by Gail Bridges
“Just so you know, it was fabulous,” he said after a few minutes.
“Perv.”
“Lez.”
We kissed.
I smiled through the kiss. “Just so you know,” I said, my lips still touching his, “you’re right. It was fabulous.”
We lay in bed, enjoying our small island of peace. Soon enough the inn would come to life and the day would be a flurry of activity. Breakfast. Lessons. Tools. I couldn’t wait. What did Mr. Abiba have in store for us today? More games? Would I get another chance to play last night’s game, the one I couldn’t remember? I rather hoped so, even though it would perhaps be better not to. Not if that particular game threw me into fits.
But I hated to be left out.
What a life. What a honeymoon. All the wonderful things we’d already experienced at the inn, and it was only Monday. Only a day and a half—how could that be? It seemed as if we’d been there so much longer. The place felt comfortable, the routines, familiar, the people like dear friends, every one of them. Even Mr. Adi Abiba.
Especially Mr. Abiba.
Speaking of routines, we were locked in our room again. I had a vague memory of Zenith, lit with the first rays of morning light—probably not all that long ago—tracing the line of my cheek, my chin, my earlobe, with a finger as delicate as a feather, and kissing me. Then slipping out of bed, tossing on pajamas, gathering up teacups, crossing the room in bare feet and finally turning the bolt after she closed the door behind her. Definitely turning the bolt. I looked at Josh. Did he know we were locked in? He had to. It was Mr. Abiba’s way.
“Josh,” I said, “remember how we thought it was so weird here when we first came? How we almost left?”
He grunted softly.
“What a shame if we had. We would have missed so much!”
His arm tightened around my shoulders. “I can’t believe we were scared of Mr. Abiba.”
I frowned. “We were? When?”
But he didn’t answer. After a while he sighed. “I can’t remember exactly. But it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Mr. Abiba’s so kind! He’s…he’s…he’s…”
He was a lot of things. Brilliant. Caring. Unpredictable. Fun.
“Fascinating,” I supplied.
“That’s it,” said Josh, nodding. “That’s it. He’s fascinating.”
A few minutes later Valerian unlocked the door to our room. He poked his head in, saying we were free to roam about the inn for a while. Breakfast would be in an hour. Then he asked how I felt. I assured him I was fine, but he didn’t look convinced. “Your head doesn’t hurt anymore? You’re sure?”
“Not even an ache. Mr. Abiba examined me. And Zenith stayed most of the night.”
“Zenith stayed the night?” he said, grinning. “She sexed you up? Yes? I can tell by your smile that she did. Tip-top shape? Lube and tune? She’s very good, you know.”
“I…uh, yes. I know,” I said, blushing.
Josh and I shared a look.
“Were you satisfied?” asked Valerian.
He wanted to know if I apexed? I bit my lip. “Yes. Zenith is…um, very talented.”
He waited, leaning on the door, wanting more. He wasn’t leaving until he got it.
“She showed me the ropes.”
“Yes?”
“I never…with a woman.”
“Oh? How exciting for you! What kind of ropes? Real ropes?”
“She used her hand,” I said, giving in. I cleared my throat. “And she sucked my breast. And I had a huge apex. And—hey! I finally understand what apex really means!”
Valerian beamed at me. “Good! That’s very good progress, Angie. Mr. Abiba will be so proud.”
I reached for Josh’s hand. It wasn’t easy to talk about sex, to let myself be drawn into Inn-on-the-Edge-style discussions. To be so completely frank about it, to discuss my sex life as if I were discussing a workout in the gymwould take some getting used to. Obviously I still had a ways to go, as was evident by my blush.
“Zenith is the best,” said Valerian, not noticing my awkwardness. “Absolutely. We fucked earlier in the day…and she gives a hell of a blowjob. And what a dancer! I once saw her do a Spanish dance—flamenco—and it was hot. Damn hot.” He pretended to fan himself.
Zenith. Flamenco. I could see that. With her long hair and svelte body, Zenith would set the place alight. All she needed was a flouncy red dress, black shoes and castanets.
And a guitarist.
