by Lund, S. E.
I nodded and ran my fingers through his hair. Then it hit me – Drake had stayed late to take over Michael's cases. That meant he worked with Michael's residents. That meant he spent the evening with Sam.
A surge of jealousy went through me, but I squashed it. I was not going to be that kind of woman. I was going to assume that Drake couldn’t wait to get home to me. He was tired from his busy schedule. I said nothing for a moment, swallowing back my urge to ask about Sam.
Drake must have sensed something for he pulled me closer, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. Almost soothing as if he knew I needed it.
"I'm sorry that you've been alone all day. I promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow."
I smiled in the darkness, knowing that he'd probably be unable to do so until the weekend, but at least the sentiment was there. I had to get used to this. Being separated from Drake and missing him very much was going to be my new reality.
I woke in the middle of the night to the sounds of a guitar coming from somewhere in the house. I felt the bed beside me and Drake was gone, the sheets and coverlet pulled back where he would have lain.
He must have had a hard time sleeping and got up to play for a while, like that time on 8th Avenue when we were first together.
I got up and tiptoed out of the bedroom, searching for him. The sound came from the butler's pantry off the kitchen. The room was about six by ten, and was windowless, with an overhead light fixture and shelves on the walls. I opened the door to see Drake sitting on a stool, his back turned toward the door, his guitar in his arms, playing some song I didn't recognize. He looked up when he noticed me and stopped singing and playing.
"Hi," I said and smiled. "Sorry to interrupt."
"No, that's fine. Sorry I woke you."
"You couldn’t sleep?" I said and went to him, laying a hand on his bare shoulder, his skin smooth under mine. I stroked his neck and he looked up into my eyes, and then closed his, smiling while I ran my fingers through his messy hair, which fell over his eyes.
"Nah," he said. " I'm exhausted but at the same time, I can't fall sleep."
"Insomnia," I said, and leaned against the wall across from him, my arms behind me. "What were you playing? That was nice."
He shrugged and picked out something melodic. "A song that reminded me of you and of us. It's by a musician from LA I found a while ago when I took a break from my father's music. The song is called See You Again by Jason Falkner."
"Keep playing," I said. "It was nice and I hardly ever get to hear you sing or play."
He did, starting from what I assumed was the beginning. The song was about how life can be so intense at times, it's hard to take. The lyrics made my throat close up. The song reminded him of me, of us.
His voice was firm and clear and he sang with confidence, enjoying the music. Of course, being the silly woman that I was, my eyes filled with tears, especially at some of the lyrics and the fact it made him think of me and that's why he wanted to play it.
"That's so sweet," I said and went to him when he finished, kissing him, my hands on his shoulders.
"I miss you," he said. "I'm so busy now, but I won't be this busy the whole time we're here."
"I know," I said, stroking my fingers through his hair. "I miss you, too, but I'll survive. My first class is tomorrow. I can't wait and expect I'll be busy from now on with my art."
He nodded and strummed the guitar. "Well, I guess I should put this away. My first surgery is early tomorrow." He put the guitar away and we went back to bed.
Beside me, Drake tossed and turned. I wondered what it was that was keeping him from sleep. Finally, after about half an hour, he was still, his breathing deep and slow.
It took me a long time to fall asleep, excitement about my first class making it hard to let go.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning, I got up when Drake did, showering while he made coffee. I dressed in my cute little flowery sundress that I had hoped would entice him the previous night.
He held me at arm's length and looked me up and down. "Ms. Bennet, you make it very hard to leave you all day when you wear that dress."
I held the skirt out and smiled, curtsying. "You like?"
"I love. You're not wearing it to your art class are you?"
"Of course not," I said, and turned in a circle. "I put it on to show you what you missed yesterday. I'll wear something more appropriate to an artist's studio. My overalls and a t-shirt."
"Whew," Drake said and mock wiped his brow. "Thank God, or someone would definitely steal you away from me. But please wear that tonight when I come home. No matter how tired I am, I'll have to ravish you if you're wearing that."
I laughed and leaned against him for another kiss. "You ravishing me is my one desire."
Then he really had to go and waved to me as he closed the door.
Once again, I was alone. But at least I had the first studio class to look forward to.
My class didn't begin until 10:00AM so I had plenty of time to get ready. I ate my breakfast and dressed in my work clothes, which consisted of an old pair of denim overalls and a black t-shirt underneath it. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and put on a pair of high-tops to complete the ensemble. I looked like an art student. I needed some artsy earrings so I chose a pair of hand-made dangling earrings I bought at a flea market sale in Harlem several years earlier.
Yes, I did look the part. Even my black choker fit the 60s vibe.
Then, I called Jomo and waited for my ride to the Institute and my first class, my stomach filled with butterflies.
Jomo was helpful as usual, telling me about the Institute and how many famous African artists had been through its doors in the past.
"Who is your teacher?" he asked as we drove through the busy streets of Nairobi.
"Talia Abasi," I replied.
