Rock Solid

by Lisa A. Olech

  “Si.” He moved back to the clay he was working on when she arrived and spun the stand around. The face of the figure made her suck in a breath. It was her. The body was unfinished, but there was no mistaking the face. He gathered several sheets and held them for her to see. They were all of her from different angles. How had he produced them in such exacting detail from the few minutes she spent here last night? They were incredible. She’d only achieved the same level of realism by working for hours with multiple photographs.

  “Why? How? What?”

  “Again, you question me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I need you to model for me. The piece, Implorare, it is you I see in the stone.”

  Nervous laughter spilled out of Emily. “Me?” She checked for hidden cameras. “This is a joke.” She put a hand to her throat. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Maximo Vega never jokes about his work.” His dark eyes held hers. He certainly looked serious.

  Oh, God, he’s serious! “I-I-I—” What could she say? No? Was that even allowed? Who said no to Vega?

  “When you posed last night, I envisioned the final work. I want you. My vision, it is of the exact moment of innocence lost. You are innocence.” He motioned with his hand. “Your body, it shouts the word.”

  “I’m not innocent.” She crossed her arms over her chest and curled her shoulders. Was he calling her a virgin? “I’m not. And I’m not a model.”

  “For me, you will be both. I need three or four sessions to prepare the bozzetto, the mock up. If you are nervous about the nudity, we’ll schedule late evenings. No eyes but mine.”

  Wait. Nudity? Her eyebrows pushed toward her hairline. Her hand clasped her neck. The beat of her heart skipped beneath her fingertips.

  “Once the bozzetto is finished, I may need you one more time. I pay my models top wage. I will make your beauty famous. If you are the subject of a Vega piece, you shall be immortalized in marble. You’ll be my masterpiece.”

  Fame, beauty, and immortality? Who is he, the devil? A devil with an Italian accent. He could tell her he planned to rip out her fingernails and nail her to a wall and it would sound sexy. But model? For Maximo Vega? Nude? This was too much. Her head was swimming. She didn’t know what to say.

  “You will say yes, no?”

  “No.” She shook her head and choked on plaster dust. “I need to think.”

  “Good, good. You think. Tomorrow you say yes. We start tomorrow night.” Maximo went back to his clay work. The conversation was over.

  Emily closed her gaping mouth. She recalled standing and walking out of Vega’s sacred space, past a questioning Dante, and a fuming Crystal and into the parking lot. Her stunned brain didn’t reconnect until her forehead hit the rim of the steering wheel.

  As she sat wondering what the hell had just happened, her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Caller ID flashed. Jeremy. There was a time when his name brought a flood of feelings that bounced and collided like bumper cars around her heart. It was almost a relief now that it didn’t. Emily was happy they were friends. She needed a friend right now.

  “Jeremy, you’re a mind reader.”

  “Hey, Em. Why am I a mind reader?”

  She couldn’t tell him about Maximo’s offer, could she? No, not until she’d wrapped her mind around it a bit more. “Um, I got your fancy invitation in the mail. I was thinking about you all duded up with twelve frilly bridesmaids. You must be loving this.”

  “Oh, man, you have no idea. I’ve been trying to convince Cyn to elope for the past two weeks. If we survive this, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “Can I be a horrible ex-girlfriend and be a tiny little bit happy?” Emily tossed her goggles onto the passenger seat along with her mask. She pulled down the visor to check her appearance and was horrified. She looked like a ghoul. Other than the areas where the goggles and face mask covered, she wore a film of white plaster dust. Lovely.

  “You can be my best friend and have coffee with me.”

  “Why, so I can listen to you whine about tux fittings?” She got out of the Jeep and shook her hair and beat on her clothes.

  “Do you have any idea what a cummerbund is? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t, but I’m wearing a pink one.”

  Emily laughed. Jeremy could always make her laugh, even on her worst days. “Fine, you crybaby, I’ll have coffee with you. Java Jim’s. Give me ten minutes.” She juggled the phone from ear to ear swapping out her shirt for a clean tank top in one of those public clothes changing moves only girls can do. Like taking off your bra through your shirt sleeve. She finished and wiped her face on the inside of her tee before tossing it in the backseat. It was covered in so much plaster powder, Trixie would want to have it framed.

