by Lana Ames
I leaned into him gratefully; both twins watched us, eyes gleaming with delight and encouragement. “You have no idea how happy this makes us,” Javier said, lifting his glass to us.
“Me too,” I murmured.
“Okay gang,” Jorge said, in the strident tones of a television announcer, “we are at T minus five minutes for dinner. Commence table-setting…now!” He punctuated his last word by laying the first piece of salmon in the pan, followed quickly by the rest of them.
Javier eased off his stool and headed for a cabinet next to a tall, probably antique grandfather clock. “Come along, Grace, that means everyone.” I followed him; he handed me four plates. “Dining room is just through there.” He pointed, and began collecting silverware from a drawer. Mahlen was grabbing water glasses.
The dining room was filled with more sculptures, and now I could see what Jorge meant. The giraffe in the kitchen was really something…but these were amazing. There were more animals, both exotic and ordinary; most of the sculptures were people, though. There must have been two dozen pieces, ranging from Thumbelina-scale to nearly life-size.
“The table is here,” Javier said, putting a gentle hand at the small of my back. “Don’t walk into it.”
“Oh!” I’d been standing there like an idiot, staring at Jorge’s art, holding the plates. “Right.” I laid the dishes around the table, which was also gorgeous, of course. It was square and oak, with four big, complicated chairs around it. The chairs went together without matching, exactly; they were clearly handmade, and by an artisan.
What an interesting house. What interesting people.
Javier and Mahlen followed, and the table was quickly laid. Jorge called in from the kitchen, “Is everyone seated?”
I giggled as we sat down. “Now we are!” Javier called back to his brother.
Jorge marched into the room, carrying a huge platter like he was making an offering to the gods. “And…voila!” He set the platter in the center of the table. The salmon was laid over a bed of the super-yummy-looking rice; everything steamed and smelled amazing. “Serve and begin eating at once, everyone. It won’t get any better than it is right now.”
We obeyed our chef.
And it was so, so worth it.
I didn’t even see Jorge slip back out, but then suddenly he was returning with a huge bowl of crisp green salad. He’d opened a second bottle of wine, too; somehow our first glasses had demolished that first bottle. This wine was white, and went wonderfully with the food. Not that I was any expert. But it was so good that even I could tell.
The delicious wine and the amazing food fueled the conversation—as if it had needed help. I’m a little introverted sometimes…okay, most of the time…okay, pretty much always, but tonight, I felt perfectly at ease. My earlier sense that the men were a group of three that I was on the outside of had vanished. Maybe it was because they were all including me so nicely. Paying attention to me, asking me questions, but also telling stories about (and jokes on) each other, bringing me into the fold.
Mahlen had just finished telling a very amusing story about himself and Jorge in art school, when they had first met. They had had a line drawing class together, even though Jorge had always known he wanted to be a sculptor; the school had required every student to take a broad cross-section of methods, something which every first-year student resented. This had led to numerous pranks—on the other students, and even sometimes on the long-suffering professor.
“The joke was on us, though,” Jorge put in, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. “I use the things I learned in that class every day.”
“So do I,” said Mahlen. “Even though I paint, knowing how to draw is essential.”
“Does it help you visualize the form you want to sculpt, having done so much drawing?” I asked Jorge. “You can, like, see the picture in your mind better?”
“No, I actually literally draw before I sculpt anything,” he said. “I was a really mediocre sculptor before I started sketching first. It changed everything.”
Javier reached for the serving platter and dished himself more rice. “This is where you need to invite her upstairs to see your etchings, dude,” he told his brother.
“Etchings?” I asked.
All three men laughed. “Old joke, you’re too young to have heard it,” Mahlen told me.
“You guys aren’t any older than me,” I protested.
“Well maybe it’s just an old art school joke, then,” Jorge said. “And you’re not art schooly enough to have heard it.”
“I’m not art schooly at all,” I said.
“You really should see his work in process,” Javier put in, around a mouthful. Was that seconds? Thirds? “It makes the finished product even more impressive.”
