No one remained in the studio except Casey. The overhead lights blazed, but the atelier’s windows had become black squares hours ago. Today’s classes had taken up most of the morning and afternoon. She’d gone home and eaten dinner but had returned, eagerness and stubbornness resulting in her presence.
For most of the night, she’d been working on her wipeout, but she couldn’t get it right. Leighton had taught her to look for large masses before beginning to refine, so she’d sculpted the light from the dark, working by subtraction and removing some of the burnt umber with a rag. She rubbed harder or used a bit of odorless mineral spirits to reach the brightest highlights.
Casey referred to the sketches she’d done from the live model that afternoon, but it might as well have been days ago. She couldn’t make what she had on canvas resemble the woman’s figure.
At the start of class, sweat had broken out on her upper lip when the model disrobed, but soon the arduous task of representing what she saw before her on paper made her forget her discomfort. A few hours later, she regarded the model’s curves no differently than the form of any inanimate object.
Now hours later, she deemed her charcoal croquis flat-out inadequate. It didn’t give her the information she’d been privileged to access in person. Others might have contented themselves with such a subpar effort, but she was a perfectionist. The result looked flat, inferior, and uninspired.
She slipped and inadvertently wiped paint from an area she’d completed. “Shit.” She hurled the wadded-up rag. The twelve-six curveball dropped off the proverbial table and landed a whopping three feet away. Even her petulant throw wouldn’t provide her with a sense of gratification, just a painful twinge in her elbow.
With arms folded, she assessed her mediocre effort. This would never get her a spot in the exhibition. The problem was two-fold and always had been. First, she could recognize skill. When viewing a great work, she could describe with ease the aspects that made it so. It might be the unusual composition designed to lead the viewer’s eye, a limited color palette that created a sense of harmony, or hard or soft edges that made certain areas advance or recede.
That came easily. The more difficult part involved putting that knowledge into practice. Just because she was familiar with the methods used, creating a great piece of art was a different matter. Much like how musicians might predict a song would become a hit, most didn’t have a Grammy on their mantle. Knowing and doing were often the twin rails beneath a train, close, but never meeting.
“Son of a bitch.” She picked up her razor blade and slashed the canvas. It sliced through warp and weft with ease. With a sigh, she loosened the wing nut that secured it to her easel, carried the painting to the large waste bin near the workbench, and dropped it in.
About an hour into her second effort on a new canvas, she heard the stairwell door in the quiet, and Leighton came toward her. She’d ignored Casey the last few days, though she’d interacted with other students, even laughing with them at times. Casey didn’t want to admit it, but Leighton had acted like she didn’t exist.
Now she wore a faded Mets T-shirt, loose sweatpants, and no makeup. Casey didn’t want to stare to verify, but it didn’t appear she wore a bra. Her beauty couldn’t be diminished, even in pajamas with her hair swinging in a ponytail.
Leighton furrowed her brow. “You’re here late. Is everything okay?”
Before Casey could answer, Leighton’s steps faltered. She veered toward the lounge and peered at the sofa before peeking under the blanket. “Oh, no. Poor boy, this won’t do.” Leighton laid her hand on Andy’s head, but he didn’t stir. She looked up. “How long are you planning to stay?”
What she wouldn’t give to be her son right now. “I don’t know, a couple more hours.” Her initial failure protruded from the garbage can a dozen feet away. Casey moved toward them, hoping Leighton wouldn’t see her second, pedestrian attempt on her easel. She didn’t want to discuss her failed start.
Leighton pulled a key card from her pocket and handed it to her. Then she lifted Andy, blanket and all. “Sweet boy.”
In his sleepy state, Andy curled his arms around Leighton’s neck and nuzzled against her.
“Shh.” Leighton kissed his rosy cheek that bore the imprint of the weave of the sofa’s fabric. She looked at Casey. “I’m going to tuck him into a proper bed. Come upstairs when you’re finished.”
“It won’t be too late?” She didn’t want to keep Leighton up, but she liked the thought of Andy sleeping in a comfortable place.
Leighton shook her head with a hint of a smile. “No, not at all.” She took a few steps and gave her a nod. “Remember, you’re destined to be an artist, so do what you do.”
