The Reluctant Nude

by Meg Maguire

  Fallon turned the hot tap off completely until the water came out so icy she clambered from the tub in retreat. Better. Slightly better.

  “Good morning.”

  When Fallon arrived at ten o’clock, she was different. Max sensed it. There was a rigidity to her that was troubling, though unsurprising. When she disrobed, it was the doctor’s office all over again, and Max’s clay studies that morning came out as stiff and contrived as her imitation of indifference.

  “Let’s break,” he said, the hour hand not even at twelve yet. It was frustrating. Frustrating more so because this was most certainly his fault. He’d meant to tease her, not alienate her. It could take another couple of weeks to regain her trust. Weeks, he had. He suspected, however, that she did not.

  Fallon redressed and joined him for cold shrimp and pasta. He forewent the wine.

  “You look like you need a day off.” He picked through his food, unused to these anxious feelings.

  She shrugged.

  “I think this is more than a hangover, yes?”

  Fallon rubbed her temple and sighed heavily, clearly not interested in having this conversation.

  “I went too far last night, yes?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I’m just tired. I slept really crappily. Don’t worry about it. It’s my own fault for staying out late and drinking so much.”

  “Well, I apologize if you feel offended by anything I said to you.”

  “I said don’t worry about it. I’m not offended.”

  “That is good…” His blood hummed with agitation. He felt unable to fix this and it was upsetting.

  “I don’t want a day off.” Fallon propped her head in her hands and exhaled, sounding exhausted. Max studied her long fingers and tidy, short nails, the elegant little knob of her pisiform bone at the corner of her slender wrist.

  “Well, I’m afraid I am not making any progress today. You may as well have the afternoon to yourself,” he said, tempting her defensive side.

  She glared at him.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. But you will be of more use to me—and yourself—if you go and spend the rest of the day doing something you actually enjoy.”

  “I don’t want to lose any more time. You were supposed to have started the marble by now… You know,” she went on, that old edge returning to her voice, “you’re getting paid a ton for this time, but I’m not. I’m on an unpaid leave right now, and I’ve got a mortgage, and bills, and a roommate who’s depending on me to kick in my share. I’ve got a pushy, unpleasant patron to please with what for you is just a convenient commission. This has to work, okay? This has to be worth my time and it has to succeed. I have to get back and take care of my life. I have a life.”

  “I know that.”

  She groaned. “Then we have to stay on track. If you care about me in whatever weird, not-quite-platonic way you seem to, then just…do what you were hired to do. I’ve suspended all my disbelief about how it is you say you need to work, now please meet me halfway. Sculpt. Please.” She pushed her uneaten food around in her bowl. “I’m not on vacation, here. I’m here to do something I really don’t want to do because it’s important to me. This is a sacrifice. Don’t make it be for nothing.”

  “You are going to hate what I am about to say.”

  “Fine, just say it.”

  “I have no control over what it is I do. I can’t speed it up at will—”

  “Well, you told me twelve weeks,” she cut in. “Why give me a timetable if you can’t stick to it, for crying out loud?”

  “Look. You are the worst model I have ever had,” Max said, and she flinched. “You started off uncooperative, and you can be so defensive sometimes that I may as well try to sculpt you from two towns away, you’re so distant. You can be hell to work with.”

  She opened her mouth but he plowed on.

  “And what’s worse, I did not choose you. You don’t want to be here. The one person who even wants this sculpture is some mysterious man who you clearly dislike, and I am having an impossible time feeling excited about him receiving my work. I am doing this as a favor to you.” The words tumbled out, fast and impatient. “At first, for the money, and because I like a challenge. And now, because I like you. I want to help you.” And because he couldn’t sleep sometimes for the thoughts of her that haunted him at night. “But do not for one second treat me like I’m not trying to make this work. I would like nothing more than to please you. Though God knows why.”

  Fallon blushed, held his eyes for a moment then began to eat. They finished the meal in silence, and she took their dishes to the sink and washed them.