He waved his hand at another driver and honked his horn before answering. I gripped onto the door handle as we went around a curve a bit more quickly than I would have liked.
"Oh, she is very good," he said finally.
"How do you know about her?" I asked when I got my breath back.
"She won a national medal for art. I saw her on the television."
I nodded, glad that my teacher was well-regarded in her own country. Sefton was the artist in residence and was also renowned, but the last thing I wanted was to be trapped in a class with him. I could imagine him strolling around the studio, checking out every student's work, making suggestive comments that would drive me crazy as I tried to figure out if he was being rude or if it was my own overactive imagination.
Jomo dropped me off at the Institute, an old five story colonial building built during the Raj, which had been converted into a school. Outside, on the lawn, were a series of shed-like storage containers. Inside were artist studios, the walls covered with brightly colored paintings and prints.
I walked up to the old building, my stomach tight, and entered the cool dim interior. The artwork and photos of former students lined one wall.
A banner above the office, in what I assumed was Swahili and English, read,
"Art is a lie that lets the artist tell the truth." Picasso
I went into the office and checked with the secretary, who had me fill out an enrollment form. She gave me directions to the studio where the class was being held. I went down the hallway, and took a staircase up to a studio on the top floor. The space was large with high multi-paned windows. The natural light would be amazing. Several students were already there, sitting on benches with easels attached, their portfolios and art cases on the floor beside them. In the center of the room was a platform about ten feet by ten, raised off the floor about two inches. That's where the model would pose.
The easels were arranged in a circle around the center of the room. On each easel was a pad of newsprint. The pages were large, about twenty-four by thirty-six inches. I took a seat at an easel bench closest to the door and sat down, my stomach still in knots. The ot
her students present were a mix of ages. Two women looked to be in their mid-forties. They may have been returning to college to follow their dream after years caring for children. The other three were my age, dressed in clothes similar to mine – work clothes, that could be splashed with paint, or linseed oil or charcoal without much concern.
There was a desk at the front of the room with a large old-fashioned blackboard on the wall behind it. On the board was written "Life Drawing 101" and below it, 'Talia Abasi: Instructor'. I'd seen a photo of her, and she was beautiful, about forty, her long braids pulled up into a high bun. In the photo, she wore a colorful dress, and was receiving the medal from the president of Kenya.
I realized I was lucky to have found a space in her class.
In the next ten minutes, other students entered and took up about half of the other twenty benches in the room. Then, a few minutes after ten o'clock, Talia arrived, wearing a long flowered dress, her hair up in a turban. She had dark horn-rimmed glasses on and wore a bright smile.
"Hello, class," she said in perfect British English with a strong touch of the local accent. "I'm Talia Abasi. You can call me Talia."
"Hello, Talia," several students replied.
She bowed slightly. "Welcome to Life Drawing 101. In this class, we expect you to have some experience drawing with pencils and charcoal. The purpose is to allow you time with a model so you can learn to do a quick sketch, and then a longer study of the nude human body. This way, you will gain knowledge of the musculature, the structure and form of the body and will work with light and shadow, perspective and texture. I won't be doing any instruction per se, but I will be here to answer any questions, and provide feedback on your work. There are no assignments. This is an open studio so you can do as you like. After the first break, when our model starts doing longer poses, the painting class will be joining us to use the model as well for their painting studies."
I frowned at that. The painting class – was that Sefton's class? I didn't like the thought of his class joining us, nor did I want him to view my work. I didn't want to have anything to do with him.
Then, a woman entered from a side door wearing a robe. She looked to be part African and part Asian and had long smooth black hair that hung down her back. She was beautiful, with lush curves and coffee-and-cream skin.
"Our model today is Mariko. She'll do a series of quick poses for you, then take a break, before taking one of three longer poses which you can use for studies." Talia turned to Mariko and bowed. Mariko bowed back and then walked to the center of the room where she stepped onto the raised platform. She removed her robe and stood before us naked, shaking her arms and legs as if to limber up.
Talia stepped closer to the circle of students. "Mariko is a dancer so she will be able to strike really flexible poses. She also has a lot of stamina, so she'll be able to move quickly from pose to pose. We're lucky to have her. Part of your tuition goes to paying our models but it's customary to leave a little something at the end of class for the model."
Then, Mariko began a series of quick poses, each one lasting no more than two minutes. We were expected to draw very quickly, trying to catch the basic form of her pose with broad strokes rather than fine detail. It was exhilarating. I had only taken a class with a nude model once before, so this was a treat. I did my best to capture the sweep of her pose as she bent and twisted and stretched in different ballet positions.
This went on for the first half hour. We got in almost thirteen poses before it was time for her to take a break. All the while, Talia circled the class, stopping to look at each student's drawings, commenting now and then on their progress, making suggestions. She stopped by my easel when Mariko was in a pose with her arms extended out in front of her, one leg held back behind her. I could see her in profile and tried my hardest to capture the whole pose, her leg bent slightly at the knee.
"Very nice," Talia said. "I can feel the weight in that leg. Good job."
