The darkness impacted his work. Lines had to be bolder and more powerful. Silhouette was elevated beyond color or light reflections. His pieces, like the plant-like entities they emulated, had to struggle and span upwards and outwards for life.
Later, as dawn sun rays danced through the windows and ricocheted off the studio's wooden walls, Rodney knew he'd achieved something compelling. The vibrant forms seemed to breathe.
Rodney was also astounded by the imperfections in the clay. At first, he'd wanted to fix them, polish them, shave them away. But he realized the blemishes and flaws made them more riveting. More like nature—more like plants or trees, and even like animals and people—with uniqueness as the foremost quality of splendor.
Rodney wasn't one to whoop and cheer from his epiphanies like this. He got chills and shivers in his legs and spine. He backed away from his pieces, afraid adding even one correction could break the spell.
He'd never worked so rapidly and productively on forms of this scale. He knew the best thing he could do now was get a little rest and then get right back to work on some new ideas, keeping the figurative bucket in his well of creativity, hauling ever more from the depths.
Before leaving his studio he emailed Christine, his assistant. He needed her to take photographs of the preliminary models and his email included some suggestions for the angle of the shots and the backdrops. He knew this was unnecessary, as Christine was very skilled with cameras, but Rodney thought his suggestions might communicate to her how good he felt about what he'd just created through the night.
Rodney's next thoughts were about Patrick, his manager, who would help him determine titles, pricing, and descriptions for the final versions of the designs. Then he thought about artists like Kenneth or Flora, or even complete a stranger, who might've destroyed his kaleidoscopic sculpture on the Sylvia Bridge.
While locking the side entry door as he departed his studio, something unthinkable jolted him. It was an idea weighing various motivations for the attack versus outright vengeance, and it was so repugnant Rodney tried to slam it out of his mind.
Chapter 22
Marshall woke from the sound of a ding on his phone alerting him that he'd just received a text message. He wished he could ignore it and doze off again. The digital clock on the hotel nightstand indicated it was half past eight o'clock in the morning.
He reached for his phone and the message was from Kenneth Blakely. "Sorry about the accidental text the other night. I was trying to reach someone else."
Marshall directly phoned him and Kenneth answered after a few rings.
"Just please disregard what I sent. I didn't intend to message you."
"Kenneth, how soon can we meet again? I tried all day yesterday to reach you."
"This isn't a good time Marshall," Kenneth answered. "Yesterday was horrible for me. I only texted you this morning to apologize for my error. It's best now to just move on."
"I can't let it go. Agree to meet with me so I don't have to chase you down today."
"Whew. Okay, only if it's quick—fifteen minutes tops."
"Bigbury Plaza?" Marshall suggested.
"No, I don't wanna be anywhere near those damn bridges."
The men bandied about some options and settled on ten o'clock at the center fountain in Doyle's downtown square.
Marshall had time for a leisurely breakfast again at Maggie's Trattoria. He was in the process of paying the bill when he glanced from his seat on the rooftop restaurant into the square and spotted Kenneth parking his Mini Cooper against the curb.
The square's fountain had been designed for acoustics as much as anything else. Boulders assembled in a triangular shape rose from a circular base formed with a low wall of matching pebbles embedded into concrete. Water bubbled up from the peak and splashed down the sides of the stones into a shallow basin. As Marshall approached, Kenneth was sitting on a bench facing the fountain, hunched forward with drooping shoulders, his hands cupped on the sides of his forehead. Kenneth's bowler hat was in his lap and his oversized sweatshirt managed to disguise his muscular arms.
Marshall was taken by the meekness of Kenneth's appearance in comparison to what he'd looked like at the whiskey bar a day and a half earlier. Marshall sat beside him and spoke first.
"Your guilt is tearing you to shreds."
Kenneth turned his head to Marshall and frowned. "I shouldn't have even come. I don't owe you anything."
"Has Detective Sergeant Matthew Simon brought you in for questioning yet?"
