Rock Solid

by Lisa A. Olech

  “And talked to me.”

  Trixie hit Emily on the arm. “Get out!”

  “No, that’s what he said to the other guy.”

  Chapter Two

  Maximo stood, hair still damp from the shower, contemplating the raw piece of Italian marble secured to his working platform. Marble chips crunched beneath his heels. There was no question, his original plan for the piece was ruined. That incompetent Todd, whatever his name, had failed to follow simple instructions for the piece’s roughout and now the figure’s heavenly reach was six inches too short. The proportion was hideous.

  A twenty thousand dollar block of Carrerra marble was at stake. Not to mention the commission from the client. There had to be some way to save the stone. He’d been staring at it all day trying to see a new figure in its pristine white mass, but his anger at the damaged piece kept getting in the way. He’d finally gone upstairs to his apartment to shower and gain some sanity, some perspective.

  But as sometimes happened—who was he kidding, this always happened—his mind refused to shut off. He’d obsess until he figured it out. There would be no escaping it.

  The studio was vacant. Dante had been the last to leave and he’d left hours ago. Max’s boots echoed in the cavernous space as he walked around scrutinizing the current works in process. His works, whether or not his hands finished the project. It was still the name Vega that signed the lower edge. Was it any wonder he needed to be so exacting? It was his name.

  This was his work, and his world, and his studio. It was quiet without the chaos that reverberated within these tall walls every day. He preferred it this way. Empty. No one to deal with. No awed fans whispering “Vega” as he walked by, grabbing at his sleeve. No one to try and impress. No one to judge.

  The business of art was a lonely one. That was one thing most young artists didn’t realize. They began with a whimsical idea of creation, sharing their dreams, leaving bits of themselves for time immemorial. What they learned early on, however, was the darker side of art. It was a landscape of hard truths and fierce criticism, constant critiques and cutthroat competition. A never-ending race to produce more and more and stay relevant in an ever-changing industry.

  Max rewrapped a clay bust in heavy plastic to keep it damp and workable. The clay dried white on his thumb where he’d smoothed a shoulder and swept a jaw line.

  Maybe a nice glass of vino. No, no wine, not tonight. Maximo Vega was off duty. Max wanted a beer. Two or three if he ever expected to sleep.

  He headed to the refrigerator that held water for the models, everyone’s food items, and Dante’s stash of imported ale. He cracked one open and took a long pull. The cold liquid eased his dusty throat.

  Leaving the office, Max noticed the large portfolio leaning against the wall. Wasn’t that the case he looked at earlier? The new intern’s? He opened it across Dante’s desk. Yes, it was her work. She must have forgotten it. What was her name? Several of her sketches were initialed E.L.B. Had Dante mentioned her name? Max couldn’t remember. What he did remember was the shape of her face and the spiky paleness of her disheveled hair. The color of her eyes escaped him, but he recalled they were wide and nervous. He recognized the look. He saw it often, especially with interns. They were fresh and eager and had heard and believed all the Maximo Vega hype. Hell, there were days even he believed it.

  He could thank Daryl Greenburg for that. Greenburg was the reporter from the New England Journal who took a rumor of truth and created a mountain of a story that threw Maximo’s work into the spotlight. Ironically, he’d given Max the ideal landscape to escape into—the perfect camouflage to hide behind—and allowed him the space, time, and lucrative commissions to bring his work to the next level.

  Max finished a beer and opened another. He flipped through a few more drawings and photographs of finished sculpting projects of E.L.B. She was good. Really good. She had a great eye for balance and composition. Several of her pieces displayed an edginess he admired, yet her grasp of classic statuary pose was pretty good as well. E.L.B. What is her name? He rummaged through the wire basket holding Dante’s work for the week. A file labeled Stoddard Internship Program sat near the top of the pile.

  Emily Baskins. What did the L stand for? She was in her second year of graduate school, with exceptional grades. Held the Director’s Scholarship, as well as the Huntington Grant. Impressive.

  The main door squeaked open. He looked at the clock. It was after 11. He was the only one to keep late hours. If it was that idiot Todd coming back…

  A pretty face, framed in pale hair, peeked around the doorframe.

