The Art of Appreciation

by Markus, Autumn

  The next day was a comedy of errors. Abby woke up late after a restless night and ended up rushing to the park to help Claire. Responding to her distraction, the kids seemed more interested in eating the tempera paint than creating masterpieces, leading to a personal panic and a call to Poison Control. To top off the day, all the anxiety upset little Michael Jacobs, and he spewed electric blue paint down Abby’s front. And she still had to face a damn bike ride with a damn guy she couldn’t figure out how to shake.

  Cursing art, Jason, and whatever insane urge she’d ever had to work with children, Abby stomped up the walk, recklessly tearing the front door off its tenuous grip of the top hinge. She woke Sarah from a catnap, ordering her to make coffee. After a shower, she shimmied into Sarah’s spare pair of bike shorts and her own sports bra. Yanking a pink moisture-wicking T-shirt over her head, Abby smoothed it down and French-braided her hair so Sarah could adjust the fit of her helmet. All outfitted, Abby stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked at herself, noticing that her eyes were wide and her cheeks flushed.

  Sarah placed her folded hands on Abby’s shoulder and rested her chin on them. “Someone is nervous already. I wonder who she’s more excited to see.” There was a glint of devilish humor in Sarah’s eyes.

  “Someone looks like an incredible dork with this thing on her head and is wondering whether she’s fated to die from embarrassment or exhaustion first today.” Abby shook off Sarah’s hands and headed out the door. She set off across town at a leisurely pace, determined to arrive at the studio after Jason.

  After almost spilling at a traffic light when she forgot how to get her foot off the pedal, two near sideswipes by gawking tourists in cars, and a chorus of wolf-whistles from Tyler and his boys as they whooshed past her on their long boards, hair flying back and beanies pulled low, Abby glided to a stop in front of a low bungalow on a corner lot. She checked the address that Jason had given her, but even without verification, she was certain this was the right place. Each house she’d passed had its own character, but this was an abode realized in its surroundings. The Craftsman-style cottage seemed to grow right from the earth; it and the plants growing in the yard and up the lattice at the sides of the deep porch complimented each other perfectly. Different shades of green and silvery plants were layered and drew the eye toward the faded, sea-green paint and soft redwood hues of the house itself. The look was pure art.

  Jason had said that he’d meet her around the side, by the street entrance to Matt’s studio, so Abby wheeled her bike in that direction, hoping he’d be waiting with a smile.

  No luck, but she did hear loud music. Catching a snatch of a memorable bass line, Abby tried to identify the song. With a chuckle, she realized that she recognized it from either junior high or high school. Checking the door, she found it unlocked. She pulled it open just enough to slip through and found herself in a small foyer with a desk and a few chairs. Curious, she peeked through an inner doorway and into the studio itself.

  Despite the popular conception of artists as crazy, messy people with a tendency to fly from one thing to another as inspiration struck, Abby had known enough artists to not be surprised by the clean, organized space. Tall cabinets lined two walls, and worktables were set in several spots. One corner held a host of screens and photographic lights and equipment, while another had a revolving table holding something, presumably a sculpture, covered by a cloth. Everything was lit by overhanging fixtures.

  Abby’s eye stopped on the figure in the center of the room.

  Matt was a picture of concentration as he circled a nearly finished sculpture. Though the two-foot terra-cotta statue was set on a low, revolving table and a stool sat nearby, he moved around the piece himself. He held a carving tool in his hand, and he flipped it between his fingers absently as he studied his work, often referring to photographs tacked on a wheeled, chest-high corkboard. He squatted, well-muscled thighs and calves flexing as he balanced on the balls of his bare feet and shaved a tiny amount of clay from a couple of spots before referring to his pictures again. He stood and hooked the stool with his foot to pull it closer. Balancing on the edge of the seat, Matt made minute adjustments to the statue’s shoulder, his own shoulder and arm muscles shifting and bunching under his worn T-shirt. Smoothing the spot he’d carved with delicate fingers, he stood again, wiping clay residue on the front of his shirt. He moved to his left, giving Abby a perfect view of his profile, and stood motionless, only his eyes moving between his work and the pictures on the corkboard. With a satisfied chuckle, he dropped the carving tool on the table. He stripped off his shirt and wiped his fingers carefully on the cloth in his hand.

