The Genius and the Muse

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “It just feels weird… Chris.” Kate visibly grimaced when she said her professor’s first name.

  Chris Bradley and his wife Deepali were both Foothill graduates. He was a professor; she was a commercial photographer. Both were in their mid-thirties and would often invite graduate students over for meals on the weekends. Those evenings had been some of Kate’s favorite memories of art school, and she knew that she would miss both Professor Bradley and Dee when she finished her thesis that summer.

  Chris Bradley just laughed and shook his head. “You can call me Professor if you must. Even though it makes me feel old.”

  Kate gave him her best smart-ass grin. “You are old, Professor Bradley.”

  “You do remember I have control over your graduate requirements, right?” He narrowed his brown eyes. “I foresee the need for a new grad student to teach the Intro to Digital Photography seminar very soon. There’s one coming up in a few weekends, in fact.”

  “Young, I mean. You’re so young to be a professor here, Chris. Didn’t you just graduate a few years ago?” She plastered an innocent smile on her face, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Besides, I will be out of your clutches very soon, Professor Chris. You will have no power to inflict me on freshmen and retirees in a few months.”

  She may have called him “professor,” but Chris Bradley was more friend than teacher to Kate, no matter how she addressed him. She knew his patient mentoring had taught her to be a better photographer. His passionate emphasis on the basic elements of photography had given her an appreciation and thorough knowledge of aspects she would have otherwise skimmed over in her enthusiasm for new techniques. In addition to that, Kate knew he and Dee had looked out for her personally, and she would always think of them as friends.

  Nevertheless, Kate sighed. “Seriously, Prof—Chris, why are you making me take this history course? It’s dead boring… despite your riveting presentation, of course.”

  “Oh, of course.” He chuckled. “Pay attention, Kate. You can learn a lot from history. It informs everything we do as artists. Our vision is formed by our past.”

  “I thought our vision is what we want to see in the future.”

  “It’s both, of course.” He ran his fingers through messy brown hair and kicked his chair back. “Our history informs what steps we take toward the future. We can no sooner dismiss our past than we can dismiss the medium we choose to express ourselves through as artists.”

  Kate whispered, “Yes, Master Jedi.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “So young,” he said. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”

  “And moving along with the theme of ‘figuring it out,’ I have some questions for you on the aperture settings I was using in that canyon shoot. Can you take a look?”

  The two photographers launched into a discussion of light and shadow, wrapped in the technical jargon of digital photography. Kate did all of her work in digital medium. She loved the freedom it gave her to manipulate images and experiment with different effects. In her opinion, it was also easier to process. Instead of spending hours in a darkroom peeling the skin off her hands with water and chemicals, she ruined her eyes with hours spent in front of a computer monitor. Art, she knew, would always take a toll, whether it was calluses or eye strain. Kate had picked eye strain.

  They argued and debated back and forth for forty-five minutes as they studied her proofs. By the end of their appointment, Kate and Chris were both drained, and it was nearing lunch time.

  Professor Bradley asked, “Want to join me? I packed leftovers from dinner last night.”

  Kate’s eyes lit up. “Did Dee cook?”

  “Of course. Why do you think I brought the leftovers? It’s chicken biryani.”

  “Yes, please!” Kate grabbed her binder from the desk, inadvertently knocking over a picture on her professor’s desk along with a half-empty coffee cup. “Oops, sorry. Let me help.”

  She quickly bent to her backpack to retrieve some napkins she’d stuffed there the day before. Turning back, she started to mop up the coffee as Chris did the same on his side. Luckily, he was a fairly organized teacher, so his desk wasn’t littered with anything other than lens caps and a few filters.

  Kate picked up the picture she’d knocked over, turning it to wipe off the front where it had fallen in the spill. It was a color snapshot of a group of young people sitting on the porch of an old log cabin she’d never really noticed before. Looking more closely, she realized she recognized some of the people in the picture.

  She grinned. “Is this you and Dee?”