  “Perfect, I’ll even buy you a muffin.”

  “That’s a given.” Em bent at the waist and “did” her hair, ruffling the spiky mess a bit spikier and messier. Her cell phone clattered to the asphalt.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  She picked up the phone. “Dusting.”

  Ten minutes later, Emily slid into the booth opposite Jeremy. A huge vat of steaming coffee sat waiting for her, along with a blueberry muffin as big as her head.

  “Wow, you splurged for the King Kong Combo. Is it my birthday?” She ripped open three sugar packs and dumped them into the giant cup.

  Jeremy smiled. He had the best smile. She remembered all the months of kissing him with his braces, being careful not to cut his lips, or hers. The night he got those damn things off, they had made out down by Highland Lake for hours. Her lips had been sore for a week.

  “No, we’re celebrating, Miss Intern.”

  “Oh.” She broke off a sugary edge of the muffin top and popped it into her mouth. “I hope I’m still there tomorrow.”

  “You just started today. What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” she mumbled around a mouthful and washed it down with coffee. “I kinda broke a sculpture.”

  “Already?”

  “It wasn’t my fault the finger was loose.”

  Jeremy threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “That’s fine. Keep laughing, Cummerbund Boy.”

  “Oh man, Em, you never change. You fly around like an elf on speed. Do you even have a slow setting?”

  “Nope.”

  Jeremy’s phone buzzed on the tabletop before it started playing “Here Comes the Bride”.

  Emily grimaced. “Oh, that’s frightening.”

  “I know. Cyn programmed it. I should answer this.”

  “Go ahead. Ask her where she hid your balls.”

  “Nice. Eat your muffin.” He flipped open the phone. “Hi, hon. I’m at Java Jim’s with Em. Nope, just got here. Don’t worry about it. How about I pick up a nice bottle of wine and we relax tonight? No, the seating chart can wait until tomorrow. We need a night to just unwind. Okay?” Jeremy’s eyes met Emily’s. “No, I haven’t asked her yet, but I’ve bribed her with a giant muffin.”

  Emily stopped eating and looked at her muffin like it was poison. He was bribing her? She narrowed her eyes and pushed it across the table.

  “Sure. I’ll call you when I’m headed home. Love you. See you in a bit.” He snapped the phone shut.

  “What the hell are you up to?”

  He pushed the muffin back. “I need a favor.”

  “What kind of a favor?”

  “A big one.”

  “I may never eat another Blueberry Bongo again.” She shoved the muffin back at him. “What do you want?”

  “Just remember you’re my best friend.”

  This couldn’t be good. “Do you need a kidney?”

  “No, but according to my soon to-be-wife, this is a matter of life or death.”

  “Now I’m scared.”

  Jeremy sipped at his coffee. “Bridesmaid Number Six had a waterskiing accident. She got jerked by the rope and fell on the edge of the dock. She broke her coccyx.”

  “Broke
her what’s yx?”

  “Her coccyx. Her tailbone.”

  “She broke her ass?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  Emily slapped her hand on the table and laughed. Covering her mouth, she dropped her chin. “That’s horrible. I shouldn’t laugh.” She pressed her lips together. “Poor thing has…” A giggle escaped. “…her butt in a sling?” Em laughed until tears streaked her cheeks.

  “Nice. Laugh at the girl’s pain. She can’t even sit down.”

  Emily held her side. She was getting a stitch. “I’m sorry. How terrible for her.”

  “She has to lug around one of those inflatable donuts.”

  “The poor thing.” She bit her lip to keep from giggling again. Damn her ten-year-old funny bone. But come on, a bridesmaid with a broken ass? That was funny! “I can certainly see where Cynthia is upset.” Another wave of hysterics was building. “Can’t she get a pink satin donut in time for the wedding? Maybe if she stitched together two stuffed cummerbunds?”

  “You’re so funny. No. She obviously can’t be in the wedding now.”

  “Of course not.” Em wiped at her eyes.