Jorge turned to him. “I’m not sure if that was an insult or a compliment.”
“Take it any way you like,” Javier said, grinning.
“I’d love to see the process, whatever you want to show me,” I said. I took another sip of the white wine, finishing my glass, and then gosh, here was Mahlen with another bottle, and fresh clean glasses all around. This wine was red again, heavy and almost sweet.
“Oh, dude, this one’s a winner,” Javier said to him.
Jorge leapt up and went back to the kitchen, returning momentarily with a plate of chocolates. “This isn’t dessert, that comes later, but it’s a crime to drink this wine all by itself.”
I didn’t think so—the wine was fantastic—but, what do you know? It was even better with the chocolate.
~*~*~*~
It went on like that, until I was just replete with food and wine and laughter and joy. When I didn’t think I could move, much less take another bite or sip of anything, Jorge got up and started carrying dishes to the kitchen. I groaned, then started to get up to help.
“No no!” Javier said, leaping to his feet and putting a hand on my shoulder, easing me back into my chair. “You’re the guest; you don’t lift a finger.”
“You let me set the table earlier,” I pointed out. “In fact, I think I was kind of commanded to.”
“So you’ve done quite enough, young lady,” he said, and took my plate.
I gave Mahlen a rueful look as he too got up to help. “He’s not even logically consistent.”
Mahlen leaned down and gave me a deep, energizing kiss, as somehow we were momentarily alone in the room. “Get used to it, honey.”
Honey! I thrilled inside.
The three men had the table cleared in no time. I didn’t hear any sounds of running water or anything from the kitchen; maybe I could sneak in and actually help later.
“So, wanna come upstairs and see my sketches?”
I turned to see Jorge posed in the doorway to the kitchen, his hip cocked at a rakish angle. He leered suggestively at me. Behind him stood Javier, holding his fingers in a V behind his brother’s head; behind him, I could hear Mahlen laughing.
“Sure.” I levered my full self up out of the surprisingly comfortable chair. “Show me the way.”
We all headed upstairs; despite the fact that I knew he was just teasing, I was glad that I did actually have chaperons. And not entirely because I didn’t trust Jorge…I wasn’t all that sure I could trust myself. The sexy men, the laughter, the relaxed and enjoyable company…I felt amazingly at ease and, hmm, maybe even a little suggestible.
Emma Foster, get out of my head, I thought. Her strange proposal still echoed in my mind, made all the more strange by…everything that had happened since then. Had I ever been to dinner alone with three sexy men? No, no I had not.
Did I want to do it again? Yes, I did.
I mean, for the company. Just the pleasant company. It was super nice that my new boyfriend had such cool friends. Yep. That’s what I meant.
Mahlen, Javier and I followed Jorge into, yes, his bedroom. I tried not to look around too much, but it was a nice room, with a very inviting bed—king size, a nice brass headboard, and a steamer tr
unk at its foot, nice touch. The room was excessively tidy, and that’s all I really got the chance to notice before he led us into a small room behind the bedroom.
This might have been the world’s biggest walk-in closet in a former life, or a really tiny bedroom (though who puts a bedroom behind another bedroom? Was it supposed to be a baby’s room or something?), but it made a perfect studio. A row of windows lined the far wall; I could just barely see the lights of downtown in the distance. The side walls were filled with built-in shelves—bigger than bookshelves, though they held a few oversized art books in addition to piles and piles of sketch pads, some new, some obviously filled with drawings, if the pages hanging out of them were any indication. The rest of the shelves were piled with sculptures and parts of sculptures, in every stage of completion, from almost lifelike to practically lumps of clay.
In the corner under a window, there was a chaise longue—one of those low oversized chairs or very small couches, for a woman to stretch out on seductively while an artist sketched her. I knew that that was what this was for because beside it was an easel, and on the easel was just such a sketch.
“Um.” I stared at the woman in the picture for a moment. She was very voluptuous. Very.