  Chris glanced up to see her holding the frame. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Yes, we were still in school. Maybe… seven or eight years ago? We must have been about your age when that was taken.”

  Kate smiled and looked over the young faces in the picture. There was Dee and Chris. A tall African-American woman who looked vaguely familiar and a laughing blonde with messy hair. Sitting beside her professor and his wife was one other couple with their arms wrapped around each other.

  “Is that—” Kate paused and squinted, unsure of who she thought she was seeing. “Is that Reed O’Connor with you?”

  O’Connor’s piercing blue gaze stared into the lens. Kate hadn’t known he had blue eyes. He was rarely photographed in public, and when he was, he always wore dark glasses.

  “Yes, that’s Reed. I thought you knew we went to school together. We graduated the same year, in fact.”

  Kate had never seen a picture of him from his past, even though she’d looked through old yearbooks in the library. The few pictures of the photographer she’d seen had all been taken in the last few years, since his photography had become nationally known. And he was always alone. Even in group pictures, he seemed to hold himself separate.

  She looked again. O’Connor’s dark hair was longer in the snapshot and curled a little as it fell around his ears. A messy dusting of stubble was visible on his jaw. Though he wasn’t smiling, there was a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth as if he was restraining himself from breaking into laughter at whoever was holding the camera.

  She shook her head. “You know, I never really thought about it. You look like you were friends.” Kate narrowed her gaze at her advisor. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We… uh, we were friendly.” Chris chuckled. “But I wouldn’t call us friends. He and Dee were friends. Though he did steal my girlfriend once.”

  Kate’s mouth gaped in shock and she looked back at the picture. “What? But Dee—you’re with Dee here.” She stopped and frowned. “I’m confused.”

  Chris just laughed. “It’s not what you’re thinking, and ‘girlfriend’ is an exaggeration.” He paused. “I’m not talking about me and Dee. I’m talking about Sam, the blonde.” He nodded toward the picture in her hand, and Kate looked again.

  “She and I only went out a few times. Sam and Dee were roommates; that’s how we met. Honestly, I had a bit of a thing for Dee as soon as Sam introduced us. And then, when Sam met Reed… Well, it all worked out for the best. Sam was nuts about Reed, and I was nuts about Dee. I may have played up my heartbreak a little bit for sympathy, but I was actually pretty happy.” He winked at her shocked expression.

  “Dee fell for that?”

  “I tried my hardest to seem heartbroken and in need of comfort, but I’m pretty sure she saw through it.”

  “So, who is this in the picture with O’Connor? Her name was Sam?” Kate cocked her head and studied it. “She looks… kind of familiar, now that I think about it.”

  “Sam’s a nickname. I’m sure you’ve heard of her. She’s pretty well known in Southern California. A painter. Still works around here. Her professional name is Samantha Rhodes.”

  “S. Rhodes.” Kate gasped in realization. “The hand…”

  The hand that Sam Rhodes has sketched so many years before. The same hand in the mysterious O’Connor portrait. She looked between the photographer and the painter in the picture. The h
and in the sketch and the photograph belonged to O’Connor. It had to. Was the woman in the photograph this painter? Kate couldn’t tell from the photograph, but suddenly she felt a spark of curiosity start to burn.

  Chris leaned forward. “Hand? What hand?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. So they dated, huh? O’Connor and this painter?”

  “Oh, yes. They were together for… about six years, I think. And they were magnetic, the two of them. So much talent. They just drew people around them. Dee’s the one that introduced them; she and Reed knew each other from when they were kids.”

  “Wasn’t that weird?” Kate cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, when you broke up? Also, how did I not know that Dee was friends with the guy I’m writing about for my thesis?”

  Chris shrugged. “It wasn’t, really. Sam and I were never serious. Nothing like she and Reed were. And he’s very private. Dee respects that. She doesn’t talk about their friendship much outside of our group of friends.”

  “The people here?”

  “Yes, that’s me and Dee, of course. Vanessa Allensworth, the painter. And… that’s Susan beside her.” Chris laughed. “I think she’d just finished firing the kiln they had at the cabin. She’s a potter. And then Sam and Reed, of course. So, yeah, that’s most of us.”

