Stunned, Casey stared at Leighton. The reactions of the other first-year students around the studio seemed to be the same. Stunned might be an understatement. Leighton had announced her strange rules so matter-of-factly, like she hadn’t just promised the worst repercussion imaginable for the most minor of infractions. And on top of that, she seemed almost pleased by their reactions. Casey didn’t understand.
“Let’s talk about some of the atelier’s other features.”
As Leighton passed, Casey felt her presence in the charged air between them. A chill shot through her, and she took a step back, giving Leighton far more room than necessary. She hadn’t meant to be so obvious, but moving away had been instinctual, like something warned her to keep her distance. Yet she wanted to be close to Leighton, although perhaps not while she was threatening expulsion. There was something enthralling about her. Casey regretted drawing attention to herself, attention that made her uncomfortable. Whatever Leighton harnessed had power, but Casey hadn’t decided if she liked or feared it.
“While natural light is preferable, it isn’t always sufficient, and it’s not available if you prefer to work at night.” Leighton pointed upward. “Each station has a set of bulbs above it. They’re tungsten, 3500-5000 Kelvin, white-balanced to mimic natural daylight.”
“Are they motion activated?”
Devin proved to be as annoying as ever, interrupting Leighton.
“No. You can turn them on to suit your needs. Each station has a single-mast oak easel.” She trailed her fingers along one before turning and resting her hand atop a waist-high cabinet. “You each have a taboret for holding your palette and storing your paints and brushes. These dark boxes are shadow boxes we’ll use when we study still life painting.” She adjusted the black fabric draped over the top of one.
Leighton seemed bored, like she’d rather be doing something else, and she probably would. Casey understood. She’d fought the duty versus desire battle before.
“We set up each station on a rug with a foam mat underneath.” Leighton poked at the edge with her black-booted toe. “It serves a dual purpose: it’s easier on your feet, and it keeps paint off the floor.”
“Do we need to bring stools?” Mikala surveyed the room.
Casey glanced around, too. Strange. No stools anywhere.
“No, we won’t be using them, at least not in the beginning.” Leighton leaned on the taboret.
Someone groaned.
“We didn’t do this last year.” Phoenix’s scowl emphasized his opinion on the matter.
Leighton blinked. “No, we didn’t.”
“So, we’ll be using the sight-size method?”
Of course, Devin had to flaunt his knowledge. Casey held in a sigh, remembering why she’d avoided being in the same spaces with him since their breakup. And this was only the beginning.
“That’s part of it.” Leighton straightened. “More importantly though, I want you to learn to distance yourself from your work and assess it. Standing is the best way to remember to step back once in a while. I grew tired of reminding last year’s students,” she smiled at Phoenix, “so I’m trying a new tactic.”
Casey cringed, thinking how her feet would feel after a day of standing at an easel, then working a shift on the hard floors of the art store. She made a mental note to save for a pair of comfortable shoes.
Leighton must have noticed the disgruntled looks around her. “It’s only temporary. Once you’re in the habit of stepping back and assessing your work, I’ll let you sit if you still want to, but by then, many of you won’t.”
Stefan laughed. “Look at their faces. I told you they’d balk when you made me haul the stools to the third floor.” He unwrapped a Starburst and popped it in his mouth.
Leighton shot him a look. “Haul? It took you one trip up the elevator. And don’t pretend you don’t agree with me.”
Casey caught a hint of teasing by the way Leighton’s mouth twitched. They must be friends. It’d be nice to have a place to learn where she knew everyone and felt like she belonged. She wanted to connect with these people, both the other students and her instructors. They had much in common, including their love of an artistic practice that had fallen by the wayside. She saw herself laughing, joking, and feeling at home while in the studio.
Leighton tilted her head toward Stefan. “Would you like to take it from here?”
He stepped forward. “Sure. You’re welcome to use the kitchen, just please clean up after yourselves. If you need to keep any food items frozen, put them in the refrigerator’s freezer. The chest freezer is for palettes and brushes only.”
“The freezer?” Devin chuckled.
Casey caught herself tapping her heel with the toe of her other shoe and stopped. Devin would be in her life again, and she’d have to adjust. She needed to cease her annoyance with him. He wasn’t a bad guy, and she’d liked him well enough. They’d enjoyed some good times together until she’d brought up having a baby.
“Oil paint doesn’t dry,” Stefan met Devin’s questioning gaze, “it oxidizes. Freezing temperatures retard the process. So, you can keep any unused paint on your palette and use it over days or even weeks.” He laughed. “Or if you’re like me and hate cleaning brushes, you can wrap them in aluminum foil, throw them in the freezer, and use them the next day. Just keep food away from paint and vice versa. We’ll talk more about the toxicity of certain pigments when it comes up.”
