The Reluctant Nude

by Meg Maguire

  “I saw it. Most of it. Before they dragged me away. Why are you carving a gigantic angel into the cliff? For me?”

  “This is your foothold. I did this for you, for attention. We will tear down the scaffolding and everyone will see the monument. Passing cars, then the press. Do you see?”

  “Sort of. A media circus?”

  “Well, as close to a circus as we can manage. I’m not as famous as I used to be. So that is where you take over,” Max said. “You have to use this time to stall. You have to tell people about this woman, your foster mother, and what she did, and tell the story of why this statue is suddenly here… Or at least tell the local news. You have to fight and get her home turned into a memorial—a protected place. Perhaps others that she helped will join you. You have to fight Forrester and get the state or the town to tell him this place cannot be touched.”

  “Oh God, Max. That’s insane.”

  “Even if they are not swayed by sentimentality, tourism may prove enticement enough.”

  “I’m not a lawyer, Max. I’m just some woman. I haven’t lived here in over ten years.”

  “I hope that it will be simple, that Forrester will not have the sac to say he is going to tear this place down. He could claim to be behind this, some play for philanthropic credibility. You and I, we let the press think this too, until he’s too embarrassed to deny it. But if he doesn’t play along, if he still wants to hurt you, you will fight.”

  She chewed her lip. “You actually think that could work?”

  Max shrugged. “I’ve fought for this. I did many things I said I wouldn’t. I’m inviting attention and sensationalism and trouble. I used machinery, and other people’s hands. And I worked from a photograph. Actually, the dynamiting was fun, I must admit.”

  “How did you even know where the house was? Or what she looked like?”

  Max smiled. “I’m a very good detective. I can even operate a computer when I have to.”

  Fallon’s head swirled with a hundred horrible scenarios. “Forrester could have you arrested. For some kind of massive destruction-of-property thing.”

  “No, I do not think so. The builders he let me hire, they have contracts. He gave me permission to do this, in documents that he did not read very carefully. I think he has a crush on me,” Max said with an evil grin. “He was very eager to kiss my ass and sign my forms.”

  Fallon fell silent for a minute. “Wow. I don’t know what to say.”

  Max slid her glasses off and brushed her gritty face with a handkerchief from his pocket. “You do not have to say anything.” He replaced her frames. “You save those words for if there is a fight.”

  Fallon nodded, so overloaded with information she felt numb.

  “Listen, I have very little time to finish this, now. And I am so close. Give me until the end of the day, and I can do this. But I have to go back to work, before Forrester or some authorities arrive and all of this grinds to a halt. Your job is to come back tomorrow with the press, whoever you can get. The scaffolding will be gone. By dawn everyone will see your statue.”

  “All right…”

  Max stood. “I will answer questions, in my way. I’ll make a press statement and try to back Forrester into a corner. And I will say that you’re overseeing this memorial. You are in charge of setting it up, in your vision, yes? The Gloria Engels Memorial Home for Teens or what have you. And we will pray that he lets you, without a fight. Then I will go, because you know how I feel about fame.”

  Fallon shook her head, punch-drunk. “This is all so weird.”

  He rubbed both her shoulders, looking pleased. “Yes, I was told I am very weird by someone, once. Now I have to go. I will look for you tomorrow, with cameras. And then we will say goodbye.”

  The next twenty hours were a haze. Fallon made dozens of phone calls to television and radio stations and newspapers, just as she suspected Forrester was making calls to lawyers. She hoped even one of the stations would bother to show up, the story sounded so ridiculous.

  The following morning at five she arrived back at the Engels house where all was silent and dark. Her headlights revealed the scaffolding to be gone. She climbed out of her car with a flashlight and crunched across the frosty lawn. Nearly all the evidence of the construction had been wiped clean, save a few hunks of granite here and there. She trained the beam on the gigantic stone feet, their eerie relief in the tiny spotlight, up the legs to the robes and bare shoulders. Massive arms, outstretched and echoed by unfurled, feathered wings, a long neck. The head was what she feared most. She held her breath and slid the light up, surprised not to find her own face, her mane of curls.