"He did. Yesterday. But I don't have to tell you about it."
"You said I only get fifteen minutes of your time, so let's jump right into this, Kenneth. I vow nothing we discuss will end up in a blog, news story, or public post of any kind."
"You think your word is good?" Kenneth said. "After how you treated Redfern in your column, you possess honor now—and you're worthy of trust? That's hilarious."
Reacting defensively would only waste time and risk escalating a verbal skirmish, so Marshall pressed ahead. "I spoke with Flora Miles in her studio yesterday. The two of you were on Sylvia Bridge when the floodlight and statue were destroyed. Did you admit this to the detective sergeant yesterday?"
"No, I told him the truth. I didn't feed him a crock of shit."
Marshall sensed that Kenneth wanted to talk. As he'd learned from his years of being a reporter, this was the time to embrace silence. Kenneth would fill the void.
"Flora and I were on Sylvia Bridge after having some drinks together at the tavern. This was shortly after I dropped you off at your hotel. Her husband didn't show up. He's run off, yet again, without a trace, which he does from time to time. So she was in a foul mood to begin with and wanted to ridicule Redfern's new sculptures. I joined in and we got in some digs. She and I both detest how they overshadow the bridges. Is it jealousy that Redfern beat us for the city honor? Sure, probably. We were getting drunk, or at least tipsy, and needed some fun at Redfern's expense. No one else was around. It was supposed to be harmless."
"When did it stop becoming harmless?"
"The moment I told her that I'd found you at Sigaro in Rugged Heights. She got very serious and peppered me with questions about what I'd discussed with you. She was very worried that I'd mentioned to you that I was going to meet up with her and that she shared my animosity against Redfern. Flora was convinced this would end up backfiring in a story or column and damage her career. I couldn't talk her down. I told her you weren't a reporter anymore. Flora's response was that you're a scoundrel and you'd say whatever you had to say to rip some juicy quotes out of me. The name calling was brutal, and I made the mistake of calling her paranoid, and that's when she started hitting me with her purse. I turned my back to her and braced myself against the base of the statue. Flora missed me with a wild swing and shattered the floodlight under Redfern's sculpture."
When Kenneth paused, Marshall asked, "Are you going to say Flora broke a steel pole with her purse?"
"Kenneth vigorously shook his head. "She didn't touch it. Flora only broke the light. She and I both ran our separate ways, off the bridge, and now our friendship is dead."
"You're pressing charges against Flora for battery?"
"Hell no. I just want all of this to go away. She attacked me, broke the light, and we left. That's it. I had nothing to do with ruining Redfern's sculpture. My best guess is, Flora probably cooled off soon after running off the bridge and didn't return to do any more damage. That's only a guess. I'm obviously not on speaking terms with her anymore. Despite her violence, Flora and I have too much at stake to betray one another. I know too much about who's really creating her sculptures out of state and she knows too much about my private life."
Marshall took a deep breath. There were many threads here he could tug on, but time precluded him from unearthing everything that he wanted to pursue. He had to stay glued to the matter at hand.
"There's more to the story, Kenneth. You might've left after the floodlight shattered,
but you went back to the scene. I saw your car return to its same parking space on Nicholas Street, by the alley, from my hotel room window."
"Aha! You're the one who gave that tidbit to the sergeant. He wouldn't tell me who was spying on me."
"It wasn't spying."
Kenneth shrugged. "Whatever you say. It doesn't matter anyway. I never returned to Sylvia Bridge. I was upset about all that Flora had done, so when I got about halfway home I turned my car around and came back. I returned to the tavern, sat at the bar, and then went home for the rest of the night with one of my old boyfriends who lives nearby. The bartender and my ex can both vouch for me. I gave the sergeant their names and numbers."
"Will you share their contact information with me, too?" Marshall asked.
"No."
"If you have such a strong alibi, why are you moping about out here and acting so riddled with guilt?"