  “Good evening, Ms. Baskins.”

  “Maximo! Mr. Vega.” She paled to the color of alabaster. “I-I didn’t mean to disturb you. I forgot—”

  “Your portfolio.” His hand swept over the pages open before him. “I took the liberty of another look.”

  “Oh. I would have waited until morning, but I need to turn a few of those sketches over to my professor first thing.”

  Maximo started to close the wide flap. She looked different. Her hair was softer. More tousled. She ran her fingers through the fine, pale strands. The color reminded him of corn silk.

  She’d changed into a pair of hugging jeans and a tank top. He hadn’t noticed before how slight she was. Given her resumé, she was in her mid-twenties, but she looked much younger. There was little curve to her. Slim hips, a hint of ribs and small breasts lay beneath the knit of her top. She reminded him of a sprite, of a picture he once saw of a woodland fairy wearing the blossom of a flower as a cap. Tinker Bell.

  Green. Her eyes were green. Pale. In the gray scale of greens. They were wide and clear as if he could peer into her soul. They screamed innocence. He realized he was staring and looked away, closing her portfolio.

  He zipped the case and handed it to her. “You do good work.”

  “Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.”

  “I’m not nice. I tell the truth.”

  “Coming from you, it’s high praise.”

  Max started to argue that his was just another opinion in a world of constant opinion, but he suddenly felt old and cynical and didn’t want to tarnish the freshness of her. Curious, he ran a knuckle over the rough stubble on his chin. Perhaps she was what he needed. New. Unsullied.

  “Follow me, please.”

  Her eyes widened. “Okay.”

  He took her portfolio and leaned it back against the wall and led her through the studio to his work area. Perhaps she could look at the ruined stone with her new, lovely green eyes and see something he was missing.

  Max swept the scene with his hand. “My vision is gone.” He handed her his original sketches for the piece. “You see?” He pointed to the rise of the figure’s arms in their reach toward Heaven. “The stone is cut too short.”

  “Implorare.” She read the sketches.

  “Sì. It means beseech, pray.”

  “Pleading,” she whispered.

  “Sì.”

  “She’s beautiful. So full of emotion. So impassioned.”

  He threw his hand up. “She’s ruined.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  Emily laid the sketches down. Her fingers left pale trails through her hair as she tipped her head, considering the stone. She circled the marble, touching the white sides, looking at the sketch then back at the stone.

  “What if you reversed time two seconds?” Emily lifted her arms in the pose from the sketch and looked over her shoulder at him. “Just before she reaches up for help. When she first feels the full weight of her anguish in her chest and her heart breaks.” She pulled one hand to lay a tight fist to the center of her chest. “Still with her gaze skyward, but she’s just beginning her plea.” Bending the elbow of her other arm, Emily pulled the reaching hand down. Her weight shifted to her front foot.

  The slender column of her neck and the gentle sweep of her back had Max grabbing for a sketch pad. “Don’t move.”

  “Oh!” she gasped, tur
ning to look at him with wide eyes.

  “No. Don’t move.” His eyes locked with hers. Yes, they were a perfect sage green. Maximo grasped her chin and returned the angle of her face to tip skyward. She smelled like summer, warm and faintly floral, and before he could stop himself, he traced the smooth line of her jaw with the pad of his thumb. He was close enough to see the wild pulse beating just below her ear. He had a crazy urge to lay a kiss there. “Rilassarsi. Relax.”

  “I only thought, perhaps…I mean, I have no business telling you what you should do. I shouldn’t presume. Dante…Mr. Rizzoli told me never to—”

  “Don’t speak.” Max was quick to sketch her, the pose, the angles of her body from the front, back and both sides. She’d found the perfect solution. This was good. It was very good. Here was his inspiration. As he roughed out the drawings, his mind could already see the figure in the marble. The milky curve of a thigh, the crush of a breast beneath a fist. He could see it all.

  Max lifted his gaze to the sprite of a woman before him. He could see her. Her thigh. Her fist. The creamy tilt of her breast.

  “May I move?”

  “Yes.” The word broke. She was his muse. He cleared the catch in his throat. “Sì, you may move.”

