by Meg Maguire
Fallon accepted her glass. “Thanks. For that too.” She pointed to her drying clothes and the fireplace. Max’s eyes in the darkness were like passages to a black, fascinating, unknown destination.
“Not a problem.” He meandered to the opposite end of the tub and set his glass on a stack of books. He sank to his knees, resting his arms on the rim of the tub above Fallon’s feet, his chin on his crossed wrists.
She sipped her wine. “You’re staring.”
“And you’re naked.”
“That’s nothing new to you.”
“Do you see a chisel in my hand? Am I working?”
She bit her lip. “Oh. So if you’re not working this is suddenly sexual?”
He merely smiled, his eyes roaming over her shoulders and knees above the surface.
“And this.” She held up the glass. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“To what end?” she asked, trying to downplay how shameless she found his honesty.
Max shrugged. “Maybe you’ll answer questions. Maybe you’ll stay the night, in my bed. By yourself, of course.”
“Oh?”
“And tomorrow my sheets will smell like you.”
Fallon stared into her wine. “I want to know something about you.”
“Shoot.”
“I only know a little about your life before you moved here. How were you discovered so young?”
He took a deep drink and nodded, somber. “Well, I was discovered, as you put it, shortly after my mother died. She is the reason I am how I am, I think. And my father as well, in a more obvious sense.
“In our village, he was the monument maker. He made gravestones, mostly. His father too. Very glamorous, yes? And maybe I would have as well, if things hadn’t turned out the way they did.” He stood to retrieve the bottle and refill his glass.
“So,” he continued. “I am twelve. My mother has been sick for several years—a degenerative neurological disease. She is an angel, my mother. I know, that sounds so Catholic of me, and I am such a poor Catholic now. But she was everything to me. For the last three years of her life, she lost her eyesight, gradually, until she was totally blind. Some hearing too, and she communicated through touch, you see?” He held his hands up, fanning his fingers out, then took another deep drink.
“I’m beginning to,” Fallon offered.
“So, my mother dies.” He knelt again, closing his eyes for a moment and crossing himself in a reflexive fashion. “And my father is too distraught to make her gravestone, so I do it. I had never carved marble before, not even granite. I only watched, ever, and handed my father tools. And I carve her not only a stone, but a statue.”
“An angel,” Fallon said, picturing the haunting monument from the newspaper article.
“Exactement. It consumed me, for perhaps two weeks. No food, no sleep. Like a possession, almost. And they did a story about it in the village paper, and someone in Rennes hears. Then Paris. Then suddenly, I am being taken away to London. My father, he insisted, otherwise I would have stayed. And before you know it, I am in New York.”
“Which you hated,” Fallon said as he paused to refresh her glass.
He nodded. “I did, but I didn’t realize that right away. It took me many years to understand that success and fame are not synonymous. Or even desirable.
“My father, he gave up, after my mother died. They were very close, my parents. Always very much in love, even when she was too sick to leave her bed. He went downhill for the next decade. I was making good money, then. Too much money, really, but it was no help. When he passed some years ago, I saw it coming. I went back to France for several months to be with him as he died, and I looked around and I said to myself, what am I doing in this life? And that was when I left New York for good.”
“Is it true…the rumors that you faked a heroin problem?” Fallon felt nervous asking that, felt raw having this conversation and seeing Max as more than two-dimensional, as more than a footnote in this bizarre chapter of her life.
He laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “It was nothing so elaborate as that. I left, and people demanded to know why. I was fed up with everything to do with the art scene. I said all sorts of things. I was sarcastic. I said yes, I am going to rehab. I am joining a cult. I am having a sex change. Anything but admit that I was grieving and disillusioned, that I couldn’t take the pressure anymore. The heroin lie stuck, though I never really tried to make anyone believe it. It was a joke to me, because you have no idea how little these people actually care. They probably wished I would overdose, so my work would be worth more. Plus, you know, I wasn’t so innocent with drugs then. It wasn’t such a stretch, that rumor. Compared to the others.”
“I see. So you haven’t lived in France for…over twenty years?”
He nodded.
“You’ve still got a heck of an accent.”
“I know. When I first left, I didn’t speak very much. Not English or otherwise. I didn’t need to, and I didn’t particularly want to. I wanted to be left alone, though that was not to be. Plus everyone in the classical art world, they’re always so eager to show off their French. But you’re right, I haven’t done a very good job assimilating.”
“That’s okay. It’s sort of charming… It goes,” she said, waving her hand to encapsulate Max as a package. She stared at him a long time, sipping her wine, watching his black eyes glittering across the water into hers. He trailed a lazy hand through the surface, making the refracted firelight bounce and shatter, and finally looked away.
“What is this?” Fallon asked.
Max met her gaze again and his lips tightened. “This?” He pointed a finger at himself, the tub, Fallon, the fire.
“Yeah, this.”
“Your clothes are drying. We’re warming you up,” he said, sinister.
Fallon shook her head, exasperated but deeply enjoying flirting with him, thanks mainly to the alcohol. “You’re a very bad man.”
