Drew in blue, p.12
Drew in Blue, page 12
“Well, at least we found out about the violations before we ate here,” Valerie said, trying to look on the bright side.
“Speak for yourself.” I swallowed hard, the low growl of hunger pangs in my stomach disappearing in an instant. “I ordered a cheeseburger and fries from here on Thursday.”
Val shuddered and gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Gross.”
“Okay.” We needed an alternate plan, and fast. “Ella's is out. We've got our choice of George's Gyros and Leaning Tower of Pizza.”
Valerie wrinkled her nose at the options. “George makes the worst gyros known to man, and Leaning Tower pizza tastes like Chef Boyardee.”
“Agreed.” I weighed our dwindling options. “Penny's has good pizza.”
“Penny's is carry-out only,” Valerie reminded me.
“Yeah, but Penny's is five minutes away from my place, so you don’t have to rush through your meal before you have to go home for the night.”
I hoped I wasn’t betraying my true reasoning behind the sudden urge for Penny's Pizza. Any excuse to get her to go to my place was a damn good one as far as I was concerned, and I’d be a damned fool if I let an opportunity for some more touch slip away.
“Slick,” Valerie said, her lips curling up in a knowing smile. “Your clever ruse has been exposed. You just want to lure me back to the Bat Cave.”
“Aw, hell. I'm hungry,” I said, jamming my hands into my pockets and mustering up the most innocent look I had in my arsenal. “My couch is comfortable. No evil intent, okay?”
“A little evil is all right,” Valerie said, turning and walking back to the car. She smiled over her shoulder and I fell in step behind her. “And Penny's sounds great.”
Score.
We got into the car and drove back to my end of town, picking up one of Penny's special Meaty Treats pies. Stupid name, but trust me, they’re a world of pizza goodness. I said a silent prayer of thanks because Kris offered to keep Nick at her place for the night, so not only was I spared from adding another deposit to Carrie Lehr's babysitting pot, but I had the house to myself and Valerie.
I let her in the door first, doing a quick mental inventory of the location of any and all underwear, clean or otherwise. Thankfully, I’d deposited them all in drawers or in a basket next to the washing machine in the basement. I tried to remember if I’d made my bed but pushed the thought out of my head right away, not wanting to count my chickens before they hatched.
Instead, we went right to the couch and dug in. Of course, I got to watch the requisite rearrangement of the meal, trying not to laugh as Valerie studied her slice of pizza, settling for two pieces of pepperoni, a cube of ham, and a chunk of sausage. She picked off the rest of the toppings and began to nibble on her piece while I grabbed two slices, folded them over, and shoved them into my mouth.
“I kind of hate you right now.” She stared at me with a mixture of horror and possibly awe.
I swallowed and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “I have a figure to maintain,” I said, patting my gut. Not the wisest thing to say. After all, I’ve got an overactive metabolism and can eat like a pig without gaining any weight. I stand at six feet on the nose, and even with my atrocious eating habits, I’ve never gained an ounce over 170 pounds.
“Now I really hate you,” she proclaimed, glaring at a stray slice of pepperoni before grabbing it and popping it in her mouth.
“Eat some more pepperoni and get a Rubenesque physique so I can paint you and make a lot of money.”
“I don't want a Rubenesque physique.” She reached for another topping. “I've been trying to get rid of the Rubenesque physique for years.”
A dramatic moan escaped from her when she looked down at the pepperoni she held between her thumb and forefinger. “You're bad news, Andrew.” Not bad enough, though, because she popped the pepperoni into her mouth.
“I'm harmless.” Valerie laughed and relaxed back into the couch cushions as I gazed at her. “You should let me paint you … someday,” I said, taking a final bite of pizza crust and flinging the rest into the open pizza box.
“Right now?” She reached up and smoothed her hair.
Well, it wasn't what I meant, but I found the idea enticing. “I could start.” A quick glance at the clock on the wall showed the night was still young enough to consider the idea. “You’ve got at least another hour, right? Plenty of time, if you’re up for it.”
Valerie bit her lip and stared at me. “Do I have to be naked? You're not just trying to get me naked, are you?”
“Wow.” I laughed. “That little possibility of naked happening, huh?”
“Well, for now,” she said, flashing a shy smile.
“I can be patient.” Total lie, but I had no need to share that reality. “And no, naked modeling wasn't in the thought process.” Another lie. Well, half-truth. The naked had nothing to do with painting, in my mind.
“Why on Earth would you want to paint me?” Valerie hesitated when I got up and held out my hand for hers. After a second of thought, she allowed me to pull her to her feet.
“I don't know.” I led her into my studio. “I mean, you're pretty. Real pretty. That's always conducive to painting.”
I flipped on the light and left Valerie standing in the middle of the room. “Honestly?” I said as I dug out a canvas. “I haven't painted a damn thing in a while. I haven't had the slightest hint of inspiration in almost a year. Maybe more.”