Josh perked up. “Flamenco? I know a bit of flamenco guitar. I could play for her.”
Valerian’s eyes widened. “Is that so? You ought to suggest it to Mr. Abiba. He’d love that. So would we all!” Valerian began to close the door, then stopped. “Oh! I just remembered the messages I was supposed to give you! Number one, your wedding clothes are all cleaned and pressed. They’re in your wardrobe. Two, Angie, Mr. Abiba says to bring your painting gear when you come down. And three, Josh, he wants you to meet him in ten minutes in the Instrument Room. Do you know where that is? It’s on the second floor, above the Fine Arts Room.”
“Yep. I’ll be there,” said Josh, drumming his knee with his fingers.
The door closed and Valerian was gone.
Josh turned to me with a puppy-dog look.
“Go!” I said. “Go see your antique instruments. I’ll meet up with you at breakfast.”
He threw on his clothes, kissed me goodbye and took the stairs two at a time. He probably beat Mr. Abiba to the Instrument Room.
Ten minutes later I tucked a pad of canvas paper under my arm and lugged my painting case downstairs, bump, bump, bump,and into the front parlor. The room was empty. No Zenith. No Vane. No other guests, although I could hear voices. Ignoring a slight soreness between my legs—which wasn’t surprising, given the workout I’d given my body the last few days—and avoiding that odd patch of floor in front of the fireplace, I dragged the case over to the longest couch. I sat down and opened it. What, exactly, was in my painting case? How odd, not knowing. I only hoped Josh had thought to include the basics when he packed. Brushes. Acrylic paints. Palette and palette knives. Charcoal pencils and erasers. And, of course, several rags, a water container, a small drop cloth and my portable easel—the usual.
So much paraphernalia! At least I didn’t paint with oils.
I opened the case and rummaged through it. There was my favorite brush, the long-handled stiff-bristled one that came to a perfect rounded point. And its companion, the quarter-inch flat edge. I set them on the couch beside me. I picked up the wide brush, the one I used for backgrounds and for covering large areas. I held it across my hand, frowning. It wasn’t good enough. The bristles were stiff and too short. They weren’t angled quite right. I didn’t like it very much. What I really wanted was a Tennenbach.
My local art supply store carried them. They were beautiful. Top-of-the-line, German-made, numbered. But Tennenbachs were frightfully expensive, hundreds of dollars, way beyond my budget. The Tennenbach I had my eye on would have to wait.
I was pretty well set up. Josh had chosen wisely, even if it was by accident. My favorite colors were all accounted for—tubes and tubes of luscious acrylic hues. Cadmium Orange! Cobalt Blue! Viridian! My dear old friends. I ran my hands through the cool, fat tubes, sighing with pleasure at the feel of the unopened containers. Josh had grabbed the expensive new jumbo-sized tubes I’d been saving for a special, mural-sized project, but I didn’t mind. Better to have too much paint than not enough.
“Hi, Angie. Feeling better?”
I looked up. It was Nikki Millhouse. She threw herself down on the other end of the couch, making my brushes roll under my leg. I rounded them up and set them carefully in the case. I smiled at her. “Yep. Sure am. Thanks.”
“I’m on my own for a bit,” she said. “Zora’s giving Logan a tour of the hothouse garden. A private tour.” She rolled her eyes, laughing. “She’s probably giving him a blowjob right about now. Isn’t that how things work here? Ha! Just listen to me. She
’s probably giving my husband a blowjob—I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth! Especially so soon after getting married.”
“I know!” I said. “Crazy, isn’t it?”
“And I don’t even mind that she’s giving him a blowjob. Or screwing him, even.” Nikki paused, biting on a fingernail. “Especially after what Vane and I were up to last night. Besides, Zora is cute.”
We looked at each other. Nikki would make an excellent portrait subject, with her huge eyes and long, wispy lashes. Her short, spiky hair suited her, made her look pixie-like. It would also be wonderfully challenging to paint, that hair, the way it stuck up in twenty different directions, the way it caught the light. I wanted to touch it. I blinked, swallowed. So I had a thing for hair. Who knew?
I thought she was cute.