“Oh? And what sort of man do you prefer?”
“Romantically?” She thought for a moment. “Safe men, I guess.”
Max looked amused, flicking his fingers in the water, his smile in the firelight pure mischief. “Safe men? Who are these safe men you speak of?”
“You know. Responsible guys. Reliable guys with normal jobs and student loans and mortgages. And golden retrievers.”
“And what am I then?” He grinned deeply, clearly pleased to be in a separate camp from the breed of male she was talking about. “Unsafe? Dangerous?” He reached both arms into the water and took hold of her toes.
“You’re…I don’t know, Max. You’re something different.” A tide of intimacy seeped over her and he caught it too.
“That is the first time you’ve addressed me by my name.”
“Yes, well. I’m quite tipsy.”
“Too tipsy to walk back to your cottage?”
“I’m not going to sleep with you. Literally or figuratively.”
“I know.”
“You’re probably not used to hearing that.” She hated the bitterness that edged her voice.
His brows rose. “Pardon?”
“I bet you sleep with all your models, don’t you?”
He drew his arms out and slumped to one side, propping his chin on a wet hand on the tub’s rim, looking puzzled. “You sound like that Carly Simon song. And you might be surprised by how many of my models I’ve slept with.”
Fallon fell silent, knowing the flirtation had cooled. Her fault. Against the many windows, tiny winged bodies struck like raindrops.
Max stared thoughtfully across the studio and didn’t speak for several minutes.
“You are a biologist,” he said eventually, looking squarely at her. “The moths. Why are they forever slamming into the glass, trying to get to the light?”
“Because of the moon.” She felt the bath go tepid. “It’s called phototaxis. A lot of people think they use the moon to navigate. Man-made lights s
crew with their orientation.”
“They’re trying to fly to the moon?”
“Not to the moon. Toward it, I guess. But when they bump into a window or a porch light, they get confused.”
“Interesting.”
“I suppose.” She shivered. “The water’s getting cold. Do you have a towel?”
“Of course.” He made a quick trip up to the loft and turned away politely to stoke the fire as Fallon left the water for the cool air.
“What do you normally sleep in?” he asked once she was dry and safely shrouded.
“Boxers and a T-shirt.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
She followed him up the staircase, the metal slats like a stony beach under her bare feet. She peered around the dimly lit landing. Max had a smallish bed, a double, covers a mess. The loft was angled sharply on both sides beneath the roof, with just enough room leftover for a bedside table and a small dresser. Too oddly shaped to be of any other use, the triangular corners were piled with books. He dug through a drawer and handed her a threadbare tee and stood close, waiting.
Determined not to appear prudish in light of their increasingly blurry relationship, Fallon dropped her towel and tugged the shirt on, grateful it fell safety past her butt. Max made no attempt to hide the fact that he was watching her. And enjoying it.
She sat at the edge of his rumpled bed. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
She glanced behind her, measuring the mattress and its implications with her eyes.
“We could share. Just don’t try anything.”
“Is that okay with you?”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t. Our boundaries are so messed up anyway. And we’re both single. I don’t mind. But like I said, don’t try anything.”
“Can I suggest things?” he asked, grinning.
She laughed to herself, shaking her head. “Jesus, Max.”
“I like it when you say my name.” He took a seat beside her. “Do you think we’re friends?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” She turned away and suddenly she could smell him. In the linen and pillows and right there, next to her. His shirt was soft on her clean skin. She felt his fingers on the nape of her neck and turned to him.
“That time your tag really was out,” he said.
Their eyes flickered together for a moment, and she could feel the question of a kiss crossing each of their minds. Max put a hand to her damp hair and pressed his lips against her temple.
He pulled away. “I have to tidy up a few things. I’ll be up shortly.”
Fallon lay down, feeling his weight lift from the mattress and the vibrations as he descended the steps. She buried her face in his pillow and breathed him in.
Max spent ten minutes pretending to care about the state of his home. He tidied the kitchen and added enough firewood to keep the studio warm for another hour, let the vagrant cat in when it mewed at the back door. He did these things without thought, the whole time vexed by the question of what might happen when he joined Fallon in his bed. He thought of how rattled she’d been the morning after he’d hit on her during the walk back to her cottage. He didn’t want that to happen again. But he wanted so many other things far worse.
By the glow of the fire he climbed the staircase, finding Fallon beneath the covers, curled on her side facing the open studio, eyes shut. The light played across her face until his shadow passed over it, making him feel predatory.
He sat and kicked his shoes aside, stripped off his socks and sweater, and lay down alongside her in his jeans and undershirt, safely above the covers.
“Fallon,” he whispered, knowing she wasn’t asleep.
“Yeah?”
“What is that stupid English term for when you lie back-to-front with someone?”
“What? Spooning?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“I guess that is a stupid term.”
“May I spoon you?” he asked, grin unseen but probably audible.
She sighed theatrically and didn’t answer right away. “Yeah, fine. But stay above the covers.”
He complied happily, turning and wrapping an arm around her cocooned waist, resting his head so his mouth was close by her ear.