  Chapter Three

  Emily sat in the kitchen surrounded by her mother’s over-the-top collection of roosters. Chocolate chip smiley “celebration” pancakes sat before her on their rooster placemat. Whipped cream eyebrows, hair and mustache together with a strawberry nose completed the breakfast that celebrated every happy event in her childhood. She couldn’t touch Mr. Happy Cakes, however. Her stomach was twisted into a nervous knot.

  “Did I hear you go out last night?”

  “Yes. I forgot something.” There was no way she was telling Trixie she’d gone back to Vega Studio. The woman wanted to save the dust from her pants. If she told her he’d touched her face, traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, and asked her opinion on a major piece of art, Trixie would flip out.

  Em ran the back of her fingers across her jaw, remembering the gentle roughness of his touch as he angled her face to sketch her. Maximo Vega sketched her. Her!

  Trixie was busy raking the fringe of a fire engine red throw rug. Literally. She kept a child’s play rake in the closet just for the task. “Guess what I saw on the Bargain Shoppers Club last night?”

  She scanned the room. Please don’t let it be another rooster. “I don’t know. What?”

  “They’re having a deal on language lessons. The same ones those folks at the State Department use to learn all their languages. We should learn Italian. You’d be able to talk to Vega in his native tongue. I bet he’d be impressed.”

  “I’d much rather impress him with my sculpting skills. Besides, he speaks English.” Rilassarsi. Relax… Emily remembered his breath brushing against her cheek. Heard the way his tongue danced over the words as he whispered to her. It was a physical caress just to hear him speak. Her breath caught in her chest. “Sorry, Mr. Happy Cakes, he’s got you beat by a mile.” She ate the strawberry nose.

  An envelope stood between ceramic-feathered salt and pepper shakers in the center of the table. She pushed her plate aside and picked up the pale pink card. It was addressed to her in a flowery script. Jeremy’s wedding invitation.

  “When did this get here?”

  “Oh, that came yesterday. With all the excitement, I guess I forgot.”

  “You’re such a lousy liar.”

  “I didn’t want it to ruin your fabulous day.”

  “Ma, come on. Jeremy and I are still friends. I’m happy for him.”

  “Even though it should be you marrying him?”

  “Don’t start this again, please.” Mr. Happy Cakes’ expression was suddenly mocking. Em threw her napkin over the plate.

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Jeremy and I are friends.”

  Trixie stopped her raking. “Then why did he ask you to marry him first?”

  “Wow, so much for ‘just saying’.” She stared at the elaborate curlicues making up her name. Jeremy must hate all this pouf. This had Cynthia’s hand all over it. Word around town was this wedding was going to be beyond anything Stoddard had ever seen. Cynthia Weatherby, the bride-to-be, was the only daughter of the Senator and the latest Mrs. Weatherby. She gave a whole new meaning to the word spoiled.

  Emily should hate her, but the honest truth was, she didn’t. Cynthia was sweet and kind. She and Jeremy were crazy about each other. It was obvious they were a perfect match. It was everything she’d hoped for him. Yes, she loved him. And yes, he’d asked her first, but she didn’t regret how things worked out. Except for the look on his face when she said, “No.”

  “You two were so cute together.”

  “We were kids, Ma.”

  “You were in love.”

  Em frowned. “Not enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means…” She rubbed the ache forming between her eyebrows. “It means we weren’t you and Dad.”

  The rooster on the wall crowed eight. Saved by the cock. Em stood and grabbed her bag. Her mother was giving her that horrible pity look she hated almost as much as the rooster clock.

  “Think of it this way, if I hadn’t said no, you wouldn’t have the bride and her twelve bridesmaids booked for hair, mani, pedis, and spray tans.”

  “Don’t forget the real mink false eyelashes.” Trixie batted her eyes.

  “How could I?”

  “None of that even compares to what’s waiting for you today, sweetie. Remember that.”

  “This isn’t a competition, Ma.”

  “I know. I just want you to be happy.”

  Cock-a-doodle doo, Cock-a-doodle doo.

  “Phone’s crowing.” Emily kissed her mother’s cheek. “I am happy.”