Casey couldn’t wait to attend class with Leighton. She was a sponge, ready to absorb all the knowledge from her she could. It still seemed surreal that Mrs. Shipton had given her a full scholarship to study at Atelier Vaughn.
It’d been one thing to admire Leighton’s talent, but Casey had wondered if she’d like her as a person. So far, she liked everything she’d seen, and her surreptitious glances had seen loads. Leighton’s suit and boot combination should be illegal.
“Along the same line, this sink is for dishes.” Stefan bumped his fist against the edge of the one in the kitchenette.
Casey curbed her daydreaming.
“That’s for cleaning brushes.” He walked toward a paint-splattered concrete utility sink in the far corner of the studio near the large workbench.
Everyone followed. Everyone except Leighton.
A few feet from them, she leaned against the back of a sofa and crossed her arms over her chest. The stance pressed her breasts together, giving Casey a glimpse of her cleavage. She looked away before Leighton caught her. Ogling her instructor on the first day wasn’t a good idea. Casey had been memorable enough by running into her downstairs.
Leighton had painted the voluptuous nude in the gallery, and she’d be teaching Casey how to do the same. Had Leighton been lovers with the woman? Casey had read enough about her online to know she was openly bisexual, and she recalled how glimpsing the intimate scene Leighton had painted with such a tender touch felt intrusive. Had Leighton run her hands over the woman’s body before she dragged her brush over canvas to create those soft undulations of flesh that made Casey want to stroke them? She trembled at the wave of unexpected arousal.
“This is the supply area.”
Stefan’s voice jolted Casey back to the present. Her pulse pounded as she checked to see if somehow anyone—specifically Leighton—had seen where her mind had been. How ridiculous.
“You’re responsible for purchasing your paints and brushes, as your welcome letter stated, but you’ll find the other supplies you’ll need in these cabinets. They’re here for you to use for class projects. The workbench area is for preparing canvases, varnishing, framing, or anything else where you’ll need a horizontal surface.”
Phoenix elbowed Jaiden, and they laughed so hard they couldn’t stop. Leighton raised her chin.
Stefan gave them a wry look and rubbed the top of his head, making his thinning hair stick up. Once they’d calmed down, he motioned toward the end of the room. “Those two glass boxes are our offices. If our doors are open, you’re welcome to come in.”
Casey craned her neck to see Leighton’s. She assumed the corner one with a small bouquet on the desk belonged to her. Diplomas and certificates graced the walls, as well as small oil paintings. The desk held little more than a laptop, a sparse and stark contrast to most of the artist spaces she’d seen in her lifetime.
Clutter filled the second office, and half-unpacked boxes littered the floor. An open bag of popcorn had tipped over on the desk. Nothing hung on the walls.
When she turned back toward Stefan, Leighton watched her. Casey shivered. What was it about Leighton that unsettled her? It could be infatuation. She was one of the biggest names in realism, and Casey had admired her for years. If only the articles and websites had posted better pictures of her instead of the candid shots where she was talking or gesturing. Casey had been able to tell she was good-looking, but the photos didn’t portray how attractive she was in person. Leighton was gorgeous. Would Casey stumble under the gaze of another woman of equal beauty? She wasn’t sure since she couldn’t ever recall being in the presence of someone so stunning.
Casey shook her head. It wasn’t professional to objectify her teacher. Leighton’s painting had affected her. Was her unease because of that? A greater question lingered. Was she more drawn to Leighton as an artist or as a woman? She rubbed her forehead and chastised herself for having such thoughts. Leighton was her teacher and at least a decade older.
Stefan stopped near the center of the easel stations beside a model stand. “Let’s talk about music.”
That subject seemed to grab everyone’s interest. Everyone except Casey’s. Why couldn’t she focus on anything besides Leighton? The first day featured explanations and introductions, and she should pay attention. If Leighton quizzed them, she’d certainly fail.
“We divide your time here into class and open studio time, the latter being whenever class is not being held.”
Mark slung his arm over Casey’s shoulders, a common move for him. She was shorter, and he liked to lean on her. Normally, it didn’t bother her, but when Leighton’s eyes slightly widened, her lips parted, and one of her eyebrows went askew, she wanted to squirm. She didn’t want Leighton to assume she and Mark were anything but friends. Casey barely knew her, but Leighton’s image of her mattered for reasons yet unclear.
