Igor’s question lingered in the air.
“I’ve never lied to you,” she said after a time.
“You said your name was Mary.”
She rolled her eyes. “My name is Mary. Maryruth. You’ve never heard of a nickname?”
“You said you didn’t have time for distractions because of something personal. That—” he pointed in the direction of Auggie, “is more than personal.”
She tapped her long, elegant fingers on the marble. They faced each other, the countertop between them.
“Maryruth suits you,” he said quietly.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“I know the owner of the bathhouse. Got your contact information that way.”
“Ah,” she said, not looking like she particularly cared one way or the other about the invasion of privacy. “Why are you here?”
“You’re not glad to see me?” When she remained stoic, he replied, “I waited for you—on Saturday. You never showed. I was worried.”
“Were you?”
“I had to see you.”
There. He admitted it. And he didn’t care that it made him sound weak or that he was bending. He wanted to flex because the moment he became completely unyielding was the day he turned into his father.
“I wasn’t avoiding you,” she said slowly. “I promise. Auggie had…a crisis.”
“Is he,” Igor swallowed, “your lover?”
“Yes,” she admitted easily.
A bomb went off in his head.
“I was named for my grandmother,” she said, changing the subject. “Maryruth Baldwin. Made the best damn strawberry rhubarb pie in all of Iowa. She had blue ribbons from the state fair to prove it.”
“What does that have to do with—”
She raised her blond brows. “I’m getting to it. You want the scoop?” When he reluctantly nodded, she went on, “I was born in Iowa and didn’t want to die in Iowa. When I was eighteen, I packed up a suitcase and came to New York.”
“You came to New York with nothing?”
“Not nothing. I’d managed to save a little bit of money—birthday money, Christmas money. I worked when I was in high school. Waitress at a local haunt.”
He nodded.
“So I got to New York, found a cheap room in an apartment with a nice girl. Wasn’t the safest place to live, but it was clean, and she took me under her wing. Got me a job at her restaurant. Tiny little place in the West Village.
“It was a Friday night. Place was packed. Auggie walked in and sat alone at the bar. He was quiet, respectful. He asked for a glass of red of my choosing.” She took a breath. “It felt important, you know? Like it was a test. I gave him something soft and soothing. Warm. That’s how he described it anyway.”
She smiled and shook her head.
Igor was lost in her story, letting her lead him down the windy trail of memories. She’d tell him, when she was ready. Always when she was ready.
“He introduced himself. Agoston Boros.”
Igor frowned. The name seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“I had no idea who he was,” she admitted, “Until another waitress told me he was a well-known Hungarian painter. She said he came in all the time and would leave sketches on the back of menus. One was framed and signed in the manager’s office.
“Auggie paid, tipped well—but not too well—and left. He came back the next night. And the night after that. And so on. Finally, after about a week of this, he stayed while I closed the restaurant. The manager was downstairs counting money and Auggie hadn’t moved from his bar stool.
“You know who I am, he said. I told him I did. He asked if I’d like to see his paintings. I told him yes. The next day he took me to the MOMA to see them. They were paintings from over a decade ago—Auggie hadn’t had a showing of anything new in that long. He’d been painting, but he wasn’t happy or satisfied with anything he was creating.
“The night we met at the restaurant, he went home and painted until dawn. He painted me, Igor. He called me his muse and said he needed me. He offered me the world. And I took it.”
She fell silent and waited.
“He’s got to be, what? Twice your age? Was sleeping with him part of the deal?” he asked.
Half of her mouth quirked up into a smile. “Did you just ask me if I was a whore?”
He flinched as though she’d slapped him. His eyes dropped in shame.
“Not that it matters, but he’s only about twenty years older than me, okay? And it wasn’t part of the deal. But when a man paints you in the nude, down to the freckles on your knees, you feel seen. In a way you’ve never been seen before. I gave myself to him, Igor. And he was grateful for it. Honored. So was I.
“Maybe it’s narcissistic, but Auggie needs me. He needs me to create the one thing that drives his soul. How could I not share my body with him on the most basic of levels?”
“You love him,” he said quietly.
“Of course. But Igor. There are different types of love.”
How was it this young woman was schooling him—him—a man of his position and power and knowledge? He felt like a fool.
“You’re not what you seem, you know. You made me think you were young and naive.”
“I made you think no such thing,” she scoffed. “I warned you, didn’t I? I told you not to make assumptions because of my age.”
She shook her head in disappointment. “I don’t talk to my parents. Well, I should say they don’t talk to me. They don’t understand. They’re deeply religious and conservative and they see everything in black and white, right and wrong. I’ve made my peace with that.” She swallowed.
He stared at her for a very long time, memorizing the curve of her shoulder, the outline of her ear. He finally understood the robe she wore—she was an artist’s subject. A muse.
He couldn’t compete with that. He had nothing to give her but a dangerous life. And his heart.
Why would she choose a man’s love when she could inspire another man’s greatness?