  “Wow.” Kate frowned. “That’s so unexpected.”

  “What part?” he laughed. “That I had friends or that I dated someone other than my wife?”

  “No, not that!” She blushed, finally setting the picture down, though she faced it toward her on the desk so she could study it. “You never read about Reed O’Connor being involved with anyone. Or even friendly with anyone. He’s like this photographic mystery man. He kind of comes across as a hermit.”

  Chris folded his arms across his chest. “Reed is… He had a lot of people he was friendly with, though not too many I’d say he really called friends. He was always pretty aloof except with a few people. He’s very fond of Dee. I know they still keep in contact. He’s close friends with Javier Lugo, the sculptor. Javi’s the one who took that picture, actually. And then… well, Sam was on another level entirely.”

  Kate tore her eyes from O’Connor to examine the blond woman in the photograph, studying her dark eyes and open smile. She had dramatic features that wouldn’t be considered classically beautiful, but would probably photograph well. Her nose was a bit too long for her face, and her jaw was strong. She looked joyful and bursting with life, in complete contrast to the solemn man behind her. She sat on the steps in front of the cabin, and the lanky photographer sat behind her. She smiled as she leaned into him. Her head tilted in his direction, though her eyes stayed on the camera, and O’Connor’s legs stretched out on either side of her as his head dipped toward hers.

  The two artists were both eye-catching, a study in contrasts. O’Connor’s hair was almost black, hers was a rich gold. His eyes were a vivid blue, and hers were a warm brown. Even their skin contrasted as they twisted their limbs together, and her warm sun-kissed tan glowed against his pale arms. Despite all that, the two seemed to meld together. Their arms and legs twisted in a way that made it hard to tell where he ended and she began.

  “They’re gorgeous,” Kate murmured.

  She caught her professor’s curious look out of the corner of her eye. “They were. Like I said, they were magnetic. Both of them were so brilliant. Very talented. They were… each other’s muse, I think.”

  “Really?” She frowned. “I’ve never heard of O’Connor using one model exclusively. Or even habitually.”

  “That’s not exactly what I mean. Partly, but not exactly.” He paused before he continued. “I think, Kate, if you really want to understand Reed O’Connor, you have to understand Samantha Rhodes.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What are you saying?”

  Chris smiled and offered an enigmatic shrug. “I’m saying you can learn a lot from history.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Claremont, California

  March 2000

  “Could someone tell whatever large person who is standing behind me to get the hell out of my light?”

  The tall shadow didn’t move, but stayed, hovering behind her as she tried to smooth the sepia oil with her pinky finger. Annoyed, Sam finished the last sweep of the tree trunk she was working on and turned to glance over her shoulder. Meeting only a broad male chest covered by a Blink 182 concert shirt, she lifted her gaze to a pair of intense blue eyes and a cocky smirk.

  “Beautiful,” he said.

  “Really? There’d be more of it to like if you would move your ass out of my light.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the painting.”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Does that line actually work for you?”

  The stranger stuck his hand out. “I’m Reed O’Connor, Deepali’s friend.”

  Sam looked at his hand, but left it there hanging as she wiped her hands absent-mindedly on a dirty rag.

  “I figured. Is Dee back already? I didn’t hear her come in.” Sam looked around the man’s shoulders toward the door, which was hanging open. Their whole building had a fairly open-door policy, but usually, only residents roamed the halls.

  She squinted up at the tall man. “Did someone let you in?”

  “I just came from downstairs. I crashed at my friend’s place last night; I’m stumbling up here now. Javier Lugo. Short guy. Grumpy, doesn’t talk much? He moved in a couple of weeks ago.”

  She nodded and tried unsuccessfully to scrape the paint from under her fingernails. “Huh. Sculptor, right? Metals? Is he a mechanic, too? That’s a nice apartment, by the way. His name’s Javier?”