"Because the incident has become a big story. Everyone's talking about Redfern and speculating in every direction. And when it goes public that Flora and I were at the scene, and she broke the light, no alibi on Earth is going to keep people from assuming we destroyed the city's art out of envy. My career as an artist is soon going to perish in a very swift and ruthless execution."
MARSHALL REMAINED IN the downtown square for an hour after Kenneth's departure.
When new attempts to reach Patrick Castle, Rodney's manager, were refused, as expected, Marshall spent time on his phone's web browser researching job listings and apartment rental options in Doyle. He hadn't made any final decisions about relocating. Testing the waters was all it was, so he could compare opportunities and get some ideas.
Marshall then explored neighborhoods south of downtown by foot. He wandered through commercial and residential zones, the old and the new, the industrial and the modern, and the numerous parks with long histories and quaint features. Everything interesting he came across invited him to wonder whether Rodney had been there before. Rodney, dominating his thoughts for most of the morning, was akin to a constant and invisible companion on this miniature journey.
Despite Rodney leaving in the middle of the night, Marshall didn't really think they were finished as lovers and friends. There was too much chemistry and camaraderie and passion between them. They'd fit so incredibly well together. It would be too tragic for their connection to wither away.
These opinions gave Marshall comfort. He certainly couldn't plan his future around Rodney Riggs Redfern, but he trusted that there were more chapters left to their story.
He headed back toward Horace Hotel shortly after one o'clock and stopped at a Mexican restaurant for a veggie quesadilla, tortilla chips and guacamole, and a Corona beer in a longneck bottle.
A hundred feet from the hotel entrance, Marshall's phone rang. His screen said the call was from Rodney.
"I was just thinking about you," Marshall said.
"Sweet," Rodney said, "because I'm gonna beg you to get over here to Rugged Heights as fast as you can."
"Is everything okay?"
"Oh yeah, I'm jumping around the clouds right now."
"It sounded like there was urgency." Marshall had latched onto Rodney's words—"beg" and "as fast as you can"—and wondered if something was amiss.
"There is, Marshall. I'm in a zone—working at feverish velocity—and I really need you here in my studio."
"Sure, I'll come right now. What's the address?"
"99 Myra Lane. Use the side door."
"Got it. You're wanting some feedback on your art?"
"No, I really can't tell you on the phone," Rodney said.
"Why not?"
"You'd definitely say no."
"That's unlikely. I'll take any excuse at all to be around you, if you want to know the truth."
"You sound a bit smitten with me."
"I might be," Marshall admitted.
"I'm feeling the same way about you. An infatuation is creeping into some new stuff I'm trying in my studio. I decided to go with my guts and roll with it—and it very much involves you."
"Can I bring you anything? Have you had lunch yet?"
"Thanks, but I'm way too wired to eat. I just need you to come here . . . with an open mind."
Marshall arrived less than fifteen minutes later. Rodney answered the side door, wearing only a jockstrap, and ushered him inside. Patches of powder, and something resembling dried clay or plaster, were flaking on his wrists and ankles. Marshall observed immediately that Rodney was both cheerful and manic, as spirited as he'd ever seen him. Shooting glances around the spacious room he noticed the unusually high windows, the enormous double wooden doors onto Myra Lane, and numerous sculptures of various sizes he eagerly wanted to examine from every vantage point.
"I can't kiss you right now, Marshall, but I sure want to throw you up against the wall like a primitive beast."
Marshall looked down at his shirt, which Rodney was unbuttoning, and said, "You brought me here for more sex?"
"We'll have to save that for later. Tonight, hopefully, okay?"
Amused by Rodney's intensity, Marshall asked, "Then why are you undressing me right now?"
"For inspiration."
Marshall put his hand over the top button on the waistband of his pants. "Hold on, Rodney. You're asking me to prance around here in the buff while you sculpt?"
