by Suzanne Clay
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
Painting Class
ISBN: 978-1-947139-18-3
Copyright © 2017 Suzanne Clay
Cover Art by Natasha Snow ©Copyright 2017
Edited by: Elizabetta
Published in 2017 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, NineStar Press, LLC.
Warning
This book contains sexually explicit content, which is only suitable for mature readers.
Painting Class
Chiaroscuro
Suzanne Clay
Table of Contents
Dedication
Painting Class
About the Author
For my honeybee and my falcon
“YOU LOOK LIKE you might need this.”
Ainsley looked at the glass of wine hovering in front of her and smiled at her deliverance. “Thank you, Brent,” she murmured, exhaling shakily as she lifted it to her lips. Sipping carefully, she let the bouquet bloom on her tongue and checked that she hadn’t left a lipstick stain on the glass. “No one told me it was going to feel like this.”
“What, success?” Brent chuckled as he fit against the wall beside her, his hand tucked into his pocket, his suit neatly tailored as always. “Yeah, I feel like you probably should’ve anticipated this.”
Ainsley shook her head. Her bangs fell in her eyes as she ducked behind the rim of her glass. “I wouldn’t call this success. It’s a gallery showing.”
“That happens to have an open bar, an excellent setting, and a room full of people analyzing your work.” He gave her a look. “Babe, please, you’ve got something in your hand here that not a whole lot of us get.”
“Jealous?” she asked as she met his eyes and quirked a brow, trying to hide the curve of her smile.
“Oh, miserable,” Brent said dryly. “No, yeah, I absolutely wish I’d gone this route and not the one that got me my giant house.”
“Ouch.” Ainsley elbowed him. “You know, some of us weren’t lucky enough to bag a rich husband right out of college.”
“And some of us weren’t lucky enough to have actual talent,” he shot right back. He tilted his glass toward one of Ainsley’s paintings. “You worked with what you had, and I worked with what I had. Turns out you had the drive, and I had a rockin’ bod. And y’know, I think it worked out pretty damn well for the both of us.”
Ainsley laughed as she leaned into him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but it got you smiling, didn’t it?”
It had. Ainsley was thankful for Brent, really. These little bursts of comedic cattiness were a mask he hadn’t worn around her since they were in college, but it made her feel young again, not like they were nearing forty and trying to figure out where their lives had gone.
“You’ve gotta get back out there, kid,” Brent murmured near her ear. “Schmooze with the best of them.”
“Can’t you do that for me?” she whispered back.
“Boy, I wish,” he drawled. He touched a hand to the small of her back and nudged her. “Go on; get yourself some exposure. Sell some of those paintings. I wanna see one of them hanging in Madonna’s house by the end of the year.”
“Or it’ll be a wasted year,” Ainsley quipped back. But she let Brent guide her onto the gallery floor anyway. It’d be easier to hide in the corner and let her batteries recharge, but it’d also be a shame to waste this opportunity, especially if this was going to be her only gallery showing ever.
Ainsley hadn’t regretted her time working as a teacher. She really hadn’t. If she had to choose between every one of her paintings on the walls here and the thousands of students who’d come through her door, she’d pick the students a million times over. In her younger days as an undergrad, when she would quietly set up in a studio, picking the perfect paints for her canvas and thrilling herself with the feel of a brush in her hands, she might’ve said she craved the life of a gallery artist. But she’d changed. It felt like too selfish a life.
Should she have believed her art would change the world? She valued beauty. She valued a high aesthetic. Her statements were softness, silence, and warmth. And she’d be a fool if she pretended these were anything unique or groundbreaking. No, Ainsley found it more important to empower the next generation to create whatever statements they chose in whatever medium they preferred.
Still, Ainsley liked scratching things off her bucket list as much as the next person. She never imagined this show happening when she’d reached out on a whim, but it had, and now that she was here, she might as well soak it all up.
She approached her favorite piece, a lush field of flowers and two couples having a picnic within it. The two men were dressed in soft bowlers and fine suits, and the women, on their separate blanket, were lovely with their parasols and lace. Each couple had their hands gently knitted together between them, and their backs were to the viewer as they sat considering the sunset.
Perhaps she made more of a statement than she believed.
“Man, that’s really something.”
Ainsley smiled at hearing the soft voice behind her, at how low it was, how warm. It sounded exactly like she wanted her paintings to feel. She wondered if the speaker knew she was the artist and decided to take the risk they didn’t. But when there was no immediate response, no one the speaker had been sharing their thoughts with, Ainsley turned to take a look. A young woman stood there in a bright sundress. Her hair was teased out in a dyed green afro that played off the hazel of her eyes beautifully.
She was lovely. Ainsley immediately felt the itch in her fingers to paint again. It felt like coming home, but she couldn’t place why.
Ainsley smiled at the woman and inclined her head. “Thank you,” she said, looking back at her work. “I enjoyed painting it.”