  Abby had managed to stand quietly while he worked, unable to tear her eyes from the graceful movement of his body and hands. His hair was clay-flecked from his habit of pushing a hand through the strands as he considered his sculpture. The analytical side of her mind admired his careful work, his economical motions. A deeper, more instinctive side simply admired the man, from the tiny frown lines on his forehead as he concentrated down his body to his single article of clothing, a pair of faded cargo shorts that rode low on narrow hips.

  She must have made some sound, though it was hard to believe he could hear anything over the pounding bass line, because his head turned toward her, and he studied her as well. He traced her shape from shoulders to feet, lingering at hip and breast and hands and throat, until his eyes met hers with an intensity that sent her pulse flying. Abby could sense how those hands would feel against her skin, and her breathing became shallow, sure in that instant that he was thinking the same thing.

  Matt blinked, lashes brushing his cheeks for an instant before he smiled and sent whatever was going on between them underground. “Hey.” Abby read his lips and pointed to her ears, shaking her head. Matt grinned. He crossed to a small desk and turned the volume down.

  He walked back toward Abby, still holding his shirt. She forced herself to stop staring, remembering that she was there for Jason. Not willing to meet Matt’s eyes quite yet, she nodded toward the stereo that sat on a low shelf beside his desk. “Smithereens, Matt? Really?”

  He rested against his stool and motioned Abby closer. “It’s my studio, my music, even if it does date me.” The song playing changed to a grunge classic, and they both laughed. “At least Jason doesn’t complain about this one,” Matt said. “Apparently Soundgarden is still acceptable, though he calls it oldies.” They both winced.

  As the laugher died down, Abby found herself falling into Matt’s eyes again. He stood up, startling her. “I could use water,” he said, heading toward a small refrigerator near the desk. He looked back over his shoulder as he opened the door. “How about you?”

  Though Abby’s mouth was desert-dry, she shook her head, afraid that the slight tremor in her hands would be revealed by water sloshing around in a bottle. She turned to his sculpture. “Is this the finished piece?”

  Matt laughed, stopping where he was standing in the rear of the studio and opening his bottle. “Hardly. The client wants poolside statues. That’s just a mock-up.”

  “Damned detailed for a mock-up. What medium for the finished sculpture?”

  He shrugged. “Bambi hasn’t decided. I’m pushing for terra-cotta, like that one.”

  Abby raised an eyebrow. “Bambi?”

  He grinned, and she looked at the statue again.

  “Marble would be traditional for this style.”

  “True, but terra-cotta is easier and will stand up to the salt air around here better. Personally, I’d like to see it in granite, but I won’t suggest that. Takes too long to work.”

  Abby had visions of Matt’s upper body working as he wielded hammer and chisel on stone. “What’s your time frame?”

  “Three complete sculptures by mid-September.”

  She spun to look at him. “Are you crazy? No one does that. You’ll kill yourself. No wonder you want the terra.”

  Matt smiled and took another sip. “Right. So, what do
you think?”

  Walking around the model, Abby studied it from every angle. From the corner of her eye, she could see Matt watching her. The motion of his throat as he swallowed was almost as distracting as his bare chest, but Abby dragged her mind out of the gutter and back to the statue in front of her. “You’ve captured Jason well, Matt. You’re good.”

  “So I’ve heard. I’m working from photographs as well as live modeling,” he said as Abby returned to the front of the statue. “The client hasn’t decided if she wants full nudes or not, so I haven’t had Jason or Zoe in nude poses yet. Some of that is guesswork.”

  Abby’s gaze went immediately to the sculpture’s groin, and Matt laughed. Raising his bottle to his lips, he said, “Maybe you can tell me how far off I am.” He smiled slyly before drinking.

  “Funny man. Fishing?”

  “Maybe.” He put his bottle down and leaned back on one hand, scratching the back of his neck with the other before gently placing it on the cloth-covered item beside him on the worktable. His fingers moved restlessly, shifting the cloth, and Abby could see what looked like the base of a roughed-in sculpture. Matt caught her gaze and edged the cover down again. He flushed and said, “Hell. Yeah, I’m fishing.”

  “You should know that a lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” Abby joked. She walked toward him.

