Chapter 12 – Maura
MAURA
Ihaven’t been able to paint all day, and I’m starting to get antsy.
The contractors finally left the penthouse in the early afternoon, giving me five glorious moments alone in my beautiful new studio.
It turns out, they were doing more than installing more storage space.
They also widened the doorway, replacing the plain wood with double doors, finished in frosted glass.
It gives me even more light in the studio while still giving me privacy.
Looking at the open, beautiful space, all I wanted to do was put up a canvas and start mixing up my paint. The only problem was that I didn’t have any supplies to paint with.
I was just about to run down to an art store and grab some acrylics when the movers arrived, along with my boxes. My many, many boxes.
I failed to mention to James that when it comes to art supplies, I’m a bit of a hoarder. I’ve got hundreds of brushes in different sizes and textures. My paint collection is even bigger, a wide variety of hues in both acrylic and oil paints. Then, there are the minerals.
If I weren’t a painter, I’d probably be a geologist. Nothing gets me excited like holding a rock in my hand, feeling the weight of it and watching how the light falls on it.
Nothing makes my heart race like taking a hammer or a chisel to that rock, seeing how brittle or strong it is, watching how it falls apart and transforms. Transforming them into something new gives me a sense of control and creativity that’s intoxicating.
Which means I’ve acquired a lot of minerals, waiting to be turned into art.
Watching the movers lug my heavy boxes full of literal rocks, I couldn’t stop cringing in sympathy for their poor backs.
Maybe I should have sorted through them and done some decluttering.
Soon, the movers ran out of space to put the boxes in my studio, and the boxes started spilling out into the hallway.
Already, my promise to keep my mess inside the studio has been broken. Whoops. Hopefully, James won’t hold it against me. Hell, he might not even see the mess. It's not like he spends a lot of time hanging around the apartment.
My husband seems to operate in a time zone all his own, taking meetings at all times of the day.
According to his schedule, he slept last night between 1 a.m. and 5 a.m. I’m not even sure if he came back to the apartment, or if he just crashed on the couch in his office.
All I know is that when I woke up and peered in his bedroom, his bed was just as perfectly made as it was the night before.
I'm in the kitchen, making myself an overly complicated sandwich to fill the time, when the head mover joins me, wiping a rag across his sweaty forehead. Sweat from lugging my rocks around.
“Can I get you a glass of water or anything?” I ask guiltily.
“My guys and I are fine,” he reassures me. “And for the record, your husband’s a good tipper. Congratulations on your wedding.”
“Thanks.”
The movers trundle out, while I awkwardly wave at them from the kitchen counter, where I eat my sandwich standing up.
Finally, I'm alone in the apartment with my boxes and a plate full of crumbs. I’m still dying to paint, but there’s the tiny problem of the huge pile of boxes filling my studio.
I bite my lip, thinking. I should unpack first, but I’ve been dying to get to work all day, and I don’t want to wait any longer.
So what’s the big deal if I bring some rocks and a hammer into the kitchen?
It’s not like James will be home, anyway.
His schedule has him coming back at twenty minutes till midnight, for our purple-coded baby-making session.
I’ll just open the first box I see, I decide. If it has inspiring paint or stones, I’ll let myself work in the kitchen. If it's full of junk, that's the universe telling me to honor my half of the agreement.
When I rip up the box, I'm greeted by a dim rainbow. My face splits into a grin. After talking to a local jewelry maker, he agreed to sell me any flawed opals his suppliers sent him, anything with cracks or imperfections. Since I’m smashing them to dust anyway, it doesn’t matter to me.
Their opalescent shine can be useful mixed into any number of my paints.
Thanks, universe.
Right now, I’m somewhat limited by the kinds of stone I can use.
I don’t have the industrial equipment to crush or grind harder rocks, mostly because I have nowhere to put it.
Most large crushers are meant for construction sites, not breaking down individual stones for paint pigment.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to upgrade my setup, but for now, I make do with manual tools, even if they’re hell on my muscles.
It takes me some digging to find the box with my favorite crushing tools. I’ve got a set of variously sized hammers and a concrete slab to protect the floor. I’m not strong enough to lug it upstairs to my studio, but luckily, the balcony has a cement base.
I wrap myself in my wool coat and scatter the opals over a thick plastic sheet on the balcony. Pulling on my safety goggles, I raise my hammer and start crushing.
I quickly disappear into the flow. Colors and images move through my brain.
It's like this sometimes, when I don't have a firm idea.
My mind just throws some ideas out there, like twisting a Kaleidoscope, each flicker of stone suggesting an idea how I might use the rocks in front of me.
I focus on the movement of my hands and let my brain work.
When it forms a picture I know I have to paint, that's when I'll pause to make sure I remember it.