She shrugged from beneath Mark’s arm. “Sorry.” She bent to retie her shoelace that didn’t need retying, and when she stood, Mark had propped his forearms on the taboret instead.
Leighton turned her attention to Stefan.
He’d moved on to AirPods and headphones being allowed during open studio times but not class, and Casey half listened, catching the highlights of there being opportunities to learn from feedback given to another student or spontaneous demonstration techniques.
Stefan stopped in front of a Belgian art horse, a simple wooden bench with a raised end on which a drawing board could be supported. He straddled the seat and looked at Leighton. “That’s all I have.”
“Thank you, Stefan.” Leighton uncrossed her arms and stood, directing her attention to the students. “Okay. We’ve given you pertinent information this morning about the building, the studio, and some of the rules. Now, everyone sit, and let’s talk about what’s really important.” She flashed a wide grin like she’d found a clue to the whereabouts of the artwork stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
Casey grinned back as she scurried to a couch, and when Leighton sauntered to a spot in her line of vision just outside the furniture grouping, Casey’s blood pounded so loudly she could hear it.
“You’re all here for one reason. Each of your applications expressed a desire to learn classical painting methods that have been around for centuries. Despite some of you holding art degrees, you felt that your prior education has been lacking in these practices.” She turned and began a slow stroll, following the curve of the circle. As she passed the first chair, she grazed her fingertips along the top of the plush backrest, almost trailing them through Erica’s hair.
What would that feel like? Casey stiffened against a light flurry in her belly.
“Part of that’s because the material covered in undergraduate degree programs is an inch deep and a mile wide. However, the revolutionary art movements that came about during the twentieth century that shifted focus toward modern art are also to blame. Unfortunately, the time-honored practice of teaching classical realism fell by the wayside for over fifty years.”
As Leighton’s path brought her gradually closer, Casey turned her head to keep her concentration on Leighton’s face and words. The movement of her touch from one backrest to the next and the way she seemed to caress the fabric as she passed created a challenging distraction, though.
“We’ve seen a return to realism,” Leighton continued, “at least in some areas. We’ll teach you the methods they’ve taught in the ateliers and academies of Europe since the Renaissance. Those ateliers were studios where apprentices learned from and worked with masters.” She smiled a coy smile. “That said, neither Stefan nor I proclaim to be masters at our craft, nor do we want to teach you to paint in our styles. Our goal is to give you the knowledge needed to paint realism while finding your own.”
Casey’s heart fluttered in her chest, likely due to the potential the year held. Well, mostly. But neither her fascination with Leighton nor her nerves could dampen her enthusiasm, and she planned to learn everything she could at Atelier Vaughn. It was the fulfillment of her dream, a step toward becoming an accomplished and successful painter to support herself and Andy, to give him the life he deserved. How had she been wondering just hours ago if she’d made the correct decision?
“Your application asked for a written recommendation, preferably from one of my former students.”
Leighton now stood at the end of the couch on which Casey sat, only one person away. So close Casey had to crane her neck to continue looking at her.
“We do this for several reasons. It’s our first step toward filtering potential applicants to find those who are sincere about wanting to learn classical methods. Our students know which of their classmates, friends, or family members are serious and will be a good fit. While not everyone accepted has had a former student’s recommendation, most have, so some of you may know one another.”
Casey glanced at Devin to find him staring at her. She’d get used to seeing him every day again, wouldn’t she? She looked away.
“It also serves to foster a pleasant atmosphere. By providing you with a letter of recommendation, those former students have vouched for you. Look around this circle.”
Casey did, finding Mark first, right beside her as always, then Mikala, who smiled at her.
Before she could look at the others, Leighton moved behind her.
Casey stilled. She remembered the nearness of Leighton’s fingers to Erica’s hair earlier. Where were they now?
“These are the people with whom you’re going to be spending a lot of time.”
The brush of Leighton’s touch on the worn upholstery of the sofa sounded close to Casey’s ear, making it difficult to keep her mind on Leighton’s voice.
“Our atelier family,” something, probably her hand, lifted from the top of the backrest then pressed down again, even closer, “scrutinized your portfolios for talent and work ethic.”
Casey leaned her head back, then caught herself. What was she doing? She sat straighter and adjusted her position.
“We also looked to accept students we’d enjoy getting to know. I hope we’ll become your second family and the studio your second home for this next year.” Leighton moved further around the circle.
Casey breathed a sigh of relief. How stupid could she be? Hadn’t she embarrassed herself enough already today?