  “That’s why Cynthia wants me to ask you to take her place.”

  “Me?” There was nothing funny about this. “You can’t be serious.” Oh, God, there was that look again. He was serious. What was with her today and serious men asking ridiculous things? “I can’t be a bridesmaid in your wedding.”

  “Why not? You’re coming to the wedding anyway. The dress is already paid for. Cyn will pay for all the alterations and the shoes.”

  “Cynthia barely knows me.”

  “What does it matter? I know you. There isn’t anyone else that can fill in at this late date. If you don’t, there’ll be a giant hole and everything will be uneven according to the half-crazy woman I’m marrying who is this close to a nervous breakdown.” He held his finger and thumb an inch apart. “Please. I’m begging. Cyn will be so grateful. I’ll owe you big. A lifetime supply of coffee and blueberry muffins. All you can eat.”

  “You’ve ruined my favorite food.”

  “Please, Em. For your best friend?”

  “I’d rather give you a kidney.”

  “But you’ll do it?”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “No. I need you to say yes right now.” He held up his fingers again. “Nervous breakdown, remember?”

  She closed her eyes and held her forehead in the palm of her hand. “I hate you.”

  “You love me, and you know it.”

  Jeremy’s phone buzzed again. “Here comes the bride, all dressed in white.” He looked at her with pleading eyes.

  Em dropped her head and rubbed across her eyebrows with the heel of her hand. “Fine.”

  He flipped open the phone. “She’ll do it!”

  Chapter Six

  “She stays.”

  “She’s a self-proclaimed klutz.” Dante held the broken finger out to him. “Crystal is threatening to strike if she comes back. Let me move her into prep.”

  “She stays where she is.”

  “I don’t understand.” Dante threw up his hands. “I’m not proposing we get rid of her altogether. Let me just move her somewhere where she can’t do any more damage.”

  “It was her first day. She’ll be fine. Plaster we can fix. No problema.”

  Dante shook his head “We’ll see how much of a problema she turns out to be.” He consulted his ever-present clipboard. The man had his entire life organized down to the last inch.

  Maximo was grateful. Without Dante there would be no Vega Studio. Time and order weren’t concepts Max dealt with well. The work came first. Always. Ahead of anything and everything else. When the muse was strong, he could go days without food or sleep. Only the piece mattered.

  He became obsessed. Or that was what his ex-wife, Judith, had cited on the divorce papers. It was a common complaint with most of the women he’d known. They started off telling him they could handle his odd hours and compulsive work habits, but in the end they all grew to resent coming in last on his priority list.

  Judy had lasted longer than most, but the marriage ended shortly before the Art Journal article and the whole Vega mystique was born. He couldn’t blame her. Had the positions been reversed, he would have left him long before she did. Now she was engaged to an accountant.

  Dante flipped through his notes. “We have a new clay supplier sending us three hundred pounds. I’ll get the guys to wedge it and check it for quality. Their man says he can get all we want, and anything over a thousand pounds, he’ll give us a break on shipping costs.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ve hired a part-time tool master. He’ll be in three days a week to keep everything sharp and in good working order. I’ll talk to you if I think we need him more often.” He tapped his pen on the page.

  “I trust you.”

  “And don’t forget, you’ve got Beverly Lavender from the Lavender Blue Agency scheduled to come tomorrow afternoon.”

  He had forgotten. “No. Can’t you meet with her?”

  “She has no interest in being my agent. You’re the talent. Don’t worry. I explained your hesitations to her, and she won’t push any ‘meet and greets’ on you, but she’s trying to bring both you and your work to celebrity level.”

  Max groaned.

  “It’s what you want, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her client list has some pretty heavy hitters.”

  “She represents an elephant.”

  “That elephant’s paintings sell for tens of thousands of dollars.” He scribbled some notations on one of the sheets. “And if she’s anything like her website photo, she’s beautiful. Blonde. Leggy.”

  Max frowned at Dante. “You’re married, no?”

  “I am, but you’re not. Take the woman to dinner. Go out on a date. It wouldn’t kill you.”

  “I have work to do.” Max stood to leave the office.

