Page 71 of Painting Celia

He rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t asking. She already was.

“I’ve never had a muse,” he said. “It’s intimidating. It can go wrong.” Leaning toward her again, he tucked his hair behind an ear and took a deep breath. “Even when it works, it can go wrong. Like John and Yoko. Some of his best work was done with her. But he was credited, and she was treated terribly. We got great art out of it, but she bore the cost.”

She looked at him fully, finally, rubbing absently at her arms. “And this is how you’re selling it to me?”

He didn’t mind her sarcasm. She was looking at him, talking with him. He could get through to her. “There’s Frida Kahlo and Diego what’s-his-name. She painted him a lot. They were together for decades.”

“Happily?”

“Okay, not always. You see why I got scared?” He hopped down from the chair with a loud scrape. “The thing is, it’s too late. Come on, I can show you.”

As he rounded the island, her eyes widened in mistrust. She’d see, though! He could make her understand. He reached out to take her hand, and she fell back another step.

“León, I don’t want—”

He grabbed her wrist and gently pulled. “It’s important!”

He began towing her, and she followed, not quite unwilling but still holding back.

He dragged her to the pool house, muscling open the sliding glass door and setting her in front of the painting. The lamp by the bed shone too dimly, but he found his clip light near the easel. He shone it on the artwork, the blues glittering like jewels. She would see.

•••

Celia felt her resistance crack. She’d sworn that this time he wouldn’t break through her guard with his outrageous ideas, but…the painting. She hadn’t seen it up close since he finished. She could feel it like the statues in the Louvre. She felt the same flush of recognition, the same understanding of what was being said.

Vulnerability. Her body, floating in flashing water until you looked closer. Made of abstract shapes and shadows, more layered colors than body parts or skin, that one curve he seemed obsessed with as the main feature. The figure was calm, but maybe it shouldn’t be. There was a whiff of menace. How had he shown that?

He was good. So good.

He held the light further back. “I realized this morning. Look. See this shadow?” He traced the darker area with a finger. “It’s threatening. I thought it was your story, but it’s mine.”

She followed his gesture but not his meaning.

“It panicked me,” he said low. “I don’t want to be blind to my own work. But, Celia, it proves that you’re my muse. I painted you but accidentally painted me.”

Her heartbeat fluttered as he turned to her, flicking off the little light and fidgeting with it nervously in his hand. The low orange light illuminated half of his face, suddenly close to hers. His eyes were nearly black, pinning her in place.

“The truth is,” he said, “we’re both threatened. I can’t fail at painting, and you can’t fail at…well, being a part of art. We can succeed if you just agree!”

She eyed him. He believed that?

At her silence, he reached out to grasp her upper arm with his free hand. She tensed, but his fingers were gentle.

“You are already my muse,” he insisted.

His fingers tightened. Her whole body flushed awake as he stepped closer.

“Think what we can make,” he said. “This painting is just the start. We both need this.”

She felt a tremor in his hand, his palm hot on her skin. He believed that.

She finally spoke, but weakly. “What would I have to actually do? Just pose?”

His chest swelled, anticipation lighting his face. “Posing, yes, but I have to learn you, learn everything you feel. It could take months. Maybe more.”

The pressure she felt to say yes! But he’d been right earlier; it was too big, too soon. And all about him, his grand, intense wants!

“Why me?” she stalled.

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