As the elevator doors squeezed shut on her son cradled in Leighton’s arms, Casey looked at her canvas with a surge of confidence and resumed painting. Ten minutes later, to her surprise, the elevator opened. Leighton carried an armful of things to her station.
“Hi.” Her impish grin made her look like she was up to something. She handed Casey an electronic device.
On the screen Andy sucked his thumb, his back pressed against Kalyssa. Both slept.
“You have a baby monitor?”
Leighton shrugged. “I never got around to donating it, so you can see him and hear him if he wakes.” She rested her hand on Casey’s arm. “But I’ll be there, too. I’m not going anywhere.”
Casey smiled. “Thanks.” She propped it on her taboret.
“This is if you need some caffeine. I know it’s a hassle to make an entire pot. I have a Keurig upstairs.” She handed Casey a mug.
It was just how she liked it, hot with a splash of milk. Had Leighton guessed, or had she been paying attention?
She enveloped the cup in her hands and inhaled. “Oh, God, yes. Coffee. I want to curl up on the couch, but I need to keep going.”
Leighton frowned. “You don’t. You know that, right? It’s comical how far ahead of everyone else you are. I meant to encourage you with my earlier comment. You’re motivated and have lofty expectations, but please don’t exhaust yourself.”
Casey nodded. Even with her high aspirations, painting something extraordinary enough to enter the exhibition, was a long shot. Still, she’d do her best. What could it hurt?
“Tonight’s the only night I plan to paint late. I have to work at the art store the rest of the week.” She’d already volunteered in the gallery yesterday. Her first sip of coffee slid down her throat, and she moaned. It’s jolt would get her through.
Leighton held one more item. She handed Casey the sweater folded over her arm. “It’s drafty in here at night. I use this when I’m working late, so don’t worry if you get paint on it.”
Why did sharing clothing feel so personal?
Before Casey could take the cardigan, Leighton held it open. “Here.”
Casey juggled the coffee cup as she slid her arms into the sleeves. The soft material felt good against her skin. She caught Leighton’s scent, either from the sweater or from their proximity.
Leighton adjusted the shoulders and the collar.
They stood so close that Casey had to hold her coffee to the side.
“Buttoned?” Leighton’s eyes had darkened.
Buttoned? Casey imagined what that would entail. She wasn’t sure she could tolerate Leighton’s fingers brushing against her right now even if her nipples had been at risk of frostbite. “No, this is fine.”
Leighton still held the front of the cardigan like someone would a jacket with lapels. She let go and trailed her hand down Casey’s arm. “Yes, fine. Right.” She cleared her throat. “I should go upstairs.” She gestured at the monitor. “The kids.”
Casey swallowed, and her face felt hot. “Yeah, the kids.” Before Leighton escaped, Casey caught her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”
Leighton looked surprised, but her features softened. “I’ll be upstairs.” She released Casey’s hand after a beat.
About ninety minutes later, despite the flurry of emotions Leighton had stirred in her, Casey had made significant progress. Whether she’d been able to focus knowing Andy slept upstairs or perhaps because Leighton’s words had motivated her, she couldn’t say. She’d seen Leighton on the baby monitor twice, checking on the children. It didn’t appear it’d been necessary. They’d moved little except for Kalyssa throwing her arm over Andy.
Casey stifled a yawn.
As she cleaned up, she tried to envision what would happen when she went upstairs. Leighton’s key card in her pocket felt ten times heavier than it should. She wasn’t sure what the protocol was in this situation, whether she should grab Andy and go home, or talk and have a drink if Leighton offered. Would she?
Most of the time, Leighton kept her guessing how she’d treat her. Her mercurial nature mystified Casey. One day, her icy demeanor could make the windows frost over, and the next, Leighton would do something like bundle her into a sweater. Not just any sweater either, but hers. Casey brought the material to her face and inhaled. She found Leighton’s scent comforting and a little arousing. With a sigh, she let the material fall.
Leighton had said no, and she respected that. However, despite Leighton’s decree, they seemed to proceed two steps forward and one step back. It confused her and made her want more. Her blood rushed. They couldn’t do this. They’d agreed they wouldn’t do it. Yet the little dance they continued to do around it left her baffled and frustrated.