  Instead it was Gloria, her elegant hair cascading, those features Fallon knew so well, minus a couple decades’ wrinkles. The whole figure was framed in an arched alcove. Fallon began to cry, sobs tightening her throat, choking. The jerking flashlight strobed over the image of the woman she’d loved most in the whole world, surreal in scale and context and mere existence.

  Headlights panned across the property and Fallon turned. Too small and too early to be a news van. She held the flashlight under her chin so the party would see her.

  “Fallon!” It was Forrester.

  She blinded him as he made his way across the grass. Donald Forrester, broad and white-haired and deceptively grandfatherly in appearance, accompanied by a tall, thin man in a suit who reeked of litigation.

  “Hi, Donald,” Fallon said as they neared. For the first time in the three years she’d known him, he didn’t intimidate her.

  “What have you done?” He was angry but also visibly awed, and there was no physical threat behind his rage.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with this. It’s Emery. I only found out after I called you.” She swung the light over the statue. “What took you so long?”

  “I was in Madrid. What in—”

  “The press is coming, in less than an hour…I hope. I called the morning news, every network and paper in the state. I’ve been given a script, as it were,” she said evenly, though inside she was trembling. “In this script you come off as a philanthropist, and the most sensational arts patron in recent history. It’s an amazing bit of PR. It paints you very favorably. I’ll be curious to see if you play along. If you’re interested, leave the talking to me this morning. And if you want to fight this, I’ll see you in court. As usual.”

  “You can sue, Donald,” the lawyer said. “Do not say anything to the press. It’s your right. It’s your property. Let me do the talking.”

  Forrester was silent for nearly a minute. Eventually he turned to Fallon and asked, “Have you been crying?”

  It was then that the first news crew arrived. It was followed shortly by others in the early dawn light, until the front lawn was littered with vans and takeaway coffee cups and boxes of doughnuts. Apparently the local press wasn’t above covering sensationalist publicity stunts. Fallon brushed her hands down her blazer and prepared for her close-up.

  Fallon spotted Max when he arrived in a cab around ten o’clock, hours after the story broke. He disembarked with the cold ennui of a rock star arriving at a club opening. He tipped the brim of his tweed fedora to the cameras as he made a beeline for Fallon, toward the small clusterfuck of microphones and reporters gathered around her. She’d underestimated his infamy—clearly the press had taken the time to Google M.L. Emery and decided the arrival of a controversial artist was worth waiting around to document. A couple crews from Manhattan had even turned up.

  He slipped in beside her and pulled her smoothly into double cheek kisses before addressing the press. His statement was short, his answers to follow-up questions even shorter. He was gracious in a distinctly rude kind of way, seeming immune to the camera flashes and the endless shouts of the journalists.

  “I think the person who deserves the greatest share of the credit for both funding and conceiving this extraordinary project,” he said dryly, “is Donald Forrester. A true patron of the arts and protector of the fami
ly if ever there was one. That is the end of my statement.” He smiled and fought his way out from the noise and the crowd. Fallon managed to follow as the crews disbursed. Many moved on to harass Forrester, who stood stiff and silent on the sidelines. Fallon heard his lawyer say, “No comment,” for the thousandth time that morning.

  Max distanced himself from the madness, saying, “Go away, please,” to the reporters who tried to wrangle more sound bites from him. Fallon trailed him and eventually they made it to the outskirts of the action.

  He turned to her and smiled. “I want to kiss you, but I think we’ve caused enough of a stir already.”

  She nodded. They stared back at the crowd, at the gigantic statue, the television cameras panning the scene. Surreal.

  “Look at it.” Max pointed to the statue, shaking his head. “This will be my legacy, now. With all due respect to your foster mother, it’s tacky as hell.”

  “I think it’s beautiful. Just a bit…you know. Huge, I guess.”

  He nodded. “It goes against everything I value, creatively.” He turned to look her in the eyes. “And it’s the greatest thing I think I’ve ever done.”

