Chapter 7
I lay in bed staring at the glass of water until almost noon. When my hunger eclipsed my discomfort and I marshaled the nerve to come downstairs, my father was nowhere to be found.
There were muffins and jam waiting on the kitchen table, and a note about hardboiled eggs in the fridge. I munched a black currant muffin and poured myself a mug of coffee. He’d made it strong, just how I liked it, though there was no way he could’ve known.
After breakfast, I showered and hand-washed my bra, left it to dry, then put on a fresh white tank and yesterday’s jeans, which were clean enough. I’d packed light so I wouldn’t have to check my bag at the museum. A few pairs of underwear and pants, some simple shirts, whatever I could fit in my laptop bag. I made a mental note to ask my father about the laundry situation as soon as I was able to look him in the face again.
My whole body knotted with embarrassment as memories from the previous night came flooding back. I had watched my dad masturbate, eavesdropped on an illuminating late-night phone call with my mother, stumbled upon some homemade porn they’d filmed when they were young, then made myself come imagining his hand between my legs.
It was beyond twisted. It was fucked-up. But the worst part, without a doubt, was him knowing I’d been in his room. Like a spaz, I had left my water glass on his bedside table. At minimum, he knew I had seen the porn.
Thankfully, there was no way for him to know I’d been spying on him, but that didn’t change the fact that I had, in fact, seen and felt things I shouldn’t have. That I’d stood captivated outside his bedroom door, watching him fuck his own fist.
Was I so desperate for his affection that I perverted innocent curiosity into something sick? Perhaps coming here had been a mistake. Maybe we were better off not knowing each other.
Still, there was the phone call to consider, and what parents had unwittingly revealed: that my mother, believing I was in danger, had asked him to abandon me, and he’d agreed to go. I needed answers, and my father was the only person who could give them to me.
I found the studio unlocked and empty. My father must’ve gone out. The layout was identical to the apartment across the hall, but with a lot less furniture. Four easels had been situated around what would’ve been the living room, all facing a futon that sat open in the center, layered with green and blue fabric. A plastic bin filled with colorful shrouds stood off to the side. Nearly every surface lay strewn with brushes and palettes, tubes of oil paint, and cans of odorless paint thinner.
I walked the perimeter of the room. On the table closest to the wall of windows, I found a sketchbook wedged beneath a set of canvas stretcher bars. Carefully, I teased the sketchbook out into the open, and went to sit on the futon. The first dozen or so pages contained sketches of random body parts: arms, hands, shoulders, calves. Some crossed out, others so faded they could’ve been made years ago.
I stopped flipping when I came across the model from last night, splayed out on the futon, naked, with her hand between her legs.
“Whoa.” My fingers twitched against the paper. I turned the page and there she was again on her stomach, then on her side. Pages and pages of her masturbating in various poses.
My breath stalled. I didn’t want to think about the circumstances surrounding these images. Apart from my suspicions that this woman had to be more than just a model to him, seeing the drawings only served to remind me how badly I missed being my father’s muse.
Not that I’d ever posed for him like this. Not that I’d wanted to.
The door swung open, and my father stepped inside. He wore jeans and a gray T-shirt with a black-and-white skull superimposed onto a Union Jack flag and the words Grateful Dead London UK 1972 printed below. His calm wavered for the briefest of moments when he saw me. Then, he smiled.
“Hey,” he said. “When did you get up?”
“A little while ago.” My pulse kicked into overdrive. “Thanks for the muffins and coffee.”
“Did you see my note about the eggs? You should eat some protein. I don’t want to send you off to college malnourished.”
“I’ll have two for lunch,” I said, touched by his concern for my health.
He set the plastic bag he’d been carrying onto the counter by the sink, then proceeded to unload the contents—chalk, in various colors by the look of it. I tapped my finger nervously against the sketchbook in my lap, struggling to come up with a natural way to ask about last night’s phone call.
“Your mom called last night,” he said, beating me to the punch. He turned his back on the sink, the heels of his hands braced against the countertop. “She knows you’re here.”
“Oh?” I feigned surprise. If he wanted to confront me about eavesdropping or sneaking into his room, it was now or never. A few seconds passed. “Did she say anything else?”
“She’s not happy you lied.”
I had to laugh. “How very pot-meet-kettle.”
“She just wants to know that you’re safe.”
“Well, I am, aren’t I?” I flipped to a different page and struggled to keep my expression neutral while staring at a pencil rendition of a vagina with two fingers in it.
I felt my father’s gaze like a hand gliding down my arm to the image in question. He cleared his throat. “You know, sketchbooks are kind of like journals. You really shouldn’t go through them without the artist’s permission.”
“Sorry.” I closed the book, avoiding eye contact. “I just wanted to see what you’ve been working on.”
He came over and took the sketchbook from me. “Kristin’s supposed to come by for a session this afternoon. I’ll let you stay and watch if she’s comfortable with it.”
“I’d like that,” I said, curiosity overriding my jealousy. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“Who, Kristin?”
I nodded.