“I’m starving,” Nikki wailed, tossing her head. “They feed us mountains of food and yet I’m always hungry. Don’t you think that’s bizarre?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “What are you doing? What’s all this?”
“Painting supplies.”
“Oh! Cool. What are you going to paint?”
“You.”
Of course she loved the idea. I arranged her in the armchair to the left of the fireplace, where a shaft of sunshine fell across her hair, her face, her shoulder. Sunlight was always good. Then I stood back, sizing up possible compositions. Nikki and the fireplace? Nikki and the potted plant? Nikki alone? Yes, Nikki alone. With perhaps the merest suggestion of fireplace bricks, a nice textural contrast to her wayward hair. I put my hands up and peered through a square made of my fingers and thumbs, a trick I’d learned in art school to help design a new painting or drawing, a tool—I smiled at the word—to help me decide what to place where.
Nikki watched me, a half-smile on her lips.
I’d have to work quickly, before the light changed, but that was not a problem. This first painting for Mr. Abiba would be a quick study, a character sketch, done with strategic strokes of line and color. It would be done in plenty of time for breakfast. I loved character sketches. I was good at them. My final project for senior year figure-painting class—fifty sketches ofstrangers, was I nuts?—received the highest grade from my professor. It was my proudest moment from art school.
So I could do this.
I set up the portable easel and slid the pad of canvas paper onto it, squeezed generous dabs of paint onto the palette and set to work.
“So you’re an artist?” asked Nikki.
I took a corner of my rag and smeared a thin layer of watered-down Burnt Sienna all over the white paper. Burnt Sienna—Zenith. I pushed the thoughtaway before the tingling started up. It was time to paint, not play. “Yes. I am.”
“You went to school to learn this?”
I took my round brush, filled it with a Cobalt Blue and Burnt Sienna mix and made a long, expressive line representing the back of her head, her neck, the upper slope of her shoulders. Then, more slowly, I painted a fine line to pick out her forehead, the determined slope of her nose, the rise and fall of her lips, the flirtatious lift of her eyebrow. Less is more in character sketches. “Yes,” I said after a minute, “art school. At the University of Washington.”
“Oh,” she said, watching my every move. “My cousin went there. But not to the art school.” She paused. “Hey, Angie. Did you hear the commotion? About twenty minutes ago?”
Carefully, I extended the line of her shoulder to suggest an arm, made delicate squiggles for hand and fingers. Then I took a step back, squinting, my head tilted, studying what I’d done. It wasn’t half bad. I added a touch of shading to her face and suddenly my painting took on life. This is why I love to paint. “No. Josh and I didn’t hear a thing. What happened?”
“It was Tim Maddox. Rhonda’s husband.”
I held the brush an inch from the paper, listening, waiting, staring at her. “Go on.”
“He was yelling and shouting, acting like an ass. Fighting, even. He’s usually so quiet. Tim accused Mr. Abiba of the most awful things. Said he was holding him prisoner!”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Mr. Abiba took him aside and calmed him down.” She tore a sliver off her thumbnail with her teeth. “You know, it’s impossible, I know that, but I have the strangest feeling we’ve all been there. That we’ve all had calming-down sessions with Mr. Abiba…” She looked up at me. “Right, Angie? Am I right?”
I caught a flash of something in her eyes. Worry? Unease? Denial?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said quickly.
She changed her position—I’d have to rearrange her—and sighed heavily. “It doesn’t matter. Tim is fine now. But I bet Mr. Abiba’s head hurts where Tim yanked on his hair! You should have seen how Tim launched himself at him.”
I flinched. “Mr. Abiba is bald. You must be mistaken.”
“No, Tim grabbed a handful of his hair. I saw it.”
“A wig then?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t a wig.”
“Whatever.” I raised the paintbrush and waved it back and forth. “Let’s get back to this, what do you say? Another ten minutes and it’ll be done.” I didn’t wait for an answer. I didn’t want an answer. What I wanted was for her to stop talking. “Nikki, can you get back into the original position for me? Please?”
She moved back to the approximate pose she’d been in. It was close enough. I squeezed a dollop of yellow ochre onto my pallet and dipped the tip of my brush into it.