  Matt took her hand, drawing her forward until her legs were almost touching his knees. “I’ve seen the kissing,” he said. “I’m wondering about what comes afterward.” His eyes were intense as he traced the lines of her face.

  She turned her face back toward the statue, pretending to study it as she denied a wild urge to smooth her hands over Matt’s shoulders. “Hmm. Well, to the best of my incomplete knowledge, your sculpture seems to be correct,” she said.

  “Incomplete is good,” Matt said, tugging Abby’s arm so she looked at him once again. “So my guesswork…”

  “Would be guesswork for me as well,” Abby finished, flushing as the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. She chuckled and stepped back, giving herself some much needed distance from his body. “Though I’m sure I’ll have a better idea in a few minutes. Bike shorts don’t leave much to the imagination.” And neither do wetsuits or wet board shorts, her brain teased, flashing images of Matt walking out of the surf.

  “No, they surely do not,” Matt said softly. A gentle finger traced the curve of her Lycra-encased hip. His eyes met hers, and he dropped his hand, clearing his throat. “I take it you’re having a day out with the man himself?”

  “Yep. He asked me yesterday, and I didn’t see any way out of it. I haven’t seen much of him since he got back from Indiana, so…”

  “Sorry about that. I’m probably wearing him out.”

  “On purpose?” Abby teased. Her heart stuttered when Matt cocked his head and answered.

  “Maybe.” He grinned at what Abby knew had to have been a stunned stupid look on her face, and then he asked about Sarah.

  Abby answered him in a shaky voice that grew stronger as she explained the situation with Tyler. By the time Jason walked in, they were leaning next to each other against a low table, cracking up at Sarah’s dilemma.

  Jason’s eyes went from one to the other, wary, though a smile crept across his face when Abby explained what she and Matt were laughing about.

  Walking over to the table, Jason helped her to her feet and dipped his head to drop a firm kiss on her mouth. She glanced toward Matt and found him regarding her, a smile on his face though a muscle jumped at the side of his jaw. “Sorry I’m late,” Jason said, wrapping his arm around Abby’s waist. “I had a flat, and it took a while to fix it. Ready?”

  She nodded, avoiding Matt’s eyes, and headed for the door. After a second, she realized that Jason wasn’t behind her, so she turned to see the men having a low-voiced conversation. Tension showed in the set of Jason’s shoulders, but Matt was relaxed. He glanced at her and smiled. Jason turned his head and smiled too, though it was tight. He walked toward Abby, enveloping her hand in one of his as he pulled her sunglasses out of a pocket of his jersey and handed them to her.

  “You left these at my apartment the other night,” he said, louder than necessary. “You’ll need them today.” He stepped out of the studio and into the vestibule ahead of Abby; she turned to wave at Matt uncertainly. He offered a mock salute back.

  Jason was quiet as they started their ride, but he gradually returned to his normal, voluble self, breaking a cardinal rule of biking by riding alongside Abby instead of in a pace line and pointing out interesting or unusual things along the way. His natural enthusiasm carried the conversation even when she was quiet. Chelsie’s picnic, packed in panniers on Jason’s bike, proved to be delicious, and they ate fruit, crackers, and salami in a small beach cove, washing it all down with a split of Gewürztraminer and bottles of water.

  When the last dark chocolate was finished, Jason packed away the lunch remains, and they headed home, moving more slowly and talking less than on the trip out. At his apartment, he got off his bike and crossed to Abby as she straddled her own bike with feet on the ground. He unclipped her helmet with one hand, tossing it to the side as he cupped the back of her head in his other broad palm, pulling her face to his for a lingering kiss. He explored her mouth thoroughly and well, his hands roaming over her back and resting against her bum as he tried to get closer.

  “Stay,” he murmured. “I want you right now.”

  Abby rested her hands on his chest. “Chelsie—”

  “—will understand and go to a movie,” he finished. Abby felt him smile against her skin as he kissed her jaw. “It’s how we work.”

  “Jason.” Abby grasped his wrists and held his hands still. “It’s not how I work. I don’t catch quickies while the roommate is out.” She smiled at him, trying to lighten the sudden tension. “Hazard of dating an older woman, I’m afraid. I outgrew relishing that kind of thing a while ago.”