“What should I do?” Valerie shifted from one foot to the other, appearing nervous as I set the canvas on my easel and dug through a drawer, trying to find my sketching pencils.
I glanced up at her. “You okay with taking orders?” She nodded in response. I jerked my chin toward the rickety wicker loveseat by the window. “Take a seat. It's ugly, but it's not as shaky as you’d think.”
Valerie sat down, primly folding her hands in her lap as she inspected the garish but faded floral print on the seat cushions. “I feel like I should drape myself across the couch and dangle a bunch of grapes over my head. I bet I should be quiet, huh?”
I shook my head and continued to get set up. “Talking is allowed.” Most of my painting supplies were scattered to the wind because of the utter lack of activity in recent months. The wooden stool I grabbed and slid closer to the couch had a layer of dust on the seat, and I had to free the easel from a cluster of flannel shirts hanging on it.
I walked over to the end table and turned on the lamp, fiddling with the shade, then stood back and surveyed the lighting. Not satisfied yet, I tilted the shade up a little more and sat back down at the easel. “You can relax. Just do whatever is comfortable so long as I can see your face.”
“You mean you haven't got my face memorized by now?”
“You may not want to hear my answer,” I said, giving the easel a tug toward me when I sat down. I picked up a pencil and looked over at Valerie. “Raise your chin?” She did as instructed, raising her head a bit and allowing the light from the lamp to hit her profile exactly the way I intended.
She watched, silent, while I started sketching out her features. My hands shook slightly, but not because of nerves. The simple act of starting a fresh work and having an actual concept in mind sent a wave of excitement through me, like an adrenaline rush hitting a skydiver a split second after he’s leapt from the airplane.
“I thought you artist guys started painting right away,” she said.
“It's mostly paint,” I said. “But guidelines make life a lot easier. Tell me some stuff.”
“Tell you what?”
“Anything,” I said. “Talking will relax you. I don't want you to think you’ve got to sit quietly while I stare you down.”
“What if I want to talk about you?”
“I would say you're a glutton for punishment.”
She was quiet for a while, and I said nothing as I continued to work on the unfolding picture before me. Finally, she spoke up. “How old were you when your mother died?”
I hesitated and refocused my concentration on my artwork. “I was eight.”
“That's awful,” Valerie whispered.
“I agree.” A retaliatory question sprang to mind. “How old were you when you punched your V-Card?”
“What?” She gasped.
“When did you lose your virginity?” I shot her a grin. “Hey, I get to ask the uncomfortable questions, too.”
She rolled her eyes and scowled. “I was twenty.”
“Wow,” I said, impressed. If you believed half the stories floating around when I was in high school, not many kids actually got to graduation with their virginity intact.
Valerie fell silent again, clearly working on a scandalous question. “What's the story with Nick's mother?” Ouch. Mission accomplished.
I finished a good sketch of her face and moved on to penciling in some of the loveseat. “Allison was someone I got too involved with, without actually getting involved with her, if you catch my drift,” I said. “Nick wasn't supposed to be the outcome, and she wasn't interested in being a mother. I’ve had him for a couple months now. She’s not a factor. Probably won’t be ever again, and if she is, the lawyer I retained after he got here is ready to pound her into the pavement.”
“Oh.”
I winced at the harshness of my previous statement. “What I mean to say is I hired a lawyer to eventually start proceedings to terminate Allison’s parental rights. Nick has to be here for a certain amount of time without her trying to financially or emotionally support him, and I have to make a show of looking for her. Mostly I take out the occasional advertisement in some random newspapers around the state and in the bigger cities across the county, asking her to contact me. It establishes that I tried to include her.”
She smiled and nodded at my explanation. “Why doesn't Nick like people?”
“He's shy,” I explained, grabbing for an eraser to repair a section I’d been working on. “He didn't seem very keen on anybody when he got here. I guess he wasn't around a lot of people at first, so he isn't sure how to deal with them. Once he gets to know a person, he warms up. Can you lie back a little? Yeah, like that.”
Once she was in position, I went back and sketched in her hair, duplicating the way her dark locks fell over her shoulders. “What about your father?” she asked.
“What about him?”
“Where does he fit in?”
“Nowhere,” I said, grimacing. “Don’t have a clue who he is and I don't really care. Where does your dad fit in?”
“Nowhere,” Valerie said. “He left, got remarried, and had a new baby. Some years, if he’s feeling motivated, he sends a Christmas card.”
“Idiot.”
She nodded. “I concur.”
A quiet fell over the room, but the silence was comfortable. Valerie watched me as I worked on the sketch, refraining from asking any more questions. I picked up the pace, wanting to get a good basis for the painting before she had to leave. Soon, I moved on to the rest of her body, drawing her slight form as she sat semi-reclined on the couch.
She had drawn one leg up on the cushions, and I added the positioning to the canvas, satisfied with the pose she had settled into on her own. Her discomfort at being focused on disappeared, and she relaxed. I penciled in her arm, propped up by her elbow on the arm of the couch. She held her head with her hand, and I made sure to include a loose lock of hair that had fallen forward over her shoulder.
