted.
“I hope he has a little girl. I can picture him guarding her with a shotgun. She’ll never get a date,” Tink teased.
“That’s what Shades plans on doing,” Skylar admitted, smoothing sunscreen on her legs.
“The guys are going to give Ghost hell. I can’t wait,” Sherry joked.
Skylar looked over at little Ethan. “So, how are things going with taking care of Hammer’s nephew?”
Sherry took a sip of her drink. “We worked out a schedule. We’re taking shifts helping out with him.”
Skylar’s gaze moved to Tink. “How about you?”
Tink’s eyes widened. “How about me what?”
“Come on, Tink, what’s the deal with you and Hammer?” she elaborated.
“Yeah, that boy’s been hot for you forever!” Jessie added, leaning forward to drag out the last word.
Tink shrugged. “There is no deal with us.”
“Tink…” Skylar pressed.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Uh, the truth. You don’t think he’s hot?” Skylar asked.
“That’s the problem,” Sherry ratted her out.
“Sherry!” Tink warned.
Sherry bumped her shoulder to Tink’s. “What? You’re among friends.”
“Yeah, so spill,” Jessie encouraged.
Tink arched her brows. “Yes, he’s gorgeous, okay?”
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