  “I’m going, then,” she said, organizing her bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “Good.” Max tried to stay as even as she was being…but at the same time his body wanted to spin her around and shake her by the shoulders, scream at her to get out of his head before he went crazy. Instead he held the door open to let her by. He changed his mind at the last moment.

  He grabbed his wallet and locked the door behind them, jogging to join her in walking up the gravel road toward town.

  She cast him a suspicious look. “Are you coming with me on my afternoon off?”

  “No. I have a phone call to make.”

  “Well, you can use my phone. You don’t need to go all the way into Pettiplaise.”

  His mouth twitched. “Thank you, but it is a private call.”

  “I won’t listen.”

  He smiled tightly. “I don’t want you to see the number after I give you your phone back.”

  She shook her head. “Whatever.”

  They walked together, the quiet disrupted by their footsteps and the caws of Cape Breton’s prolific crow population. When they reached the edge of town, Max stopped at the co-op market’s pay phone, letting Fallon walk on without him. He didn’t bother saying goodbye.

  When she realized she’d lost him, she turned, and he raised his brows playfully. Her pale eyes narrowed with irritation. He caught her shake her head to herself as she continued on her way.

  Max dug the number out of his wallet. He slid a few coins into the slot and punched the buttons. Voicemail picked up immediately.

  “Good afternoon. You do not know me, but my name is M.L. Emery. I have a rather strange favor to ask you…”

  Chapter Six

  Fallon rang Max’s bell at ten sharp. She collected herself on his doorstep, feeling a thousand times better than she had yesterday at this time.

  He opened the door and smiled, leaning casually in the frame and crossing his arms. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.”

  He looked her up and down with characteristic mischief and nodded. “I am so glad you dressed practically.”

  Fallon frowned with a low-level panic, taking an inventory of her favorite jeans and her NYU sweatshirt, feeling suddenly inadequate.

  “Don’t look so offended. That is just perfect for today.” He ceased blocking the door and went inside. Fallon followed, taking in the familiar earthy smells of the studio with its predictable undertone of steeping coffee.

  “Did you enjoy your afternoon off?” Max asked, gathering mugs.

  Fallon stared at him, still confused by his critique of her clothes. Any other man on earth would look like a slob, dressed the way Max was: filthy jeans and shoes so crusted in clay she couldn’t even make out their color. Something about him could transform such a wardrobe. Even with four days’ stubble and an industrial particle mask hanging around his neck, Max looked styled. Men like him could make burlap potato sacks couture.

  “It was fine, thanks,” Fallon finally said. “I rented a bike for a few hours and did some reading. It was very relaxing.”

  “Excellent. Can you tell what I did on my afternoon off?” he asked, looking eager.

  Fallon studied him again then turned her scrutiny to the studio. She noted the relatively dust-free tabletops and floor. “You cleaned.”

 
; “Not just that. I selected your marble, as well.” He nodded to a block of white stone, streaked with pale gray veins. It was a little smaller than a refrigerator, turned on its side and laid across two dollies in the center of the floor.

  “Wow. Does that mean you’re done with the studies?”

  “Nearly. By the end of the day, I will be.” He smiled deeper. Sometimes Fallon wished he wouldn’t. It felt like he was removing an item of clothing in front of her when he grinned like that.

  “Well… Great. I’m glad.” Relieved was a more accurate word. It was already mid-September and Fallon estimated they should have begun the marble over a week ago. “So, do I have to start posing now? Instead of just sitting around naked for you?” She felt a spark of their old levity, touched by the proof of his respect for her deadline.

  He shook his head. “No posing today. No sitting today.”

  “Oh. What do you do now? Do you not need me until the stone is carved down to a certain shape or…?”

  “Today we are going on a field trip,” Max announced.

  She accepted the coffee he handed her. “Oh? Where to?”