Sooner than I’d like, the spring chill turns my already-sore hands red and stiff. I retreat back to the kitchen with my half-crushed opals gathered in the plastic sheet. Once my hands are warm enough, I’ll transfer the dust so I can use my mortar and pestle to break it down to even smaller pieces.
I make myself a cup of tea while I contemplate how to use the opal.
I’ve mixed it with violet before to paint a shimmery twilight night, but I don’t want to repeat the same combination.
I have an ultra-black paint I’ve been eager to try.
Maybe I’ll mix a little when I’m done, just to see how it turns out.
When I pour the opal bits into the mortar, a bit spills over the edge, scattering like shimmering tears on the kitchen floor. I like the effect—maybe I’ll make some super-concentrated paint, trying to flatten the appearance of the opals.
I’m grinding the pestle down when the elevator doors open. I freeze. James isn't supposed to be back. I was supposed to have hours, hours to clean up the mess I'm currently making. Shit.
He's going to yell at me. It's what Victor would do. If I violate an agreement with him, it could mean half an hour of screaming—if I'm lucky. I'd rather face screaming than days of quiet, poisonous resentments and guilt. My father is an auteur when it comes to the silent treatment.
James strolls in, still wearing a full suit, pristine even after a full day of work. Meanwhile, I’m kneeling on the floor, covered in opal dust with my hair piled in a messy bun, wearing my favorite massive, paint-covered jumper.
My husband cocks his head. His expression is more curious than angry. “You're not in your studio.”
I shrug. “I got impatient?” I say weakly.
He shakes his head. “I suppose this is what I signed up for, marrying an artist.”
No yelling. Weird. “Sorry. I planned on cleaning up before you got home. You're early, according to your schedule.”
“I still have work today. I have reports to review before our session later.”
I sit back on my heels. “We have got to come up with a better word for our baby-making times than ‘session.’”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the least sexy word possible. It doesn’t exactly put me in the mood, thinking about a ‘session.’”
His lips quirk up at the side in a tiny, crooked smile. “What would you suggest instead? Meeting?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Absolutely not. Rendez-vous?”
“It makes me feel too pretentious speaking French. How about ‘date?’”
“I thought the whole point of marriage was that you got to stop dating.”
“That’s when ‘date’ refers to awkward conversation over burned coffee,” James says. “Our ‘dates’ involve a much more…rewarding activity.”
His eyes darken and dip to my lips. My tongue slips out to moisten them, and he follows the motion.
“If I didn’t have a call in ten minutes, I’d push our date up to right now,” he says, his voice dark and gravelly.
A shiver runs through my body. “We could get a lot done in ten minutes.”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have time to get you ready for what I want to do to you.”
Heat floods to my lower belly as I take in the implication of his words. I remember how carefully he had to stretch me to get me take all of his cock—and how intense it felt when I had all of him inside me.
Then James’s eyes flit back to the opal pieces littering the floor. He might have been polite about the mess, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. Especially with how little time it took me to break my promise to keep my mess in the studio.
“I promise, I’ll get all this cleaned up while you’re busy,” I tell him.
“Don’t bother. The staff can take care of it.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let them do that.” I shake my head. “It’s my mess.”
James raises his brows. “I pay them to clean both our messes, you know.”
“Yeah, but it would probably make Helga roll over in her grave.”
“Who?”
“Helga was our housekeeper when I was growing up. She’s probably the person I spent the most time with as a kid, which means she saw a bunch of my art project messes.
Finger paint on the refrigerator, watercolors on my bedroom walls, half-finished paper mache dripping all over the bathroom floor—she saw it all. ”
James chuckles. “So you were always creative—and always messy.”
“Yup. Anyway, when I turned seven, Helga decided enough was enough. If I made a mess, it would be my job to clean it. She handed me a sponge and a mop and told me to get to work. So if I left rocks all over your kitchen, I’d probably wake up to her hovering over my bed, glaring Germanly at me.”
His brows raise. “You believe in ghosts?”
“Not most ghosts. But if anyone could cross that mortal coil, it would be Helga.” I smile, remembering her narrowed eyes and fiery red hair, which she swore wasn’t dyed, despite its vibrance well into her seventies. “She had a way of making reality reflect her own desires.”
“My parents never made me clean,” James says thoughtfully. “They were strict about homework, but they figured that if they could afford to pay someone else well to take care of the house, they could spend the time with their family, instead.”
“That must have been nice.” I sigh. “Family time wasn’t exactly a priority for my father.”
James’s jaw clenches, just for a moment. “And that’s not what you want for your baby?”
“No. I want something more like what you had. That’s what I plan to give it.”
James’s mouth opens, but his phone rings before he can answer. “I’ll see you later, at our date,” he murmurs, before he picks up his call and strides away.