  Jason chuckled. “Message received. Can we try this again when there’s time to enjoy?”

  Abby felt guilty; the possibility of an audience wasn’t the only reason she was going home. “When do you leave again?”

  “Day after tomorrow. New York, this time, I think. Chelsie keeps track of that stuff. Don’t suppose you’d like to come?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t afford the trip, not on two days’ notice. I have the tiny artist crew too.” His face fell, and Abby rubbed his arm. “Tell you what. How about we have a victory party on the beach behind my house after you get back? Beer, food, music.”

  The smile returned to his eyes, and he swept Abby’s helmet off the ground, put it back on her head, and buckled it before starting for his own bike.

  “Hey, you don’t have to do that,” she said. “You’ve been on the damned thing all day. Give your seat a rest. I can make it home all right by myself.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, relief evident.

  “I was riding a bike before you were born, sonny,” she joked. Jason chuckled and picked his bike up, resting the top bar on his shoulder. “It’s not even dark.”

  “Call me when you get home, so I won’t worry?” he asked, walking backward toward his door.

  Grinning and nodding, Abby clicked one shoe into its pedal and started down the road with a wave before setting the other shoe in place. The ride home was relaxing, and she started to understand the high Sarah and Jason seemed to get from riding.

  The sight of a faded Jeep at the curb in front of her house made her wobble and nearly tip over. Finally remembering how to get her foot off the pedal, she caught herself and extracted her other foot, pushing the bike up the driveway as she listened to the sound of a drill.

  Matt put a final screw into the shiny new brass hinge of the front screen door and turned the drill off, smoothing his hand over the fresh redwood into which it was now firmly anchored.

  “Hey, Handy Manny, what’s up?” Abby called from the foot of the stairs. Matt smiled down at her, his eyes narrowing as th
e lines around them deepened.

  “You said this needed fixed, and I had a free afternoon.” Matt descended to stand in front of Abby. “Your wood was rotting, so I replaced the jamb and reattached the screen. No biggie.” He’d put on a shirt since she’d seen him last, though it was only half-buttoned. The urge to straighten the placket and maybe brush his skin was strong.

  Matt sat on the bottom step. “Have fun today?”

  Unbuckling her helmet, Abby set it beside her as she sat next to Matt, their shoulders brushing. “The view was nice. I could do without the brain bucket and the funny shoes.” She yanked them off and glared at them before dropping them beside the helmet.

  Matt took one of her hands, sweeping his thumb back and forth across her knuckles. “I have an idea,” he said. “I have to work with—what did you call her? Biker Barbie?” He snorted laughter, and Abby joined in. “I have to work with Zoe tomorrow, but how about you come surfing with me the next day? No helmets, no shoes…” Abby hesitated. “Come on, Pretty. You let Jason demonstrate his sport. Let me show you mine.” They both laughed at Matt’s unintended innuendo, and he squeezed her hand. “What do you say?”

  Rising to her feet, she tugged Matt until he stood too. It was time to fish or cut bait, as her dad would have said.

  “I say okay. What do you say to dinner?”

  Matt grinned and followed her into the house.

  Chapter Seven

  SLIDING INTO THE DRIVER’S SEAT, Matt smiled again as a denser darkness appeared in the shadowed porch. Though the evening couldn’t have been less like his normal routine, it had felt comfortable to spend time with Abby and Sarah. He waved, and Abby waved back. Driving away this time was far more satisfying than it had been a day before, when he’d almost hit a parked car while watching Jason pull Pretty into his arms. Who could blame Matt for tooting the Jeep’s horn? Their PDA was a hazard to unsuspecting drivers.

  He hurried into his house a few minutes later, eager to transfer his latest impressions of Abby to the raw clay that lay under a damp cloth in the studio. The sculpture’s left arm, upraised to hold her mass of hair atop her head, was essentially finished, though Matt made a few refinements based on the way Abby had brushed her hair off her neck at dinner. Her right arm, reaching out before her, was just emerging from the clay. He used his mental picture of Abby’s arm as she pulled the refrigerator door open as a guide, and soon lost himself in his work. He ended up dropping into bed just as the sun was rising, and he didn’t move until Chris knocked on his door to let him know Zoe was in the studio and already stripped down.