  “You tell me.” He took a seat on the edge of the worktable. “Today you are going to take me out of my dusty little world and we will do Fallon things. I have kept you in here like a caged animal until now.”

  “It hasn’t been that bad.”

  “So today you give me not just your energy, but your time. Your environment. And by the end of the day I promise I will know your pose for the final piece.”

  She nodded, impressed by this sudden flexibility. “Well, okay. We’ll have to go somewhere we can walk to, I guess.”

  “Wherever you like.”

  “Or actually…can you ride a bike?”

  He smiled. “I think I can remember. It’s been about twenty years, but there is that saying, after all.”

  “Cool. Let’s finish our coffees and go rent some bikes.”

  He nodded and Fallon tried to picture him on a bicycle. It wasn’t a likely fit but it touched her. Max Emery, more than anyone else she’d ever met, led an exceptionally self-designed existence. She felt flattered that he was willing to violate this lifestyle to conform to her wishes.

  “Let me bathe. I’ve been cleaning the vents.” He nodded to the ladder propped near the opening of the ventilation duct. He pulled the particle filter mask off his head and sauntered to the tub, running the taps.

  “Turn around now if you do not want to see me the way I see you.”

  Fallon couldn’t calculate the exact meaning of the statement. She swiveled her chair around loudly and grabbed a magazine. After a few minutes the taps turned off and she heard sloshing.

  “You’re safe now,” he said.

  “So.” Fallon furrowed her brow. “Does the mailman, like, love delivering to this house? He must be used to seeing naked women traipsing around here every afternoon.” She turned and thought she could make out Max’s backlit face smiling from where he reclined in the water.

  “My postman is a woman.”

  “Well, does she make it a point of dropping the mail off at nine-forty-five every morning?” she asked, meaning the time Max normally bathed after his runs.

  “The box is at the end of the road.” His warm tone told her he was charmed by her awkward attempt at flirtation.

  “What about your…fans, or whatever? You’re pretty famous. Do people ever come here and peer into your many windows?”

  “It has happened. But not for several years.” He dunked his head, scrubbing his hair.

  When he resurfaced Fallon asked, “Has anyone ever stolen any of your statues? The broken ones in the backyard?”

  “They have not. Not yet.”

  “That’s surprising.”

  “Well, my work, the popular pieces, are perfect. So they say. I am meant to be very, very good at rendering the human body, to create lifelike figures. Humans made of stone.”

  “Yes, well, you are,” Fallon said.

  “So the people who make a fetish of my work, they fixate on the perfectness of it. Every piece of mine that has been stolen—and there have been a few—were like that. The ones out back, they’re all rejects, as it were.”

  “Geological tragedies?” Fallon asked, borrowing his earlier phrase.

  “Exactement. They’re not worth as much to the collectors who think my work is synonymous with the flawless imitation of flesh. Perhaps when I am dead they will be more valuable. Perhaps, too, the pieces from my so-called ‘disfigurement period’, as some call these past eight years. But it does not matter to me. Like my patrons, I will be gone someday. My work, for as long as it is destined to, will travel around without me, ending up goodness knows where. As I have said, the process is what matters to me. Like breathing. Or perhaps like sex, rather, to some people,” he amended thoughtfully. “I would not die if I could not work, but I would be miserable. That’s what matters. Not the finished pieces.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m going to stand up now,” he warned.

  Fallon nodded again but only turned partway, keeping him in her periphery. She indulged in the vague impression of his silhouetted body as he dried himself, those long muscles, the forbidden shadows of him. He secured the towel around his waist and Fallon abandoned her voyeurism as he went to dress.

  When he returned he was wearing cleanish jeans and a black sweater.

  “Have you ever done a self-portrait?” She’d seen a few statues of men when she’d done her initial search for M.L. Emery online, but that was long before she’d been able to recognize him.

  “No. And I doubt I ever shall. Unless you would like to pay me seven hundred thousand dollars to do so? As a souvenir of your trip, maybe?”