I smiled, pleased that my instructor had a good comment for me. Then she moved on to the next student.
Finally, Mariko stopped posing, put her robe back on, and then left the circle of easel benches for the side room.
I wasn't pleased that, now, the painting class would be joining us for the rest of the period. I waited expectantly, hoping it wasn't Sefton, but his was the only other open studio class. I got up from my easel and went to the hallway where I had seen a water fountain, got a drink, then went to the washroom. When I returned, sure enough, Sefton was at the desk speaking with Talia. I took my place at my bench and turned over a fresh page on the newsprint pad, then took out my drawing pencils and sharpened them to ensure they were ready for use.
I felt suddenly conscious of eyes on me and glanced up only to be staring into Sefton's very brown eyes. He was leaning against the blackboard, his arms crossed, listening to Talia speak about something. When our eyes met, a smile quirked on his lips. He looked very handsome, wearing a black long-sleeved t-shirt and faded jeans with black boots and a thick black belt.
He nodded to Talia and touched her on the shoulder. Then, he came directly over to me, smiling.
"Well, Ms. McDermott, I see there was something else better after all."
I forced a smile and glanced away, my cheeks heating under his scrutiny. "I thought drawing might be a better start for me. I haven't been in an art class for a while…"
"May I see your sketches?" he said and bent down, his hand moving to the pad of paper despite my not granting him permission. I didn’t really want him to look at my work, but he was pretty insistent. He turned back the pages of newsprint and looked at each drawing.
"Good work," he said. "You do well capturing the motion, the weight of the body, the tension. Perspective is good."
Then he returned the pad of newsprint to its place on the easel and folded his arms. "You don't really need practice."
"I think you can always use practice," I said, frowning. "I only recently started painting again after several years away and I'm a bit rusty."
"Not from what I can see."
"Thank you," I said, forcing yet another smile without meeting his eyes.
"I see you're wearing your… choker again," he said, his voice light, soft enough in the hum of the other students talking that only I could hear. "Are you 24/7?"
I glanced up at him. "No," I said, frowning. Then I caught myself.
Damn…
"What do you mean by that?" I said quickly, but I knew he'd found me out. He knew I was a submissive.
"Of course, I meant do you wear it 24/7…"
"Of course," I said, turning away from his half-smirk. "I don't wear it in the shower or swimming. But the rest of the time, yes."
He said nothing else. "Welcome to the Institute," he said finally.
I glanced up and nodded. "Thank you."
Then he walked away, and didn't say anything else to me while the other students came in the room and took their places at empty easel benches. Mariko entered the room once everyone was settled and a janitor carried in a low cushioned bench covered in red velvet. Mariko removed her robe again, sat on the bench and half reclined on it, resting her weight on one elbow, her long hair falling like silk over her neck, and onto the settee. She lay on her side, one leg crossed over the other. She faced away from me so that I was looking at her back.
"Students feel free to move your benches into a different position if you like. But you should challenge yourself to take the most difficult position to develop your skills."
I stayed where I was, although I would have liked to draw her from the front. Instead, I tried my best to block out my sheet of newsprint, turning it on its side. For the next half hour, we drew her in that pose before she shifted to another pose for the second half hour of long poses. Sefton and Talia walked around the students, watching us draw, commenting on the work. Luckily, Sefton didn’t stop and comment on mine, but Talia did. She had only good things to say, thankfully. It gave me confidence that maybe I really
had talent to be developed and I could be an artist if I worked hard enough at it.
I went to the water fountain for a drink once more when Mariko took her next break. Before I could return to the class, Sefton caught up with me outside the door to the classroom.
"So, Kate McDermott from Manhattan, how's life with the neurosurgeon fiancé of yours? He must be very busy. Isn't there a shortage of neurosurgeons in Kenya? I think I read that somewhere."
I stopped and turned to him, keeping my expression pleasant although I felt frustration that he wouldn't let me be. "Life is great. As for Drake, he's very busy and that's why he's here. His friend is the dean of the medical college and asked him to come and help out, teach a class and take on a surgical caseload for a semester."
"How noble," Sefton said. "With you being so new to Nairobi, it must get pretty lonely."
"Excuse me," I said and pushed past him into the classroom. He wasn't my instructor so I didn't have to be polite to him. I didn’t have to stand around and make pleasant conversation with him.
When I returned to my seat, Mariko came back into the room. This time, she sat on the bench, her legs crossed, her arms resting behind her, her head back. It wasn't an interesting pose from my perspective, but I stayed where I was and drew it anyway. I focused on capturing the arch to her back and the play of light on her hair.
When the time was up, we all clapped for Mariko, who bowed slightly before leaving the room. Then, Talia passed a basket around and students dropped money into it. All I had was some American cash, which I threw in, figuring a twenty-dollar bill would be a nice tip.
I put my drawings into my portfolio case and packed up my pencils. Then, when I was about to leave, Talia asked me to stay behind.
I stopped by the desk while she spoke with another student briefly. When the student left, Talia turned to me.