“Ah, that’s Rachel,” Jorge said, following my gaze. “She’s one of my models; I’m doing a Three Graces picture, and…” His voice trailed off as his eyes widened. “Of course. Three Graces, and here you are, Grace. You’re my Maiden!”
“I…what?” I took a step back, into Mahlen, who put his arms around me and pulled me close.
“Oh, yes, she’d be perfect,” my traitorous boyfriend said. “Grace, pose for Jorge, you’ll be amazing.”
“Rachel is Mother, and I’ve already got Crone,” Jorge said, excitedly tearing the sketch off the pad and revealing a fresh sheet. “I’ve been stymied looking for Maiden; most artists’ models are just too curvy.”
Javier, standing in the doorway (because there was hardly any more room in the studio), gave a dramatic groan. “Tell me you did not get Mom to pose for Crone.”
Jorge laughed. “Don’t worry, bro; you don’t know the model.”
“Because seriously. I love your art, but I don’t think I could look at even an artistic rendition of Mom nude.”
Everyone joined in the laughter now, even me. “Dude, dude,” Jorge said. “Relax. I don’t even want the image you just put in my brain.” He turned to me. “I’d much rather have a different image there.” His gaze moved up and down, sizing me up; he was seeing me with his artist’s eye, I could somehow tell. Yet it warmed me all the same. “Yes, yes, you’re just what I was looking for.” He turned to Mahlen and beamed. “I knew I liked her! Good job.”
“Wait a minute, wait just a minute, everyone,” I said, finally coming to my senses. “I’m not posing nude for you. I’m not an artist’s model.” I’m not getting naked in front of anyone other than my boyfriend.
Jorge suddenly dropped to his knee before me and grasped my hands in his. Behind me, Mahlen still held me gently. “Oh please, I am begging, begging,” Jorge said. His eyes still glimmered with amusement, but he was clearly more than half-serious. “Grace, I have been looking for months for the right model. Let me show you the partial sculpture, at least, before you say no. Let me show you how amazing it’s going to be.” Then he dropped my hands and leapt to his feet before I could answer, darting out of the room.
He was back again a moment later with a piece of—was it bronze?—in his hands. “This is half-scale, I just needed to see where it was going,” he said, handing it to me.
I took the piece. No, it wasn’t bronze; it was fired and glazed clay, made to look like bronze. And it was stunning. Two women, posed together, with a space to their right for a third; the voluptuous woman from the sketch, only standing up this time; and an older, but still lovely, woman with long grey hair. The younger woman looked straight out at the viewer; the older woman looked at her, kind of sidelong, but also seemingly into her own mind. It was a truly gorgeous piece, even in this unfinished state. It made me feel…introspective, and female, and a little awed.
“All we need is the Maiden, the innocent,” Jorge said, watching my reaction. “She looks just like you.”
“I’m no innocent,” I grumbled, handing the piece back to Jorge. All three men chuckled.
“Ah, but you are,” Javier said. He’d been quiet through most of this, but now he took a step into the tiny room. “You look like the Platonic ideal of a blushing virgin bride: tiny and pale and blonde, and so pretty. Come, Grace, can’t you see how perfect you’d be?”
I gave Mahlen a desperate look, but he only nodded. “Of course you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable doing, but…as the one who’s seen, um, the rest of you, I have to agree with them. You belong in this piece of art.”
I stared back at him. “But…” How could he betray me like this? He’d seemed like such a nice man…
“I’ve been wanting to paint you for a whole year, but I’ve been too shy to ask,” Mahlen went on. “You have this pixie-ish face, yet you’re so…you’re a woman. You’re not a child.” He pulled me into his arms for a comforting hug. “But I can see you don’t want to do it, so we’ll drop it.”
“Thank you.” I huddled in his arms even as my mind raced. Because…I was surprised, and uncomfortable…but also kind of tempted.
Well, very tempted.
