WELL. I’LL be. I’m not half as bad at this as I thought I’d be.
To Charlie’s amazement, it really wasn’t that hard. The berries stood out perfectly, even though the ceramic napkin rings were what Tory called “bisqueware,” which was very white.
Charlie was detail-oriented after all.
And it was kind of fun. He didn’t think he’d want to do more than nine of them—couldn’t imagine doing hundreds of them the way Tory must do—but nine? Sure. Even with five coats.
Gay was laughing and holding court as she painted Gay and Alejandro Snowman. But Charlie tried to stay focused. He really wanted to do a good job. Not only because he wanted the rings to be as close to perfect as possible for his dining room table, but he wanted to impress Tory as well. He didn’t know why.
He was done surprisingly fast, though. A little over an hour, and apparently Gay wasn’t even close to ready to go, although Shirley—she who painted with a heavy brush—was long gone.
So wanting to be around Tory as long as he could—damn he wanted to touch that almost-beard so badly…. Would it be soft? Scratchy?—Charlie looked over Tory’s shelves and shelves of clay pieces and greenware and….
…found something completely different. There were several pieces drying that didn’t look at all like typical dime-store pottery. Pieces that certainly didn’t look poured.
“Tory, if you don’t mind me asking, what are these?” He pointed but did not touch. They looked delicate. Gorgeous as well. Pottery that looked more like sculpture than something that could store sugar or flour or display flowers.
And gosh, was Tory blushing?
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Tory said with a wave.
“To hell it is! These are beautiful!” The pieces seemed to fold in on themselves, like a special effect from a science fiction movie.
Gay was at his elbow, with an, “Aren’t they amazing? This is what Tory really does!”
“Oh my God,” Charlie cried, remembering. “That piece I love so much in your office.” A weaving of sheets and strips of clay, glazed in coopers and golds.
“Yup!” she exclaimed. “That’s his!”
“Tory! If you can do work like this, why are you wasting your time on nativity scenes?”
“Because nativities pay the bills. And unless I make a name for myself—”
“When you make a name for yourself,” Gay interrupted.
“—nativities are what I need to focus on.”
“Well, I hope you make that name soon,” Charlie said. And thinking about Tory’s name made him feel all warm inside. And wanting to help Tory pay his bills, he turned back to the elves on shelves and picked out one.
“Is this where you get them each year?” he asked Gay.
“From Tory, yes! But even I don’t have a steady enough hand for those eyes. I buy his completed pieces.”
Whoa. The eyes would be hard.
“I can help you if you want,” Tory offered, and Charlie smiled at the thought of owning a piece that both he and Tory had painted.
It was nice when Tory leaned over his shoulder, chest touching his back, to demonstrate that using more than one color on the elf’s hair made it look more natural. He was reminded a bit of that scene from Ghost with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze at the potter’s wheel. He could feel Tory’s breath on his ear. And gosh, he was getting hard again. So hard it hurt. Was Tory flirting or not? It was difficult to tell. He seemed to flirt with everyone!
“Is he flirting?” he whispered to Gay when Tory went upstairs to get them all refreshments.
Gay looked at him as if he were crazy. “Gee whiz. He’s practically humping you! You can’t tell?”
His face went hot, and he glanced around the room to see if anyone had heard.
“Uh-huh,” gasped Karey, the girl painting teapots.
And his face positively blazed.
But it wasn’t until Tory did the elf’s eyes that he near completely lost it. Tory said he wanted to paint Charlie’s eyes.
“That’s what he does,” Gay said. “All his elves have his friend’s eyes.”
So Charlie sat there while Tory painted, looking at him, looking at his eyes. Looking into them. Charlie was almost shaking after a while. The only way for this to work was that he had to gaze back, at Tory. And the contact was intense. Those eyes. Oh God. Those eyes! Had eyes ever made him feel like this before? Had he ever looked into someone’s eyes for so long? Hadn’t he read that people didn’t like eye contact that lasted more than—what was it? Five seconds or something?
But he looked at those beautiful eyes. Tried not to fall into them. Get lost in them. His heart was pounding. He could barely breathe. Had he thought they were hazel? They were hazel and beyond. A kaleidoscope. Stars and patterns….
What are you afraid of?
What a stupid question!
Do it. Lose yourself. Fall….
I can’t!
You can!
Why was it taking Tory so damned long to paint such tiny eyes?
Do it!
Oh, Aunt Charlotte.
Do it!
I-I….
Then…. He did.
And he didn’t so much fall into those eyes as let Tory in.
Heart pounding.
It was like he’d suddenly gotten high. It was dizzying. There was no chair beneath him. The world vanished. He was floating. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He was chilled. He was hot. He felt sweat break out, felt it rolling down his sides, and he started trembling.
There was only him and Tory. That was it.
Nothing. No. One. Else.
Finally—just when Charlie thought he might burst into tears from the intensity of it all—Tory was done.
Tory looked away, and Charlie was back in the world, aware of the chair beneath him. Breathing again. Eyes brimming.
God!
Tory showed him the completed piece.
Charlie gasped.
It was like looking into his own eyes.
Tory said he had to go upstairs for a moment, and he stood and—whoa—did Charlie see what he thought he saw? Did Tory have a…?
He looked around the table and saw Karey staring at him openmouthed. “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever fucking seen in my fucking life,” she said in a breathless whisper. “Now I know what eye fucking means! I think I almost came. I have got to go!” She leaped up, grabbed her purse, asked them to apologize to Tory that she didn’t clean up—and was gone.
G.O.N.E.—Gone.