  Fallon pondered it all for a minute…this enormous angel, this outlandish public memorial. So similar and yet so different than that first winged statue of his own mother, the intimate tribute that had changed the trajectory of his life so radically. “This is all very strange and wonderful. And terrifying.”

  “Like love,” Max said.

  She looked him over, dressed to kill. Dressed to sacrifice his ideals for her. She ran her fingers over the lapels of his smart designer suit jacket, the hood and frayed cuffs of his soccer zip-up showing behind it, sucking all the formality from the outfit. Jeans and dusty black shoes. His bumblebee scarf. So very Max. So very right.

  “Are you going back to Nova Scotia now?” The words caught in her throat.

  He nodded. “I have to go back to my home. I’m like you,” he added with a weak smile. “I went a long time not belonging anywhere and now I need to stay still for a while. Maybe when you decide what you want and where you belong, I’ll see you again.”

  She nodded, unsure of what to say.

  He continued, looking shy. “Maybe you will decide you belong in Nova Scotia, someday, with all the water and the quiet. I’m sure someone will pollute or overfish it soon and the strait will need you,” he added mischievously.

  “Maybe.”

  “And so maybe we will be neighbors. Maybe you will make a home there, too, and invite me to live with you when the sun goes down, away from all my dust and windows. Maybe one day I will finally complete that statue of you… Maybe one day there will be some curly-haired child running around with us on the beach, making us crazy.”

  “That sounds…” She trailed off, thinking. “That sounds very normal.”

  Max shrugged. “I am willing to be normal, if it will have me. But anyway. I won’t put any pressure on you. I hope I’ll see you again. Maybe soon. But I waited thirty-three years for you the first time. I can wait another thirty-three.”

  Fallon nodded, so overcome by gratitude she thought she must be suffocating. Max watched as tearless sobs began to buck her shoulders then he pulled her hard against him, press forgotten.

  “You’re strong,” he whispered. “And if you have to fight for this, you will win. You’re a conservationist. You will preserve this woman’s memory. It’s an honor to have helped, in what little way I can.”

  “You’ve done so much,” she choked, then gave up trying to speak.

  He pulled away. “When you’re done fighting, you come see me. We’ll have a drink and take a walk, and let everyone else struggle in the ways they seem to love so dearly.” He looked down and twisted a thick silver ring off his middle finger. He placed it in Fallon’s palm, folding her fingers over it. “Don’t lose that. It was my father’s wedding band.”

  “Max—”

  “Hang on to it until we meet again on Cape Breton. I’ll see you soon.” He smiled and walked a few steps toward his cab before Fallon rushed to him, turning him around by the shoulder and catching his mouth with hers, a kiss full of ferocity and gratitude and heartache. And hope. When she pulled away, tears slipped down her face, tasting like the sea.

  He smiled again and tipped his hat at her. “See you.”

  “I’ll see you soon,” she said, and held the ring so tightly it bit into her skin. She watched Max climb into the cab and drive away. She watched until he was out of sight, and she smiled.

  “Very soon.”

  Epilogue

  Fallon crunched down the gravel drive, travel-weary, dying for a shower but aching for the reunion that awaited her. The studio appeared as the pines thinned. The glint of the late-afternoon sun on the glass coupled with the salt air…so fundamentally Cape Breton. She broke into a jog.

  The cat surveyed her lazily through the bay window as she mounted the steps. She touched her fingers to the little brass plaque and pulled the screen door open, its rattle and squeak the sweetest sound she thought she’d ever heard.

  “Max?”

  She found him slumped comfortably in a chair beside the worktable. By his elbow sat a mug and half-empty French press and a glass ringed with orange juice pulp. His languid smile and heavy lids told her she’d awakened him.

  She studied him in the cool light, those seductive eyes and strong arms, tanned skin against the white of his undershirt. Max, elementally.

  “Hey,” she whispered. “Don’t get up.”

  “Welcome back. T’avons-nous manqué?”

  “Of course. Did you guys miss me?” Fallon looked to the mop of curly brown hair tucked under Max’s chin, that fat-cheeked profile, closed eyes, serene face. Such a marvelous little creature. Her father’s dark hair, Fallon’s pale skin. Both of their stubborn dispositions when she was awake.