  “He’s kind of all three. And call him Javi; he hates Javier. And I’m Reed. Like I said. Why didn’t you and Dee move into that place when it was empty? This building doesn’t have an elevator.”

  She continued to measure him with a slight frown as she cleaned up around her easel. Sam finally pointed toward the large skylights that covered the ceiling. “Light.”

  “Ah.” He nodded.

  She moved toward the small corner kitchen to get a drink of water and drop her brushes in the old soup cans filled with turpentine that lined the back of the counter. “So you just moved to town? And you’re going to Foothill, right? What are you studying? You and Dee grew up together?”

  “Sort of,” he replied vaguely. “And yeah, I’m studying photography. When is she going to be back?”

  Sam didn’t answer, but grabbed a glass from the counter and filled it, taking a long drink and glancing at the man who had settled on the small couch. Between Sam’s art equipment and Dee’s camera gear spread everywhere, the actual living area was pretty small, and Reed more than filled it with his presence.

  She narrowed her eyes, measuring him. Dee said he was good-looking, and she wasn’t exaggerating. If anything, she’d understated it. Reed O’Connor could have been a model. Sam guessed by the stretch of clothes over his body that he’d look pretty perfect without them. She squinted, mentally undressing him and posing him in different configurations.

  “You know, if you want to just hop in bed, I’m perfectly okay with that.”

  Sam looked at Reed, and her lip curled a little. “What?”

  “Well, you’re kind of looking at me like you’re imagining me naked. So I thought you might be, well…” He grinned at her from the couch. “Imagining me naked.”

  She continued frowning at him. “I was imagining you naked.”

  “No use wasting time, then. Where’s your bedroom?”

  Understanding finally broke through, and Sam scowled as she threw the paint-smudged rag at him. “Pervert. I want to sketch you. That’s why I’m imagining you naked.”

  He shrugged. “No problem. You can sketch me post-coitally any time you like.”

  “Excuse me?” Her eyebrows shot up.

  “Of course, you might be too exhausted after…” Reed trailed off with a thoughtful look. “Want to do it before? That could be a real turn o
n, if you think about it.” He stretched out his long legs and posed. “Very extended foreplay. I like it. Fine. I’ll extend the sketching invitation to pre-coital nudity as well. Is pre-coital a word?”

  “Wow. Dee wasn’t exaggerating about that part.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “What? What part? Dee and I haven’t ever… you know.” Reed made an obscene hand gesture as Sam rolled her eyes. “Strictly friends. Anything else would be weird. But I’m glad to know my reputation precedes me.”

  “No, she begged me not to kill you before she got back. She also begged me not to move out, since apparently you’re going to be around more,” Sam muttered, staring at him as he stretched out on the couch.

  Reed frowned. “Oh, well that’s not nearly as flattering. I am very good in bed, though, if you wanted to do a more careful study. For artistic purposes, of course.”

  His arms were long, but he was well-proportioned and his coloring was dramatic. If she painted him in color, would a neutral work best behind him? Maybe blue to compliment his eyes? She traced the length of his legs and wondered just how proportional he was before she caught herself.

  “I definitely want to paint you,” Sam said.

  “Getting messy with paint has definite possibilities, too; though the clean-up is something to consider.”

  She shook her head. “Are you always like this?”

  He gave a small, but surprisingly sincere, smile. “Honestly? No. Mostly I’m a moody asshole. But I just finished a big project, slept really well last night—which is unusual for me—and I’m really looking forward to seeing Dee, so this is me in a good mood.”

  “You’re in some kind of mood, all right,” she said under her breath. Her old-fashioned upbringing finally kicked in when she realized she hadn’t offered her guest anything to drink. “You want some water or something?” She took a long gulp from her own glass.

  He chuckled. “Are you always so polite?”

  She felt a small, inadvertent smile try to make an appearance, but she shoved it back. “No, usually I’m much more polite to company, but I forgot you were coming to meet Dee, and I got started working on something. Plus, you’ve hit me with at least three pick-up lines since walking through the door.”