“I bet you did.” The woman approached until she was shoulder to shoulder with Ainsley. She smelled like wildflowers paired with a rich musk that stirred warmth in Ainsley’s chest. “I can feel your passion in it.”
“Mmm.” Ainsley had another sip of her wine. This was nice, not being hounded by a camera, not having an interview demanded of her. Just conversing with a patron, studying her work and sharing her thoughts on it.
“What inspired you to paint it?”
Ainsley considered her response. Being frank in a published interview was one thing. Being open with only one person was another. Besides, the woman looked young, maybe in her early twenties, and didn’t that count as the next generation? Didn’t that count as someone Ainsley should empower if she could? “I got tired of seeing the same thing repeated over and over again,” Ainsley said quietly. “I wanted to see something romantic that suited my own sensibilities.”
The woman hummed in reply. It could have meant a few different things: either she didn’t understand Ainsley’s deeper confession, or she understood and disagreed with Ainsley’s sexuality, or she understood and felt the depth of Ainsley’s unconscious desire to keep that part of her private. “I can relate to that,” the woman finally said.
Ainsley looked at her again. There was something familiar about the line of her profile, the bridge of her nose, the fullness of her lips. Ainsley ached for a pen, felt the desperate urge to trace her silhouette. It’d been a while since she’d had
such a burst of inspiration.
The woman turned and looked at her, giving her a warm smile, and Ainsley let the weight of her words settle on her. Either she was speaking the same confession as Ainsley, or…
“Have you had a chance to look around yet?” Ainsley asked.
The woman shook her head. “Afraid I just got here.”
“Well.” Ainsley beamed. “Would you mind giving me your opinion on another piece?”
The woman flashed a row of bright teeth, her eyes sparkling. “No, I’d love that; are you kidding?”
“Excellent!” Ainsley could have played it safe, but she borrowed from the wine in her blood and reached forward to gently take the woman’s wrist and guide her along behind her. The woman’s skin was warm under Ainsley’s fingers, vibrant and distracting, and Ainsley almost walked past the painting she wanted to show her.
They both turned to face it together, and the woman took in a soft gasp. This piece was another favorite of Ainsley’s. A dark-skinned black woman was portrayed from behind, her bare back vivid with a brightly colored tattoo in blues and greens and oranges painted across it. Visions of oceans and forests and birds all blended together, melting off the canvas.
“What do you think?” Ainsley asked.
The woman stepped closer, narrowing her eyes to focus, and then shook her head. “I don’t think I can remember the last time I saw a woman this dark shown in a gallery.”
Ainsley stayed quiet, more than aware that her own skin was white as snow. It wasn’t necessarily a topic she could comment on without overstepping her privilege. “Art is too white,” she finally said. “It always has been.” She tilted her head to the side, remembering vividly the painstaking process of the intricate brushstrokes she’d made. It had been more important to her than ever before to depict the model accurately, from the texture of her hair to the color of her skin. “I hope I can inspire my students to change that. Preferably sooner than later.”
“I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” the woman said. There was palpable warmth in her tone—affection—and Ainsley met her eyes in surprise. “You’re an incredible teacher. And your work is some of the most inspirational I’ve ever seen from an aesthetic perspective alone. That might just be me, though.”
The realization hit Ainsley in waves. There was a reason this woman felt like some of the most familiar parts of home, and it was amazing how understanding that reshaped her features enough to reach deep into Ainsley’s memory. It was a wonder she’d misplaced her for even a moment. Countless sketchbooks and doodles suddenly raced through Ainsley’s mind, reminding her of a precocious high school freshman in braces and braids.
“Oh my God,” Ainsley murmured, eyes widening. “Noma?”
She grinned back. “Hey, Miss Edwards. Thought you’d forgotten all about me.”
Ainsley laughed and opened her arms, and Noma moved to embrace her. “That’d be impossible! How many of my classes did you take?”
“All I could fit into my schedule,” Noma said, giving a squeeze of her own with her arms. She didn’t seem like she was in a hurry to let go, and Ainsley didn’t fight it. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you.”
It wasn’t the first time Noma had sworn around her, but it was the first time Ainsley didn’t have to scold her, suggest detention, or a trip to the principal’s office, and the mere idea of it was enough to make her dizzy. “Good to see you too,” she said a little breathlessly, finally pulling back, feeling the tightness of Noma’s arms before she reluctantly let her go. “How long’s it been?”
“About four years,” Noma said with a laugh. “Four damn long years. I just got done with college.”
“You’re kidding,” Ainsley replied. “It can’t have been that long.”
“Got the degree to prove it,” Noma said, drawing herself up, puffing out her chest. She was beaming in the low gallery lights, striking and powerful and gorgeous, and Ainsley felt the force of her own pride almost rip her in half. “You’re looking at the next economist to take the world by storm.”
“Congratulations!” Ainsley shook her head in wonder. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Mrs. Gadhavi always used to brag about your scores in the teacher’s lounge.”
“That’s ’cause Mrs. Gadhavi wasn’t used to somebody who actually listened to her lectures about numbers,” Noma teased. “What about you, Miss Edwards? You brag about me once or twice?”