  “Constamment.”

  “English for me tonight, please, Max. The flight was bumpy and the drive from Halifax was one huge construction zone. I’m too pooped to translate.” She pulled out a second chair and sat across from him. “Plus you’ve already got a bilingual daughter.” She reached over to brush the child’s hair from her face and ran a finger over that impossibly soft skin. “Dr. Noelle Emery, future Professor of Linguistics. Why not leave your wife to her happy ignorance?”

  Max smiled and pressed his lips to the child’s head. When his eyes returned to Fallon’s, it felt like a stiff drink, as always. “How is the Engels Home?”

  “Good. The new supervisor’s amazing, and that grant money’s doing wonders. You should see what they’ve done to the basement already. It’s like there’s suddenly a whole new floor to the house. The kids are all obsessed with rec room catalogs. If they don’t get a pool table, there might be a mutiny.”

  “And how is old Uncle Donald?”

  Fallon made a sputtering noise. “He’s still a tool, no surprise. But the checks keep coming. That man flaunts philanthropy like a ten-thousand-dollar wristwatch. You created a monster.”

  “And Auntie Rachel?”

  She laughed. “She’s as round as she is tall. Looks like Noelle when she’s carrying that beach ball around. And all she wants to eat is enchiladas and Cherry Coke.”

  Max grinned.

  Fallon studied the scene, this strong man cradling her daughter amid the clutter of his art, such a perfect encapsulation of everything that made her love him.

  “What did you two get up to today?” she asked. “I thought I’d find you at home with dinner ready, eagerly awaiting the return of the prodigal mother.”

  “Never fear, there’s a casserole made. And we went on the Bird Island tour again.” He ran a palm over his daughter’s back. “She’s on a first-name basis with the boat captain, now. Then we came by to feed Oscar, and she wanted to draw.” Max nodded to the middle of the floor, where the tiny easel he’d built stood beside his own. Fallon saw a cat-shaped blob in the lower left corner of the newsprint sheet—purple, since Noelle thought blac
k was boring. Above were three more blobs Fallon identified as her daughter’s current obsession—puffins.

  “Very nice. Has she been good?”

  Max nodded. “An angel. Mostly.”

  “A demanding one.”

  “Like her mama.”

  Fallon tugged her elastic out and finger-combed her tangled hair. “Is your commission all done?”

  He nodded. “The truck took it away yesterday.”

  “You must be relieved.”

  He made a grudging face and nodded. “Should keep us in food and utilities for another year and a half. No complaints.”

  Fallon sighed. “I’m not looking forward to work this week… I honestly don’t think we’re going to get that cove protected status.”

  “Worry about it on Monday, then.” Max tapped a fingertip softly on his child’s nose until her eyes opened. “C’est l’heure de te lever. Look who’s back.”

  Noelle’s sleepy brown eyes swiveled to Fallon. “Hi, Mama. It’s my birthday almost.”

  “I know, baby. On Sunday.”

  “I’ll be four,” she said with a yawn, then her eyes shut again. “Papa’s making me a chocolate cake.”

  Fallon raised an eyebrow at Max. “I’m gone for three days and all she can think about is cake?”

  “Wait until she’s awake. You’re all she’s talked about.” He stood with a groan, shifting the girl’s head to his shoulder. “Let’s get home.”

  “Here.” Fallon held her arms out and took her daughter, breathing in the sweet, familiar scent of her hair and skin.

  Max locked the studio and they started up the dirt drive. Fallon held Noelle to her chest with one arm and took Max’s hand with her free one. They stopped at her car and Max grabbed her suitcase from the trunk. He jogged to hold open the door to the cottage they’d had built that first summer after she’d moved to Cape Breton.

  Fallon eased Noelle onto the couch and turned to Max, finding a tired but mischievous smirk curling his lips. He set her bag down and pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her forehead. She studied him again as he stepped back. Three gray hairs at his right temple, five on the left, just where they’d been when she’d left. She smoothed her fingers over them.