“I think I’ve got it,” I said, sitting back and inspecting the results.
“That's it? Not even a drop of paint?”
“This is just the beginning. Want a peek?” Valerie got to her feet and walked over, coming to a standstill next to me. I waited for her opinion as she viewed the rough drawing.
“Wow,” she whispered, dropping to sit on my knee. “That's incredible, Andrew. You make me look ... amazing.”
“Nobody calls me Andrew,” I said, caressing the small of her back. I pushed the hem of her shirt up just far enough to attain some skin on skin contact. “At least nobody under the age of fifty does. I like how it sounds coming from you.” I trailed my fingertips up her spine, eliciting a shiver from her.
“I like you.” Her eyes were dark and smoky. “Damned if I can explain where all this came from, but I like you.”
“Good,” I said. I cupped her face with my free hand and pulled her into a kiss. “I like you, too.”
Chapter Twenty Three
“Wow, she called you Andrew and lived to tell the tale,” Kris said. She moved around the main room of her gallery, inspecting her displays.
I’d stopped by to deliver seven paintings I’d brought out of storage, mostly generic landscapes that didn't do much to set the art world on fire. But Kris was right. The gallery walls were bare and the paintings I’d previously deemed unacceptable filled the void well.
“She doesn't say it in a weird way,” I explained as I hung a painting near the entrance. “I mean, only old lady Tafani calls me by my full name. She always sounds like she's about to grab my ass and ask me to share a glass of prune juice with her. But Val's way is nice. I can get used to hearing her call me Andrew.”
“Oh, it's Val now?” Kris slid one of her latest sculptures that featured a large spigot in the midst of the chaos into a corner. “My, aren't we cozy?”
“I think it’s safe to say a little coziness happened last night. Jealous?”
“Nope.” She gave the sculpture a sharp twist. “I think I'm going to get sick of you mooning over the chick very fast.”
“Oh, that figures.” My fingertip grazed the sharp edge of the wire I had attached to the canvas for hanging. “Ow.” I lost my grip and the painting dropped to the floor. Cursing under my breath, I stuck my finger into my mouth and sucked on it, doing nothing to ease the sting. “Are you going to turn on me now that I have something working out for me?”
“No.” Kris strode over and yanked my finger out of my mouth. “Cut it out, will you? I was teasing. Moon away. It's been ages since you were moony. It’s better than your usual pouting.” She inspected my finger for damage, and finding none, she released it. “You didn't even break the skin, you weenie.”
“Still hurts,” I said, giving the hand a final shake. I picked the canvas up again and slid it into position, stepping back to check for levelness.
“Nice.” Kris nodded her approval. “You have anything fresh yet? Your fingers are stained, so I’d say you've been working on something.”
I glanced at my hands, noting the traces of color embedded under my nails and in the wrinkled grooves of my knuckles. The paint never washes off right away, no matter how hard I scrub or how many chemicals I use.
I took Valerie home after I was satisfied with my sketch. Or rather, I took her home after we participated in some high quality making out on the wicker love seat in the studio. Turns out I was right. The thing is a lot sturdier than it appears.
When I got back home I felt too wired to go to bed, a combined result of Valerie’s influence and the buzz from doing real work after such a long dry spell. Nick was spending the night with Kris, granting me an excuse to sleep in if I wanted to, but sleep didn’t come. The evening was still warm and muggy, and I didn’t want to keep the air conditioning running all night.
So, in the interest of keeping my electric bill at a reasonable level, I went right back to the studio, opened some windows to get the stagnant air flowing again, and attacked the canvas.
Not only was this the first painting I had worked on in almost a year, but it was turning out to be the best I'd done in ages. I worked at warp speed on the thing, and the paint was flying. Literally. I never bothered to put my drop cloth down on the hardwood, and the floor was quickly covered in multicolored flecks and drips.
The sun was beginning to rise when I shifted my focus to the background of the painting, so I took advantage of the natural lighting now matching the angle of artificial light that I’d referenced from the lamp last night. The sunlight falling on the blue hydrangea bushes outside the windows perfectly complemented the cerulean shade I used to recreate the outfit Val had worn on our date.
By eight o'clock, I had an image of Valerie lounging on the loveseat, bathed in sunlight and surrounded by swirling shades of blue. Pretty damn good, I thought. I cleaned up as best I could and set course for Galerie 8 fifteen minutes later, leaving Val in Blue signed and waiting to dry.
“I've got something fresh,” I admitted, stepping back to allow a customer to enter. Kris greeted the man then returned her attention to me. “Well, you need a lot more fresh, buddy. We've got German Days coming up soon, and by the looks of it, you're tapped.”
I frowned in response. Instead of taking her bait, I walked over to the bouncy chair Nick lounged in by the entrance to Kris' office and bent down to pick him up. “Your Auntie Kris is crazy,” I whispered as I straightened up.