Ten minutes later, Casey stood in the elevator. She stared at the panel, unsure if she should text first. No, Leighton was expecting her. She inserted the card and selected the button with the number three. The contraption jerked with a whir of machinery.
When the doors opened into Leighton’s living room, a warmth enveloped her. As she stepped inside, Leighton lowered a book to her lap. She sat on one end of the couch in front of a low fire, and its flickering flames danced patterns across the walls. A quilt covered her legs and an almost-empty glass of white wine stood on the end table beside her. She gestured to the other half of the sofa.
“How did it go?” She laid her book down.
Casey flopped beside her with a sigh and rested her head on the sofa’s backrest. “It was productive, much better than when Andy was with me. Thank you for taking him.”
“Anytime.” Leighton shifted to face her. “Would you like some wine? Or something to eat?”
“No, thanks.” It seemed like a lot of effort to lift something to her mouth. She wasn’t even sure she could get her body off the couch. On her hierarchy of needs, food and wine weren’t at the top, anyway. Leighton wouldn’t offer what she needed tonight.
Casey stared at the fire and enjoyed its warmth. She should gather Andy and go home. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, but wine didn’t appeal to her. “Water.”
Leighton leaned closer. “What?”
“Water.” Her speech had become lazy, and she tried not to yawn. Casey looked at Leighton, so beautiful in the warm glow of the firelight. “I could use a glass of water.”
Without lifting her head, Casey touched her fingertips to Leighton’s neck. Perhaps fatigue made her do it. She hadn’t recalled giving her hand the instructions, and everything slowed like she’d become intoxicated. Leighton’s skin was as soft as a rose petal, and her pulse raced beneath Casey’s fingers. Touching Leighton here, a place so intimate, the conduit through which her life flowed, made Casey’s heart beat a wild rhythm. What was she doing?
Leighton closed her eyes.
With her thumb, Casey caressed the divot at the base of Leighton’s neck.
Leighton grabbed her hand, her eyelids flying open.
They stared at one another, and Casey held her breath.
Leighton kissed her palm, then placed Casey’s hand on the sofa and stood. “Let me get you that water.”
Leighton’s hoarse voice made it sound like she could use some, too.
* * *
As Leighton pressed the glass to the filtered water dispenser on the refrigerator door, she debated whether to invite Casey to stay in her guest room. It was late. She could transfer Andy in there to sleep with her. He should wake beside his mom in a strange place. Yes, she should extend the offer. It was the thoughtful thing to do. If it made Casey uncomfortable, she didn’t have to accept.
That said, Casey seemed plenty comfortable. What had she been thinking by touching her like that? Leighton’s fingers went to her throat. Yes, she might’ve let it continue longer than she should’ve because she’d enjoyed it. She’d never admit how close she’d come to asking Casey for more. No one had touched her like that in some time. But what had motivated Casey to do it after the conversation they’d had? Perhaps the same thing that had inspired her to bring Casey coffee and a sweater. They made a foolish pair. What they wanted stood right before them. They couldn’t have it, yet neither had the will to turn away.
Leighton had never understood unfairness as a child, and in the decades since, not much had changed. At thirty-seven years old, she wanted to stomp her foot and scream into the night how life wasn’t fair. She wanted Casey, and Casey wanted her. Neither would have what they desired.
Leighton brought Casey the water but set it on the coffee table. Casey’s soft snores reminded her of a purring kitten. She retrieved a pillow from the guest room, and with an arm around Casey and one cradling her head, Leighton laid her down. Casey’s dark hair fanned across the pale yellow case. Leighton removed her shoes and covered her with the quilt.
Casey hadn’t awakened, so Leighton took a precious moment to admire the slant of her cheekbones and her dark lashes against her pale skin. Yes, she wanted her, but she’d also grown fond of her. She brushed Casey’s hair from her face. It was just as soft as Andy’s, but not as fine. Casey still wore her sweater, and Leighton’s heart grew heavy. She cared about her. Not being able to act on those feelings seemed crueler than being forbidden to have sex with someone she desired.
Leighton turned off the fireplace and extinguished the lights.