Page 8 of Our Secret Summer

“I need to—” Raffo said at the same time.

“You go,” Dylan said.

Raffo shuffled in her seat. “I need to ask you something that will make us both uncomfortable, so how about I start a fire first? We can sit by the fire pit.”

“Sure.” Dylan watched Raffo as she went to work. Her long, black hair was pulled back into a ponytail and that denim shirt looked so exactly right on her. She clearly knew how to build a fire and five minutes later they sat looking into the flames, the lake shimmering darkly behind it.

Raffo took a sip of wine, swallowed hard—worrying Dylan slightly over what was to come—then said, “I think that, um, my mojo has already made a rather unexpected return.”

Dylan couldn’t help herself. She turned to Raffo and beamed her a wide smile. “That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you.”

“The thing about my process is that not always, but sometimes, I get this image in my head. A fully formed, crystal clear image that… well, let’s just say that I have no choice but to paint it, or at least try.” She scoffed lightly. “I’m sorry if this sounds woo-woo. It’s a hard thing to explain.”

“It’s very interesting and I’m all ears.” Dylan made sure there was nothing but encouragement in her voice.

In response, Raffo took another sip of wine. If she was tipsy at all, it didn’t show, but Dylan hoped it gave her the liquid courage she so obviously craved to ask Dylan this ‘uncomfortable’ question.

“This afternoon, an image… came to me.”

Dylan nodded in silence instead of expressing her elation. For some reason, Raffo was finding this very hard to articulate and she wanted to respect that—even if she didn’t fully get it.

“It doesn’t help me to be bashful about this and it’s going to be weird and awkward either way.” Raffo turned to her, then rolled her eyes—presumably at herself. “The image was of you, Dylan. I don’t know why, although it’s hardly rocket science. Ever since I’ve arrived here you’ve been so incredibly nice and lovely and, well, I mean, I walked in on you and my subconscious must have somehow latched onto that particular image and now I just can’t let it go. It’s selfish of me to even mention it to you, what with me invoking my muse and all that.” Raffo scoffed again. “You should really, um, tell me not to do it, but—” She puffed out some air. “I’d like your permission to paint you. Topless.” She gave a weird chuckle. “Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry. I think the air here is messing with my head.”

Dylan fought to keep her jaw from dropping. This was what Raffo had been working up the nerve to ask her all evening? There was no doubt this was a serious question—that Raffo wasn’t playing some prank on her.

“Of course, you can paint me.” Admittedly, Dylan was taken aback by the fact that she would be topless in this painting, yet part of her already couldn’t wait to see it. Because it would be Raffo Shah, all mojo-ed up again, creating it.

“Argh.” Raffo put her wine to the side and buried her face in her hands. “This is excruciating.”

“No, Raffo, this is absolutely nothing short of excellent news. You want to paint again. You know exactlywhatyou want to paint. You’ve barely been here a day.”

“I don’t get it either,” Raffo said. “All I can tell you is that it just came to me this afternoon and it’s one of those images that I feel…” She let her hands fall away from her face and put one on her belly. “I feel it burn inside here. But I’m also well aware that it can be misinterpreted and I know I’m putting you on the spot and it’s…”

“It’s fine. I would be honored. You didn’t even have to ask me.” Although, Dylan thought, it was adorable and sweet that Raffo had gone through the trouble—because it really did look like an ordeal to her—to do so. And it would have been difficult for Raffo to hide what she was painting. “Honestly, I couldn’t be more thrilled.”

“For real?” Raffo found the courage to look Dylan in the eyes ever so briefly.

“Who am I to stand in the way of your art?” Dylan shook her head. “It’s why Connor sent you here.”

Raffo burst into a chuckle. “It’s probably not what he had in mind, though.”

“No.” Dylan laughed along, even though it reminded her of lying to her son. But it was easy enough to focus on Raffo—and her new-found desire to paint. “So, um, do you need me to pose, or…”

Raffo shook her head. “Oh, no. The image is in here.” She tapped a fingertip against her forehead.

“An image of my breasts?” This too, Dylan couldn’t help.

“Yes, but…” Raffo took a beat. “I know how this sounds, but that’s not what it is.”

“That you can’t get that image of my breasts out of your head?” Dylan was enjoying this a bit too much, but what was not to enjoy about this moment? It was both a little ludicrous and utterly delightful.

“Yeah, but the image has already completely transformed into something else. Into… art.”

“If you say so.” Dylan grinned at Raffo.

“No, Dylan, seriously.” Raffo pivoted in her chair and looked at Dylan with a grave expression on her face. “I suppose it can only sound as though I’m objectifying you, but that’s not what this is. A painting is something entirely different to me.” Agitated Raffo still sounded cool; her voice as smooth as the unruffled water of the lake at night. “I would be equally mortified if this made you think that I’m trying something on with you. I swear to you, hand on my heart”—Raffo actually made the gesture—“that is not the case. That’s not why I’m here and, well, also lots of other reasons, obviously.”

Dylan wouldn’t mind hearing those reasons for not trying it on with her, although she could probably guess a fair few, but now—and possibly never—was not the time to ask.

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