Page 35 of Strangely Normal

Finley looked at me with round eyes. “You’re going to pose for him?” It was hard to read if she was horrified or intrigued by the news.

I opened my mouth to answer but Jude spoke for me. “Yep, she is. Let’s go, Valley, while the light is still good.” He headed out.

Finley was uncharacteristically silent as I carried the plates to the sink.

“If you don’t want me to pose, I won’t.”

“Huh?” she looked up at me as if she had been deep in thought. “No, no. I think it’s great.”

“Really? Because there’s nothing in your tone that says great.”

She sighed loudly and I knew her true feelings were about to pour out. “I just don’t want Jude to scare you away. He has this way about him. Girls end up obsessing and then they get heartbroken. And it kind of seems—”

“I’m just posing for his painting, Finley. Besides, I’ve never obsessed about a guy in my life. He’d have to be pretty damn spectacular to get that kind of commitment out of me. It’ll be fine. Plus, your brother still treats me like I’m an annoying pest who has landed here to upset his life.”

“That’s the problem,” she said. “Attention from Jude, no matter which kind, is a rarity.”

“Look, if you don’t want me to pose for him, I won’t. But I promise I won’t be scared off.”

My little pep talk seemed to have done the trick. The worry disappeared from her face.

“No, go ahead and do it. I’ll see you in a few hours.” She hugged me as if we were parting ways for years instead of hours. She walked out of the kitchen and Some Pig followed. I took a deep breath and headed out to the pool house. My confident speech had helped convince Finley that I could keep my head. Now I just needed it to work on me.

Chapter 12

I walked between the two dogs who sat like stone lions outside the pool house. The interior had been decorated as nicely as the main house. Music rolled quietly through the room. One side of the room had a sitting area, large screen television, and wet bar. The other side had been transformed into an artist’s studio, complete with canvas drop cloths, racks of painter’s supplies, and a collection of finished and unfinished paintings. The muddy, oily smell of paints filled the air.

Jude balanced on a stool and looked around his easel. “I’m just sharpening my pencils.”

I walked over to a collection of canvasses. There were several landscapes but most were paintings of people, both men and women. There was emotion in the faces that only a true artist could capture. They were nothing short of amazing. “You are really talented.”

“You think? Sometimes I question it. A lot of people can draw and paint.”

“True, but not many can capture the rawness of someone’s inner soul like you’ve done in these paintings.” I pulled out a canvas of a particularly pretty girl who was wearing a sheer as gossamer dress and staring out a window. “Like this girl, you can tell she’s had some crap happen in her life that has scarred her forever. You can see it in her eyes. Either that or she’s an exceptionally good model.”

He walked over and looked at the painting I held. “That’s Ginger. And you’re right. She’s had a shitty life.”

Jude looked up at my face. “Some people are easy to read. I can see every facet of their emotion in their expression, but you’re not like that.”

I smiled and replaced the painting into the pile. “Trust me, I’m not that complicated.”

“No? I guess we’ll find out. Follow me.”

We entered a small closet that was packed full with clothing and period costumes. He yanked out a peasant style dress and held it in front of me then shoved it back onto the rack. He did the same with several silky, sheer dresses but then grunted and returned them to the rack.

He looked me up and down. “The ripped jeans will work, but you need a different shirt.

I glanced down at my faded jeans that had both knees ripped out and a tear across the thigh. “I’m wearing these? I was kind of looking forward to one of these soft dresses.” I rubbed my hand along the row of dresses.

“They don’t suit you.” He walked to the end of the rack, pulled out a package, and ripped it open.

I stared down at it in utter disappointment. “But that is a man’s undershirt. That’s what I’m suited for, the prestigious wife-beater shirt?”

He looked up at me. “Who’s the artist here? You or me?”

“You, I guess, but I’m beginning to question your artistic intuition some.”

He handed me the shirt. “Bathroom is down that hallway.” He pointed around the corner.

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