Rodney backed up a step, smiled, and said, "Forgive me for rushing in like that. I'm evolving some wild ideas and need you undressed, too. It's iron hot, Marshall, and I want to capture this while my feelings are raw."
Noticing that none of the pieces in the studio resembled sculptures of human forms, Marshall said, "I'm relieved. For a second there, I thought you wanted me to model for you in the nude."
"I do."
"Seriously?"
"I swear it's not porn. It's not a statue, either. Will you trust me and help me? If you hate what I make, I'll destroy it with my own hands."
Marshall fought back a glint of fear. He remembered Rodney taking those photos of him at the mill and arboretum. After the last twenty-four hours, in particular, was duplicity on Rodney's part even possible? Would Rodney really ever hurt him now? Was it too soon to relinquish this much control?
On the other hand, he'd learned that Rodney Riggs Redfern was the real thing. A stellar artist. A man with colossal talent that had to be fertilized, not smothered or neglected.
Marshall made his decision, and said, "I'm here for you, Rodney. If something about me being here will inspire you, then I'm a good sport. Do what you will with me, as you please."
Chapter 23
It'd been years since an apprenticeship in Hawaii when Rodney had last worked with a nude model. He didn't want Marshall holding still in the center of the room. Rodney wanted Marshall to be close to him, engaged in the project, and moving about naturally.
Marshall's back especially intrigued him. Elongated, graceful curves ascended from his hips in a V-like formation. His smooth skin glistened in the golden light. A faint maroon birthmark resembled an archipelago of tiny islands at top left, where his shoulder met his neck. Rodney was able to imitate some of these angles, shapes, and textures in clay.
Rodney expected progress to continue as he studied Marshall's hairy chest, wide feet, massive phallus, low-hanging testicles, and well-developed forearms. But he couldn't rein in his sexual attraction to Marshall and they ended up repeatedly messing around, furthering their desires for one another, and eventually made love ferociously with Rodney on his hands and knees on the floor, still in his jockstrap, surrounded by his new sculptures.
After their orgasms, both men remained undressed. Rodney sat on a bucket with his back against the wall and watched Marshall, gleaming with sweat, crouch down to carefully examine the nature-inspired pieces completed shortly after dawn.
Observing Marshall among his works like this was powerfully alluring and Rodney began wondering when they'd have an opportunity to have sex yet again.
Rodney started to realize that summ
oning Marshall to his studio had really not been about his art, even though he'd believed so at the time of his phone call. Rodney had been reacting to his longing for Marshall. While he believed it was normal to blend real life inspiration into creativity, there was a degree of separation. Rodney understood that he'd been confused by his impulses for Marshall and had tried to force them into his art.
The realization didn't anger or disappoint Rodney. Their time together had certainly not been wasted. Something quite beautiful was taking shape between himself and Marshall.
Rodney also knew he had to address this head on. Similar to his art, romance and passion had to be cultivated in a careful and skillful manner for full potential to be reached.
Marshall finally joined him at the wall, sitting beside the bucket on the floor. He hadn't spoken or changed his facial expression while inspecting Rodney's new pieces. Now, as Marshall looked up at him with moist eyes, Rodney interpreted this gaze as a true reflection of his personal feelings and his admiration of his art.
Rodney didn't have to ask for Marshall's opinion on the new pieces. That much was clear. He said, "I completed them in a frenzy after leaving your hotel room."
Marshall asked him how many he was going to make and Rodney explained the first ten pieces in the line were exclusive to the Swaledale Gallery for one year. There was more he wanted to do with the concepts, however, and Rodney speculated he might produce even a few dozen more unique sculptures in the line that he could display and sell at galleries throughout the country, without being burdened by exclusivity standards.
"So it sounds to me like your path forward has come into focus," Marshall said.
"Yes, suddenly I'm getting on track," Rodney said. He tenderly put his hand on Marshall's shoulder. "At least, that is, with my art."
"The last thing I want to do is become an obstacle in your way."
Bravado (Unexpected Attraction Book 3) Page 12