“Look, there he is!” Nikki’s long neck craned to the left.
Still holding my brush, I turned around just in time to see Mr. Abiba sweep around the corner and into the dining room.
I blinked with surprise.
Hair.
Nikki was right. Mr. Abiba had hair! He was balding, not bald. The top of his head was smooth and shiny, true, but everywhere else there was thick Pewter Gray hair. How had I missed it? I’d been so surethere wasn’t a single hair on his head.
And then, my lips pressed together—I’d been so sure—I began to lay down the jaggedy outline of Nikki’s hair.
But the sunlight had vanished and my model was just a model.
And all the fun had gone out of it.
Chapter Fifteen
“My dear, but this is marvelous!”
And the fun, just like that, was back.
We’d just finished another enormous breakfast. Fat, frosted cinnamon rolls were today’s specialty—one of them, anyway—and everyone was still seated at the table when Mr. Abiba called for my painting to be brought to him. I fetched it, then hung back, holding my breath, as he held it at arm’s length, studying it. He laughed out loud with pleasure. “Zettia!” he called loudly. “Come see what our sweet Angela has done! We have a true artist in our midst!” He put his arm around me and pulled me close, causing me to tremble with pride.
How his face glowed when he smiled. How gracefully he carried his astonishing height.
And how kind he was. Holding my hand last night as I slept—how many people would do that?
Mr. Abiba pressed against me, warm and strong. I felt his heartbeat, felt his sturdy chest. Obviously he was nowhere as old as I’d previously thought. “We must display Angela’s painting in the Fine Arts Room!” he said, his voice booming. “Valerian! Come! Where are you? Why are you moving so slowly? Are you not feeling well, my man? Take this masterpiece from me and hang it on the east wall.” Mr. Abiba released me from his embrace but not before leaning over and kissing the top of my head. “And you, Angela Taylor! You shall paint a portrait of each person here. A commemorative exhibit of my dearest friends. A body of work to be displayed in my Fine Arts Room. Yes?”
“Yes,” I cried. “Oh yes!”
He regarded me, his eyebrows bunched in thought. “But that is not enough, is it, for my earnest little artist? It is not! She needs more! And so I shall give it to her. The Fine Arts Room—the walls—shall be yours, my dear. Paint your delightful character sketches, y
es, but I also wish you to create some true artworks. Create muralson the walls for me! It is your dream, is it not? To paint large and lush? Do it, then! Paint your brave little heart out!” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Angela Taylor, the Fine Arts Room is yours.”
I stared up at him, speechless.
A room of my own! To paint anything I wanted! Never in my life had I imagined such a thing. The possibilities were endless. I could paint the lighthouse scene. The view from the North Tower’s windows. Or the grass-and-dunes vista I’d seen on the drive to the inn. I could paint any of them—I could paint all of them!
I stuttered my thanks, but Mr. Abiba was already moving on. He dropped his hands from my shoulders and regarded the circle of attentive faces at the table.
Dazed, I returned to my seat.
Josh took my hand. “Wow,” he whispered. “Just…wow.”
Mr. Abiba cleared his throat. “Rhonda-Lynne Maddox! Where are you?”
She leaped to her feet. “Here! Here I am, sir.”
“Rhonda-Lynne. Your sisters call you the ‘Embroidery Queen’. Is this not so?”
She gasped. “Y-yes. But, um…they don’t mean it in a nice way.”
He ignored her. “You create prize-winning needlework.” He paused, regarding the fluttering woman. “Now, now, my sweetness. Don’t be bashful! A championship ribbon from the state fair is indeed a prize. We are all creative souls here, are we not? Yes, yes we are!” he said, answering his own question. “We are sexual beings, yes, but we are so much more. We must celebrate all aspects of the character, not just the erotic. My dear, I wish you to teach a demonstration class for the rest of us. Instruct us in your delicate, beautiful art. Make no mistake. I hold embroidered tapestries in the highest esteem. Have you not seen my wall hangings by the stairs? Yes? Your class shall be tomorrow, after dinner.”
Rhonda-Lynne’s eyes sparkled. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir! I’ll be ready!”