  Cock-a-doodle doo, Cock-a-doodle-doo.

  “You better get that. It’s probably the shop.”

  “I’m working late tonight. Stop by after you’re finished and tell me all about your day.”

  Cock-a-do—“Hello, Bridget. Of course I knew it was you. Who else calls me at home?” Trixie covered the mouthpiece. “Have an amazing day, sweetie.”

  Emily was a bundle of nervous energy. Last night’s events only added to the fact that Mr. Happy Cake’s nose was sitting like a ten pound sack of concrete. She swung by the school on her way to the Vega studio to hand in her latest sketch work and turn over her internship paperwork to Madeline Sullivan, the Director of the Stoddard School.

  She peeked into Madeline’s office. It took a minute to find her in the kaleidoscope of chaos Madeline called her headquarters. Art of every description filled each corner of the room and covered the walls from ceiling to floor. Maddie was rummaging through a stack of wood block prints behind her overloaded desk. Her ample behind bedecked in a bright floral print was perfectly camouflaged.

  “Excuse me, Maddie?” Emily tapped a knuckle on the doorframe.

  Madeline gave a small screech as she spun about, knocking a driftwood totem and setting the mobile overhead flailing. She righted the totem with one hand. The other she slapped over her heart. “Jeez, Baskins, you scared the hell out of me!”

  “This office scares the hell out of me.”

  Madeline pushed her fluff of salt-and-pepper hair back from her face. “Things in my office don’t sneak up on me when my back is turned.”

  Emily raised an eyebrow.

  Maddie flipped a hand. “Fine, maybe they do. Did you need something?”

  Lifting an envelope, Emily held it by the corner and dangled it before Madeline like she was teasing a cat with a catnip mouse. She followed the cleared pathway leading to Maddie’s desk. “Thought you might like this.”

  Madeline snatched the envelope from Em’s fingers and flopped into her wide desk chair in one fluid motion. Pushing her readers onto her nose, she gave a small gasp. “You got it.”

  “I got it.”

  She was quick to pull out the
paperwork. “Nice job, Em. Paid gigs are pretty rare. That’s why I recommended you over at Vega’s.”

  “I appreciate that.” Since coming home, Emily had become an expert at scraping for every penny to pay her own way and help Trixie out. “Every little bit helps.”

  “You’ll do well over there. They gave me a tour last year. The facility and studio space are quite impressive. You couldn’t have asked for more hands-on. Have they assigned you yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll be scraping worktables or cleaning toilets to start.”

  “Doesn’t matter. This is a huge opportunity.”

  “I know. Here comes the part where you tell me not to blow it.”

  Madeline peered over the top of her glasses. “I wasn’t going to say that, but since you did, yes, don’t blow this.” She double-checked the paperwork. “Now, don’t be disappointed if you never see Maximo Vega. I’ve had interns who’ve spent the whole summer and never seen him. I hear he’s becoming more and more of a recluse. I’ve only seen him once, but he’s definitely a man and a half.” Maddie sighed. “Did I ever tell you I had a thing for sculptors? They have amazingly talented hands—if you know what I mean. Like trumpet players make the best kissers.

  I dated a sculptor once. Edwardo,” she breathed his name. “Not great in the looks department, but he had these magic fingers Holy cow.” Two bright red spots flushed Madeline’s cheeks. Her upper lip started to sweat. “Just thinking about him gives me a hot flash.”

  “Easy there, Maddie. You’re going to burst into flames.”

  Madeline tugged at her neckline and dug a small battery-powered fan out of her desk drawer. The sudden gust of air when she switched it on sent her hair billowing like smoke from a chimney. “So, when do you start over there?”

  “This morning. I’m due there by nine.”

  “Well, get a move on, girl. Have fun and—”

  Emily held up a hand. “I know, don’t blow it.”

  The entire drive over to Vega Studio, Em worried maybe she’d already blown it. Would Mr. Rizzoli rescind his offer for breaking the rules? She hadn’t even started and already she was in trouble. Vega had talked to her first and he’d asked her into his sacred space. Still, she’d had the audacity to suggest a design change—to Maximo Vega—oh, God!