  “You could do both.” Dante tipped his head and shrugged a shoulder.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Marble can be awful cold in the middle of the night.”

  Max called over his shoulder as Dante’s door swept closed, “So can a woman.”

  Back at his worktable, Max looked over the sketches before him. When Beverly Lavender sent her first e-mail, she seemed to understand his need for privacy. It sounded like the perfect pairing. He did the work. She sold his sculptures to the highest bidder. He made the important career shift from filling commissions to doing his heart’s work without bending his vision to what his client wanted.

  Her track record was strong and, with his rising popularity, it was beneficial to both of them. The woman could sell, and although the elephant’s paintings were hugely successful, she was trying to legitimize herself with the elite of the art world. That’s where Maximo Vega came in. He was a traditionalist. His work was exacting at a time when artists were getting lazy, in his opinion. Throwing trash together and slapping an art tag on it wasn’t ever what he wanted to do. He did the hard job and poured his heart and soul into each piece. It’d be nice if Ms. Lavender could show him a handsome payoff for all his sweat.

  Blonde. Leggy. He shook his head as he lifted a sketch of Emily Baskins. Blonde, yes; leggy, no, but there was something about her that captured him. While it was her aura of innocence that first drew him, she was no child. Far from it, but there was an unspoiled quality to her. He found no hint of guile in those green eyes, as if life’s cynicism hadn’t reached her yet. Cynic was his middle name. Maybe he should stay away from her for just that reason.

  No. he needed her. He had work to do, and she was it. She must agree to pose for him.

  ****

  By the time Emily pushed through the belled door of Trixie’s Pixies, her head was pounding. The bright lime green of the walls made her wince. The combination smell of hair bleach, nail polish, and industrial strength hairspray had her stomach twisting.

  The shop
consisted of four active chairs, a trio of wash sinks, two hooded dryers, a waxing station, a pedicure soak chair, a nail table, and a product corner full of shampoos, conditioners, tamers, curlers, strengtheners, stiffeners, gels, mousses, and sprays, oh my. It was high-maintenance heaven.

  Trixie had three stylists working for her. Bridget was Trixie’s best friend and helped manage the shop. She was the one who kept track of appointments and stocked the hair dye. Angel was a recent addition to the crew. She was a bit scary with her dark gothic look and tough as downhill skiing in the summertime. No one messed with Angel. Currently, she was under-shaving her client’s deep purple hair. Angel had full sleeve tattoos and piercings in places no one mentioned in polite company, but she worked harder than anyone and could tie-dye dip a client one minute and produce a stunning bridal upsweep the next. Her clients loved her and many of them had followed her from her last salon.

  Suzanne, the other member of the Trixie team, rushed to give Emily a hug. Em had known her since high school. They double dated to the prom. Em and Jeremy, and Suzanne and Tony. At least one couple had their happy ending. She and Tony married two weeks after graduation and were expecting their first baby around Christmas.

  “Tell me, tell me!” She pulled Emily into her station.

  “My head hurts.”

  “Forget your head. Tell me how gorgeous Maximo Vega is. If you tell me he’s five three and has a gut, I’ll hurt you, so if that’s the truth, lie.”

  Emily dropped into the swivel chair. Suzanne spun her around and stood behind her. Ever since beauty school, most conversations with Suzanne happened in a mirror or over a couple of martinis. That was pre-pregnancy, of course. “What the hell do you have in your hair? Cement?”

  “Plaster.”

  “Not good. Why must you torture your poor hair?”

  “Forget my hair.” Emily almost said, forget Maximo Vega, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. “No, he isn’t five three.” She needed to lift her chin to look into his deep brown eyes. “No gut.” His Henley’s fit tight in all the right places. Should she tell her about how he wiped his hands? No, she’d keep that for herself.

  She was keeping his offer to herself as well. There was no way she wanted that kind of information getting back to her mother. This was one of those times when what her mother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. When and if she posed for Vega, after it was all over, maybe she’d tell her. If she had to. Like thirty minutes before Boston Art Weekly arrived with a full five-page spread on the newest Maximo Vega work that looked strangely like her daughter. Yes, then she’d tell her. Maybe.