“Thank you,” he whispered and he felt her shudder in a tiny, pleasurable way. Her damp hair smelled of some long-forgotten seaside. “Just pretend I am Gene Kelly.”
Another sigh. “Good night, Max.”
“Fais de beaux rêves.”
Fallon woke at an indeterminate dark hour, long after the heat and the light of the fireplace had died. Max’s strong arm was clamped tight around her middle, though he’d made no further attempts to come on to her.
“Max?” She turned her head toward him. “Max?”
He made a sleepy mmmm sound.
“It’s cold.”
“Sorry. I’ll start the fire again.” He untwined his arm and made to rise.
“No no—I’m fine. I mean aren’t you cold? Do you need some covers?” she asked carefully.
His reply was equally cautious. “That’s up to you.”
“It’s okay.”
She held her breath as he accepted the offer, rolling over and slipping beneath the comforter. Fallon tugged the long shirt down her hips. Against her bare legs she felt his denim-clad ones, felt the cool metal of his belt buckle through the cotton at the small of her back. He wrapped his arm around hers, skin to skin.
He spoke against her neck. “Is this still okay?”
“Yeah, it’s okay.” Lord knew why. She always prickled at his touch, though this time it felt like electricity, not alarm. His warm hand cupped her clasped ones in front of her heart and she felt one of his silver rings click against hers.
“You feel good.” His voice was low—sleepy or seductive, she wasn’t sure which. A very strong part of her wished it was the latter. The same part wished he wasn’t wearing jeans so she could feel whether or not he was turned on. She wished he was. She wished he was wearing nothing so she could feel his strong leg slide between hers, feel his erection brush the insides of her thighs. She wanted to hear what noises he’d make when he found her already wet for him. She blushed, wondering whose thoughts these were.
“Fallon?”
Her eyes opened slowly, taking in red—Max’s comforter. Oh God.
She sat up, bumping into him where he sat behind her back. “Sorry. Hey.”
“I see you slept all right, then.”
She turned to find him already dressed for his morning run. “What time is it?”
“Only eight thirty. Keep sleeping if you want. But I didn’t know if you needed to go back to your cottage before the sitting begins…?”
“No, as long as my clothes are dry.” She did her best to sound as casual as he did. She’d only had a handful of lovers, all of them boyfriends, and she’d never suffered a properly ambiguous morning-after before this one.
“What do you normally have for breakfast?” Max asked. “Should I pick something up on my run?”
“Um, cereal, usually. Or oatmeal?”
He nodded. “I have that. Good. Anything else? More cream?”
“That’d be nice, thanks. My bag’s by the door if you want cash.”
He glanced at her, eyes crinkling faintly with some breed of fondness. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.” He put a hand on the back of her head and brushed his lips against her temple, looking uncharacteristically shy as he pulled away. “See you soon.”
“See you.” She sat still, looking down into the studio until the back door closed behind him. She released an almighty exhalation then toyed with the idea of calling Rachel. It would be seven thirty in New York, and she’d probably be preparing for another tough week at work. No. As much as Fallon would have liked a kind, female voice to assure her she shouldn’t be panicking, she could handle this by herself.
Max had left her clothes at the end of the bed. As she dressed sh
e wondered how it was so many of her friends could do casual dating. How often did they wake up in situations like this—well, not like this—with people they didn’t know all that well, not knowing how they felt about those people or how those people felt about them? She couldn’t imagine doing it herself with any regularity. And she’d only slept with Max in the most technical of senses.
Downstairs, she found the cat sitting pointedly at the door and let it out. The studio was odd without Max…like a grocery store without any music or a living room without windows. Something elemental was missing.
She grabbed her eyeglasses from her bag and went to the bathroom. She considered using Max’s toothbrush then decided it was one intimacy too far. Instead she smeared toothpaste on a clean washcloth and used that, rinsing it thoroughly after. She peeled off her sticky contact lenses and washed her face, studying it in the mirror. Her freckles were fading with the close of summer. She wondered where the past few weeks had gone.
She wandered around the studio, lost. She poked through Max’s metal shelves, among the tools and books and supplies and the many, many clay studies he’d created of hers and other people’s bodies. They weren’t polished and perfect like his finished statues, merely sketches—rough and gestural, quick and intuitive. Sometimes Max didn’t even look at his hands as he worked.
On one shelf stood a long line of black Moleskine notebooks, perhaps close to a hundred of them, all identical save for the different dusty finger marks smudging the spines. Fallon pulled the leftmost one down and opened it. Sketches in Max’s elegant style. Pencil, charcoal, ink. Dated close to seven years prior. The drawings on this page were of a woman with a severely hunched back and a pronounced nose. Beautiful images of the ugly. So Max, as she was coming to realize.
“You’re a strange man,” she murmured and replaced the sketchbook.
She climbed back up the staircase to peruse the ramshackle library piled in the corners of the loft. Lots of books but sadly most of them in French. On the table beside the bed, beneath an old analog alarm clock, lay another sketchbook.