  “No.” She swallowed, unsure why she was about to say this. “But anyway…you’re certainly built for it.”

  “Oh?” He looked intrigued. “How so?”

  “You know. You’re very…sculptural.”

  “Like a Greek god,” Max said through an outrageously self-satisfied sigh, clearly kidding.

  Fallon laughed. “Well, no, maybe not. More like a rugby player,” she said, trying to qualify his raw, lean, muscular body. Like an underwear model, she added to herself.

  He smirked. “I remember being very lousy at rugby as a child. But my job… If I carved monuments and not people, I would be a laborer. You aren’t here much of the time, to see me really at work. Lift, lift, lift,” he said. “Stacking and shelving and moving twenty-kilo boxes of clay and great hunks of rock. Chiseling, sanding, polishing. I am just a mason with a prettier job title. You come back and find me in thirty years, when my lungs and wrists and back are a broken old man’s. Then you will see what cruel trade owns this body.”

  She nodded.

  “Ready to go?” He stood and took their cups.

  “Yup.”

  “Excellent. Show me what you like, Fallon Frost.”

  Max tore his mesmerized eyes off the waves at the sound of a loud splash, in time to see Fallon getting back to her feet after slipping and dunking herself. She’d been wading around in the knee-deep water with her pant legs rolled up, collecting and examining the rocks and shells, looking as contented as a four-year-old. Now she was soaked head-to-toe, though not a bit less charming. She turned to where he stood on the shore, sheepish, hair and clothes dripping.

  “Smooth, huh?” She wrung her sleeves out, sloshing toward him.

  The beach was their final stop on Fallon’s day out. After they dropped the bicycles off, Max had insisted on it. He liked to observe her near the ocean. She made sense near the ocean. The sun was beginning to fade, the early-autumn evening bringing its chill.

  “You must be freezing.” His lips couldn’t hide a smile, and his mind couldn’t help but wonder what this might mean for tonight.

  “I’ll be fine.” She laughed as she pulled back her wet curls. Already she was shivering. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Perhaps, but I would prefer you didn’t catc
h pneumonia while you’re my guest. Let’s get you back.”

  She pulled her socks and shoes on. They walked up the beach, mounting the weather-beaten steps to the grass at the edge of Max’s property.

  She glanced over at him. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  She grinned and Max felt something alien fluttering in his chest.

  “For letting me have a day off,” she said. “It’s been nice, you know. Not being your model for a change. You’re not as bad as I thought you were at first.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nah. You’re okay.”

  He appreciated the effort he suspected this compliment took. “You’re okay too.”

  “And thanks for the movie. I miss that stuff.”

  He nodded. Neither of their cottages had a television but Max had taken them past the library so Fallon could select a film, and he’d convinced the bartender at The Shack to play it on the TV mounted behind the bar during lunch. They’d been the only customers, anyway.

  “How accurately would you say An American in Paris reflects the typical artist’s lifestyle?” Fallon asked studiously as she squeezed the water from her sweatshirt.

  “Quite accurate. When you’re not here I am forever dancing about with Parisian school children.”

  When they reached the studio Max ran a hot bath beneath the rear windows. As the tub filled, he got the fireplace going and unfolded a wooden clothes rack in front of it.

  Fallon’s eyes darted between the fire and the bath, shy.

  “Afraid of the water?” he asked, teasing.

  “No.”

  She undressed slowly with none of the businesslike resolve she mustered for the daily sittings. Max took her wet clothes and rinsed the salt from them in the sink. Fallon was reclining in the tub when he returned to hang them before the hearth.

  He could sense her cautiously relaxing into this new realm. They’d never been together in the studio past dusk before, and he knew how it transformed once the sun set. No longer flooding the space with light, all those windows became dark mirrors, reflecting the fire, skylights revealing the stars as they came out. He didn’t bother turning any lamps on, letting the flames be the only illumination. He found two glasses in the dark pantry and filled each with wine.