Mark poked her in the side and gave her a WTF look.
She ignored him.
“We also believe in learning from those around us,” Leighton was still speaking from where she now stood behind Jaiden, “regardless of education, age, or experience. Stefan and I may be your instructors, but you’ll also benefit from Erica’s knowledge and by observing and talking to one another.”
Her eyes shone with an optimism Casey found enchanting.
“Our goal is for everyone to succeed, and to that end, besides attending classes and practicing your craft in the studio, I also expect you to volunteer four hours a week downstairs in the gallery.”
Casey smiled, remembering what Mark had said about Erica earning extra money from her sales.
“We think four hours is a fair amount of time, and it has a purpose. You’ll gain valuable experience talking with the public about your art and that of your peers’. You’ll learn ways to market and promote yourself and how to handle the financial aspects of selling paintings and running a gallery. It’s as much a learning experience as your formal classes.”
Andy flashed through Casey’s mind. While her time spent in the gallery could mean more money, it entailed four more hours away from him each week. But then, there was the possibility of being able to quit her job at the coffeehouse.
Leighton came full circle and stopped directly across from Casey again, then lowered herself to sit, balanced on the arm of Erica’s chair. “You aren’t required to put your work in the gallery, but we encourage it.” She went on to cover how they could receive up to ninety-five percent from the sale of any of their pieces if they were the seller. “We believe the five percent the gallery gets to be more than fair. Most galleries take fifty, and often the artist has to pay for advertising and promotional materials.”
Casey had to admit having a roomful of people promoting her artwork was a nice perk. Plus, she welcomed any additional income from her sales of theirs. She froze as she recalled the price of some of Leighton’s and Stefan’s works. They ranged into five-figure territory. Five percent of that would make a major difference in her life. The realization must have brought a smile to her face because when she looked up and locked eyes with Leighton across the circle, she was smiling, too. Casey tried not to fidget under her evident amusement.
“I believe you all met Maxine Shipton downstairs.” Leighton sent a glance to each of the first-years before continuing. “She runs the gallery and manages most of its operations, so you’ll schedule your hours with her, and she’ll cover the times when one of you can’t be present. In addition, she’ll work with each of you to price your art. She donates her time here as well as generously dividing her five percent commission on any sales she makes between all of you. Students have received checks every month since the atelier’s start, even if the sums weren’t always significant.” Leighton paused, her expression becoming serious. “Maxine is so giving of her time because she enjoys being a part of what we do here. She’s an ardent supporter of the arts, and she believes in me, my school, and your potential. I don’t take her for granted, and neither should you.”
Leighton’s demeanor made her point far better than her words.
With that, her smile returned, and she stood. “Erica, do you have the syllabi?” She held out her hand expectantly.
Erica pulled a stack of papers from between her hip and the arm of her chair and gave them to Leighton.
She took one and passed the rest to Jenna, who occupied the seat on her other side. When everyone was ready, she raised hers. “You’re holding your syllabus for the semester. It’s also online. It spells out what we expect to cover and in what order. Your homework is to read through it tonight and bring any questions you might have tomorrow.” Her warm smile returned as she looked around the circle, this time with a glint of something in her eyes.
Happiness? Pride? Casey wasn’t sure.
“That’s all I have for you today. You’re welcome to choose a station and put your belongings in your taboret. Familiarize yourself with the studio, open cupboards and see where we store things, check out the still-life objects on the shelves, and try out your access cards and codes. Be sure to introduce yourself to Maxine before you leave, if you haven’t already. Questions?”
Jenna raised her hand.
“Just speak, remember, Jenna?”
She lowered it with a sheepish expression. “What’s your policy on absences or tardiness?”
Leighton took a deep breath. “We expect you to be in class. Stefan, Erica, and I make the effort to be here, and I hope you respect us enough to do the same. I’m not wasting my time taking attendance, however, when you’re late, it disrupts the class, so please try to be here before it begins. You’ll notice we never start especially early, so plan to arrive beforehand and put in some open studio time if running behind is a problem for you. That said, you’ll get out of this what you put into it. It’s all about brush miles.” Her tone was frank. “If you want to be a great artist, you need to practice your craft. Any more questions?”
When no one spoke, Leighton’s expression softened, like a proud mother pleased to have her family together for the holidays. With a wave, she set them free. “We’ll be around another hour, if anyone needs anything, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
Casey rose and turned in a circle, taking in the room and the people in it. She couldn’t wait to spend hours here, lost in her art. She liked everyone she’d met, and she could tolerate Devin. Yes, Atelier Vaughn already felt like home.