“No. I don’t have a girlfriend.” He returned to the sink to pour himself a glass of water. All at once, my curiosity condensed to a stone in my throat.
“Dad, I’m sor?—”
“I should give you a tour of the studio.” He offered me the glass he’d just filled. “The sooner you’re familiar with the space, the faster you can take advantage of it.”
I met his gaze over the rim of the glass, and a current of understanding passed between us. He wasn’t going to explain the video unless I asked him to. In return, he wouldn’t mention the glass or how it got into his room. I could keep my dignity and my place in his home.
All I had to do was commit to an unspoken truce: I saw nothing. I heard nothing. There was nothing to discuss.
Eyes closed, I tipped the water into my mouth and swallowed.
The studio was unlike any classroom I’d ever worked in. He had all the best quality paints and more brushes than an artist could ever use in a lifetime. He gave me a spot at his drawing table and my own easel, and permission to experiment with whatever tools and supplies sparked my interest. If I’d ever doubted the authenticity of his interest in my art, his encouragement and willingness to share his workspace killed it dead.
I parked myself in front of the window with a massive sketchpad and some charcoal and started drawing clouds. That was my favorite way to warm up. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t fuck up clouds. You could only make them stormier.
“You pout your lips when you draw,” he said.
“Do I?” I asked, not the least bit self-conscious now that I was in my element. He’d sat in a nearby chair and watched me work for the past half hour in comfortable silence.
The chair squeaked as he shifted positions.
“Must be genetic,” he said.
“You do it, too?”
“No. Your mom did.”
That made me pause. “I didn’t know Mom could draw.”
“Not drawing. Her thing was photography. She had a great eye. I’ll have you know, I was her favorite subject until you came along. After that, we were constantly stepping on each other’s toes. Me with my sketchpad, her with her Nikon.”
“She never told me,” I said, not that I was surprised. It was just another piece to the mysterious puzzle that was my mother. I resumed shading, dragging a darkened finger along the underside of an especially foreboding cumulonimbus.
“She had a knack for capturing bodies in motion,” he said. “It was a nice contrast to my work, which centers on quieter moments, the things we do when we think no one’s watching.”
“I know.” I met his gaze. “I’ve been following your work for years.”
His smile betrayed a twinge of sadness.
“Why did she stop taking pictures?” I asked.
“That, you’ll have to ask her.”
A soft buzz disrupted the quiet that had settled between us. My father drew his phone from his pocket, thumbed at it, then frowned.
“Well, shit.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Kristin has the flu.” His chest rose and fell with a long, slow groan. “This is going to set me back.”
“Can’t you find someone else?” I laid the sketchbook on the floor.
“Sure, but even that would take a few days. I was hoping to finish the preliminary sketches this afternoon.”
The idea surfaced like a bottle in the ocean, a message borne from the deep.
“I could do it,” I said.
He took in my face, my posture, my folded legs, then shook his head. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
“It’s not like I don’t have experience.”
“This is different,” he said, his gaze hardening.
He was right. I’d seen the conceptual drawings in his sketchbook. This project was inherently sexual, unlike anything he’d attempted when I was younger. He was trying to turn an intimate moment inside out, to take the most private activity in which a person could partake and make it public. If I did this, I would be laying myself bare for his and everyone else’s perusal.
The thought of it scared and excited me. It made my toes curl.
“You’re letting me work in your studio and stay in this incredible apartment for free. Let me do this for you.”
“You’re here as my guest, Paige, not as a tenant. You don’t owe me rent or favors.”
“It’s not a favor.” The offer was as much for my benefit as it was for his. Maybe more so. “I want to do it.”
He stared out the window, scrubbing his jaw, his expression dubious. The chair creaked as he stood. He crossed the room and entered the walk-in supply closet, then brought out a blue terrycloth robe.
He presented the robe to me, his stare daring me to flinch.
“You can change in the bathroom.”
I took the robe and rose from the chair. I was halfway to the bathroom when I heard him say, “You don’t have to do this, Paige. I can get someone else.”
I stopped. The words resounded in my ears, deafening. He could get someone else. Anyone else. Like he had scores of hopefuls lined up around the block, desperate to model for him. Like I was replaceable.
He hadn’t meant it that way, but that’s how it felt. I draped the robe over a nearby stool. He offered a kind smile, like he’d anticipated me changing my mind. Grasping the hem of my tank top, I pulled my shirt off right there in front of him.
My father’s eyes rounded with stark surprise. I let my shirt fall, then unzipped my jeans and shucked them along with my underwear.
I stood naked before him, hips squared and shoulders pulled back to accentuate breasts that stood quite proudly on their own.
A breath fell from his lips as his gaze caressed me. My arms and legs pilled with goosebumps. The man could’ve wrapped me in burlap and it wouldn’t have made a damn difference. I was Henry Monroe’s daughter. He couldn’t replace me.
“We’re going to need black. Lots of black. Nothing that’ll take away from...” He let the sentence go unfinished as he reached into the bin overflowing with fabric and proceeded to pull out yards and yards of midnight-colored material.