Who doesn’t want to be thought beautiful, by an artist? Or several artists? I’d always admired the women who felt comfortable in their skins, who could pose so naturally. Heck, I had a hard time in gang dressing rooms at department stores, or the locker room at the gym; I so envied the women who could just shed their clothes without looking like they’d dropped their armor.
What if I could be bold and comfortable like that? Wouldn’t that be freeing?
And what would I look like rendered in clay and then metal, interpreted through the eye of such a talented artist?
I pulled out of Mahlen’s arms and went over to the easel. All three men waited silently behind me. Waiting to see what I would do?
I tried to ignore them as I studied the sketch. Rachel—the model—looked so relaxed, stretched out on the divan like that. Jorge had only roughed in her facial features, but it looked like she wore a lazy smile.
This was only a sketch. What could it hurt? Somehow, I trusted these men. I knew I already trusted Mahlen; no one could connect like we had last night without trust. And these were his dearest friends.
I turned back to face the men. “I’m going to need some more wine.”
Chapter Six
Jorge clapped his hands and Mahlen laughed delightedly. Javier said, “Right away, fair maiden!” and turned to run downstairs.
“So, um,” I said, suddenly all shy once again. “Now what?”
Jorge laughed this time. “Let’s wait for that wine. Here, I’ll bring in another few chairs. You sit there.” He pointed to the chaise; I went and sat on it, looking up at Mahlen. He understood and came to sit right beside me, putting an arm around me and pulling me close for a moment.
Jorge dragged two small chairs in from somewhere just as Javier returned with two bottles of wine and four glasses, all propped on a clever little butler’s tray. “Good job, bro,” Jorge said.
Javier merely nodded at him as he set the tray down and opened a bottle.
I took a big swig of the wine he handed me. “Wow, these just get better and better.” I turned to Mahlen. “Whoever this client is, never, ever piss her off.”
“That’s my plan—keep her happy!” He leaned in and gave me a gentle kiss under my ear. It tickled and felt wonderful; little thrills of that sparky electricity rolled through me.
The brothers sipped their own wine. There was a moment of awkward silence, but Jorge dove into the breach. “We’ll go at your pace,” he started explaining, in a quiet, soothing voice. “I know you’re not a professional artist’s model, and that’s just fine.”
�
�Do they just…drop all their clothes and stretch out, or what?” I asked, trying not to squirm.
Jorge smiled. “In a classroom setting, they undress behind a screen or in a different room, and come out in a robe. Then, yes, they drop the robe and pose, in a specific position for a specific period of time. Whatever was worked out in advance. Sometimes, the instructor or the class can request additional poses after the first program is over, but the model only agrees if she—or he—wants to. Modeling can be exhausting. Especially some of the standing poses; it’s surprising how tiring holding very still is.”
“No, that makes sense,” I said. In the few yoga classes I’d taken, holding even initially comfortable poses got way more challenging after not very long.
“We want you comfortable and relaxed, and not just because we like you.” Jorge flashed me that gorgeous grin again. “A stiff, uncomfortable model holds her body awkwardly, and is much harder to sketch. Well, unless that’s what the artist is going for,” he added. “And I’m not. I want you to look as natural as the other two ladies.”
I glanced at the unfinished piece again. Could I look that natural?
Only one way to find out, I supposed. I sipped more of my wine. “At least it’s nice and warm in here.”
All three men laughed. “Of course!” Jorge said. “If I’m going to ask folks to strip and look comfortable, I need to do my best to make it as easy on them as possible. In fact, let me crank the heat up a little more.” He set his wine down and went out to the bedroom, returning a moment later. I heard a heater vent start up, blowing air from somewhere just under the divan. “All these windows in here, it can get chilly at night.”
“Right.” Yes, indeed I was feeling the heat already. And the wine in my belly was warming me. And Mahlen beside me. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and set it on the couch beside me.
“That’s the spirit!” Javier said. The first few buttons of his shirt were already undone; now he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up a few turns, then bent down and took his shoes off. “Here, now you won’t feel so alone.”