If only what she felt in Leighton’s presence were as clear. She pushed the thought aside, retrieved her backpack from the floor, and headed to the stations.
Three easels held canvases, two of them larger than the rest. Casey assumed the latter were the instructors’. Half-finished paintings showed a female figure’s outline, one on a white canvas, the other against a stained ground that looked like raw umber. While both depicted the same model, the artists had taken much different approaches. She studied them but couldn’t be sure which one was Leighton’s.
Just like she never won at musical chairs, Casey ended up with the last easel. It stood beside one of the bigger ones and was closest to Leighton’s office. Mikala had chosen the next station and Mark the one beyond that.
After running her hands along her taboret’s lacquered top and opening the drawers and cupboard below, Casey unzipped her backpack. An excited hum filled the room as everyone started putting away their supplies. It reminded her of being a kid. The first day of school had always thrilled her. She recalled the unmistakable scent of a fresh box of Crayola Crayons, the tip of each colored stick flawless, but their perfection so fleeting.
Instead of crayons, Casey removed a gallon-sized plastic bag of paints from her backpack and organized the tubes of artist-grade pigments Leighton had instructed them to purchase in a row inside a shallow drawer. Even their names brought her joy, colors like ultramarine blue, dioxazine purple, and alizarin crimson.
She unrolled her new bristle brushes and laid them on top of the taboret, then arranged a smaller group of soft, sable brushes alongside them. Two wooden-handled palette knives and a couple of lidded palette cups came next, and finally, she pulled a jar of brush soap from the bottom of her backpack.
“So, is it Andrew?”
She turned to find Leighton holding a bag of paper towels.
“Andrew?” Casey tilted her head, a little confused.
“Your son. Is Andy short for Andrew?”
“Oh, no. Anders, actually.” No one ever asked her that. They assumed his full name was Andrew without question. Was Leighton really curious, or had she simply wanted to talk to her?
“Is it a family name?” Whatever her initial reason for asking, Leighton seemed interested now.
“No.” Casey couldn’t imagine naming him after anyone in her family. “He’s named after his father’s favorite artist.”
Leighton opened her mouth, then closed it, as though Casey’s answer had flustered her, but she recovered quickly. “How original.” She moved beside Casey and dropped the bag. She attached the roll of paper towels she’d had under her arm to a chain on the side of the taboret. “There.” She stood close, as if waiting for something.
Casey inhaled her perfume, the same evocative scent that had clouded her mind in the elevator. It’s effect was no different now. “Thank you.” She fiddled with the jar of brush soap.
“Excellent choices.” Leighton perused the supplies Casey had laid out. She touched the hairs of one of the sable brushes. “These are some of my favorites. It’s difficult to put a price on quality.”
How was Casey supposed to respond when Leighton complimented her brushes? She’d recommended the brand in the welcome packet. At first, Casey had thought ordering paintbrushes from England was a little much. She never spent money on herself, not since her parents cut her off. But as soon as she opened the package and snapped the hog hair bristles against her palm and felt the silky sable between her fingers, she envisioned how wonderful it’d feel to drag them across a canvas.
And now, seeing Leighton’s reaction, she was even happier with her choice. “Thank you.” She couldn’t devise a better response.
Leighton smiled and picked up the remaining paper towels.
“Oh!” Leighton swung around, coming face-to-face with Casey, who’d taken a step forward. She grabbed Casey’s shoulder to avoid a collision.
Startled, Casey froze.
Leighton let go of her but remained in her personal space. “You’re welcome to bring Andy when you do your volunteer hours in the gallery. I don’t want you to be away from him any more than necessary.”
Casey could feel where Leighton’s fingers had warmed her skin through her shirt. Leighton’s voice had become much softer than when she’d spoken to the group.
“He’ll have a ball in the enormous space and, I’m sure, charm potential customers.”
Then Casey received a wink of her own from Leighton, and she thought she might burst. “Thank you. He’d like that. I’d like that.”
“Good.” Leighton seemed pleased. She moved on to Mikala’s station with the paper towels.
Casey watched as Leighton walked away, her shoulder still tingling. She never would’ve even thought to ask if she could bring Andy to the atelier for any reason, never mind when she’d be in the gallery. Leighton’s thoughtful gesture meant a lot. Most people wouldn’t want toddlers, with their sticky fingers and runny noses, around art, but Leighton seemed to prioritize a child’s time with his mother. Her considerate offer made Casey’s heart give a little squeeze. Had Leighton any idea the gift she’d given her?