Ainsley laughed. “Maybe once.”
“C’mon,” Noma said with a laugh of her own. She reached out and gave a companionable little slap on Ainsley’s arm, but her fingers lingered for a moment, dragging over Ainsley’s sleeve. Ainsley realized for the first time that Noma’s smile hadn’t faded, that she was looking into Ainsley’s eyes as if they were a pair of prized jewels.
There was a little flutter in her chest, and it took a long moment before Ainsley realized she’d been holding her breath. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe the jacket she was wearing in a warm space, but she had to practically drag her gaze away lest Noma see the heat already coloring her cheeks.
“Hey,” Noma said quietly, coming close enough that their shoulders brushed. As tingles raced down her arm, Ainsley sipped her wine and told herself not to look. “You do photography too?”
Ainsley’s eyes flitted to the picture at the end of the row, large and detailed. “Very rarely,” she said with a chuckle. “Honestly, you should see the photos on my phone; they’re terrible.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” Noma caught Ainsley’s hand with her warm fingers, lacing them together, and drew her through the milling crowd. “Look at this. The lighting alone is fantastic.”
It took Ainsley a long second to remember how to breathe, to speak, to tug her fingers out of Noma’s hand before she got too used to the feel of them there. “That’s because I didn’t take the picture,” Ainsley said, gesturing to the placard next to it. “Friend of mine named Brent did. He’s a wonderful photographer.”
Noma whistled as she leaned in to see the picture better. “You must’ve done the painting, then. Is that body paint?”
“It is,” Ainsley said. She chuckled. “I almost feel embarrassed about you seeing that.”
“Why?” Noma asked. “It’s tasteful. You gotta squint to even see that she’s nude. And it’s gorgeous. You oughta be proud.”
She was. She was pleased as punch by how the photograph had turned out. She remembered sweating with nerves about if the paint would run under the hot lights, if the colors would show up well or require too much correction to make it a viable piece. But that wasn’t what she was embarrassed about. “I guess I’m a little embarrassed that I decided to show it at all,” she finally said. “Not just because of the nudity.”
“Why?” Noma leaned in closer, teasing and conspiring. “I’ll never tell,” she whispered. Her breath was warm against Ainsley’s cheek.
Ainsley bit her bottom lip and then belatedly remembered her lip gloss. Well, it was too late for that. “She was infatuated with me,” she said quietly. “The model. She was someone Brent knew through a friend’s figure study class. She posed for them quite a bit to pay for her own classes. Very young. Her figure fit the shape I wanted to paint on, so I met with her frequently while trying to decide what I wanted to create, and she…opened up to me. I was the first sapphic woman she’d met—besides herself—and I think that made her become a little too attached.” Ainsley considered the floral landscape she’d painted on the model’s back, how calm that experience had been compared with the difficulty of their parting. “She consented for this picture to be shown even after I turned her down as gently as I could, but it’s still a strange feeling, remembering how open and vulnerable she’d been with me.”
Silence stretched out between them. “She not your type?” Noma asked and then hesitated. “Too young?”
“I don’t fancy being someone’s experiment,” Ainsley said. “I was someone’s toy enough in college, thank you. No, if someone is interested in me, I want it
to be for my mind and my heart, not just the convenience of my orientation.”
In the following silence, only broken by the soft sounds of chatter around them, Ainsley considered the picture for a bit longer. She remembered standing shoulder to shoulder with Noma as they discussed her sketchbook, bent over Ainsley’s desk, the room empty while all the other students were at lunch. When Noma was a freshman. When she was so very young.
The weight of what she’d just revealed to Noma pressed down on her all at once, and she sucked in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what’s come over me,” Ainsley said quickly. “I didn’t need to share that with you; I’m sorry.”
“What’re you apologizing for, exactly?” Noma asked. “’Cause if it’s being honest and vulnerable, you don’t have to be afraid of that. I know it might be hard to accept, but we’re both adults now, Miss Edwards.”
“Ainsley, please,” she murmured. If she was going to tell her more personal secrets to Noma, then she couldn’t pretend to still have any authority over her.
Noma continued as if she hadn’t heard Ainsley, her gaze focused and intent. “I’m an older soul than I was when you taught me,” she said gently. “I’ve had experiences of my own. And I meant it when I said your secret’s safe with me.”
“Nevertheless…” Ainsley tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and finished off the glass of wine. She could continue being overly vulnerable and oversharing, or she could change the subject. “Why are you in town? I remember you being excited about going far away for college.”
“Six hours wasn’t far away enough,” Noma said dryly. “Think I’ll make my home in Massachusetts if I can get a good job there. Whole state started to feel more like home. But, y’know, all my family’s here, and some of them weren’t able to come down for my graduation, so I figured I’d come see them.”
“You’ll be here long?”
Noma looked at her, quirking a brow with a smile, and Ainsley felt the weight of her gaze, her own cheeks flushing in response.