Chapter Thirteen
An hour passed before Emma and Max left for the Brogan’s Point Community Center. They decided to shower first. And even though the house had three and a half well-appointed bathrooms, they wound up showering in the same bathroom, at the same time, which slowed things down considerably.
Max’s body was an esthetic masterpiece. Emma was not just a woman who had experienced several mind-boggling orgasms, thanks to that body; she was also an artist. She couldn’t keep herself from admiring the supple, graceful contours of his physique, the ridges and indentations of his bone structure, the sleek undulations of his musculature. The sprinkle of hair across his chest, tapering down to the taut, slightly rippling surface of his abdomen, transformed from gentle curls to dark streaks as the shower soaked his skin. His eyes were simultaneously dark with passion and bright with amusement as he skimmed her body with soap and watched her twist and writhe come beneath the steaming spray of water.
She wanted to paint all of him. Not just his face, not just his dreams but every part of him, from his neatly angled toes to his knobby knees, to his narrow hips, his navel, his pecs, his broad, sturdy shoulders, his amazingly beautiful face. And his groin. She’d like to paint that thick, hard erection, maybe gild it in gold, frame it in filigree and hang it over her bed to admire every time she lay there.
She did lie there, after they’d finished showering and found themselves panting and wet in places the shower hadn’t dampened, and so they’d raced to her room to make love again.
It was early afternoon by the time they headed down the hill to the community center to see Nick Fiore. Fortunately, Emma hadn’t arranged a specific time for her meeting with him. Equally fortunately, she was able to travel down into town in Max’s car, which saved her the several-mile hike she’d gotten used to since moving into his house.
Max might own real estate in Brogan’s Point, but Emma felt like a genuine town resident when she introduced the two men. Nick’s office was so small, all three of them barely fit into it, but Nick was gracious and friendly, and—thank God—he remembered his discussion with Emma from yesterday evening at the Faulk Street Tavern. “We’ve got a room here that might work out for you,” he told Emma. “I think I can arrange for you to use it rent-free if you’re willing to donate some of your time and expertise to the town’s programs. It would be great if we could include art in the after-school program I run for teenagers here. I sure as hell can’t offer that on my own. Basketball, yeah. Art? Forget it.”
“If I could use the room for free for my own classes? Of course I can put together an art program for your after-school kids.” Emma was giddy at the thought of securing free studio space. If she could do that, she could devote more of her sparse income to paying the rent on whatever residence she was able to scare up for herself. She couldn’t live in Monica’s studio apartment at the inn, and now that Max had, however vaguely, explained why he wanted to unload his house—the ex-fiancée, the broken heart—Emma couldn’t resent him for wanting to be rid of the place, even if that choice would render her homeless.
“Come on,” Nick said, leading the way out of his tiny office. “I’ll show you the room.”
They paraded down a hall, Emma following Nick and Max bringing up the rear. A few offices lined one side, the doors labeled “Director of Senior Services” and “Parks Department.” She caught a whiff of chlorine as they strolled past the entrance to the town’s indoor pool. They continued past the locker rooms, around a bend in the corridor, past the gym where, she assumed, Nick ran his basketball program, and through a door.
The room was bigger than Nick’s office, which wasn’t saying much. It had no window, which was a serious drawback. The only light source came from glaring fluorescent ceiling fixtures—ugh. Not good light for art.
But it had enough square footage for a work table and some shelves. She could squeeze a supply cabinet into the corner. If the town would provide the room, perhaps it would also provide some basic furniture. Emma would supply the art equipment. She was doing that already with her classes in Max’s house.
She paced through the room while Max and Nick watched from the doorway. Pale green cinderblock walls—ugh again. If she wanted to display her students’ work, she’d have to tape it to the walls, which might ruin the paintings and collages, or else buy or build some free-standing pin boards. She could bring in directional goose-neck lamps to create direct illumination. She recalled passing a bathroom just a few doors down the hall; she could take care of clean-ups there.
With a little effort, she could make this room work.
It was free. Of course she could make it work.
“It’s perfect,” she told Nick.
His smile transformed his face, erasing its brooding shadows. She wouldn’t mind painting his portrait, either. He wasn’t Max. He didn’t make her heart race. But she could admire him with her artist’s eye. Definitely an appealing subject.
“Great. Once the school year ends, my after-school program ends, too. But I run summer programs. We could really use an art counselor, or teacher, or something along those lines. My budget sucks, but if you’re willing to work for shit wages—”
“If I can use the room for my own classes, as well, I’ll work for shit wages for you. Artists are used to shit wages. We’re supposed to starve. It’s part of the package.”
Nick laughed and nodded. Max only studied her, his eyes dark and intense.
As they strolled back down the hall to Nick’s office, Nick discussed all the bureaucratic steps necessary to grant Emma the use of the room and add her to his summer staff. Meetings with his board. Paper work. Budget issues. If she was going to run an art program, he’d need her to fill out an application, supply a résumé, provide references. His voice washed over her in a meaningless babble. This information was important, and she’d pay attention once she had to. She’d sign the papers, present her portfolio, dance pirouettes for his board, jump through hoops of fire, whatever was required to gain her access to the free room. She didn’t want some irate town guardian to banish her because she lacked the proper licensing, the way Max had reacted to her classes the first time he’d met her, when she’d been running her class with Abbie and Tasha in his house.
After another series of hand-shakes, Emma and Max left the community center. The late afternoon air was warm, the sky paling as day gave way to evening. A hint of salty, musky perfume lifted off the ocean and flavored the air. “This is wonderful,” Emma said, twirling in a happy dance in the parking lot outside the community center. “I’ve got a studio!” Indeed, the day was as close to perfect as she could imagine. She had a studio. She had dozens of photos of Max, and the opportunity to paint him. She had great sex.
Of course her life wasn’t perfect. She still needed to find a new home. And she wasn’t sure with what dreams she could surround Max in his portrait.
And he would be leaving. She’d opened her body to him, and she’d never been able to open her body without also opening her heart and her soul. He mattered to her. He was important. She wanted him in her life. She wanted to know his dreams, his hopes, his goals. She wanted much, much more than he was in a position to give her.
She’d known that before she’d kissed him. She’d known it when they’d gazed at each other and Cyndi Lauper had serenaded them from the jukebox at the tavern.
Looking at Max, she saw his true colors shining through. They were vivid, shimmering, brilliant. But what did they reveal? Who was he, really?