Page 36 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
Her cousin didn’t sound happy about their crashers, and her diaphragm tightened. Would this reflect negatively on the arts center her cousin wanted to start? On her? Were they behind before they even began? “I’ll give it my best.”
“We’re really all excited to paint. Aren’t we?” Bets had raised her voice to be heard.
A few people murmured in response.
“You bet!” Nicola called out and gave them a thumbs-up, looking especially serious in a bright white paint smock.
“Don’t worry,” Bets said, leading her to the front. “We’re here as backup.”
She nodded to be encouraging, but the theme music fromThe Twilight Zonewas playing in her head.
At the front, Bets leaned in and kissed her cheek. “If you want to place a last-minute bet with Cormac, now is the time. I can have someone run it down for you. I bet against a showing. They’d be daft to do it.”
She forced a smile and shook her head. “I’m good.” Facing the class as Bets found her spot in front of an easel, she took a breath and went for honesty. In teaching, she’d learned to assert her authority, something she couldn’t possibly do if she tried to ignore the elephant in the room.
“I’m Angie Newcastle, Betsy O’Hanlon’s American cousin, and I have to say this is the first time I’ve presided over a class where streakers were a distinct possibility.”
People laughed, and she felt more anchored to take the situation in hand.
“Personally, I’ve taken classes with live models. It’s part of art training. So if anyone shows up, they might find themselves with a permanent job if they’re not careful.” Total bullshit, but no one needed to know that.
“If it’s some of the men we think might show,” a woman said, “they’d be delighted to unveil themselves on a permanent basis.”
Great. She was dealing with aging perverts. “All right, this is a painting class with a little sideshow. I’m going to start teaching, and since prospective nudity is on people’s minds, let’s begin there. How many of you have ever drawn a naked person?”
A few people gasped while others laughed nervously.
“Does a baby count?” asked the woman whose easel was next to Bets. Her expression was surprisingly earnest, and she wore a blue top. “I painted the baby Jesus for a church play once.”
“It was a fine depiction,” someone in the crowd called out, causing more murmuring and sounds of assent.
“A baby does count,” she said slowly. “Since all of my official students are women, let me be specific. Have any of you ever painted a naked man?”
Her answer was met with wide eyes and more laughter, some embarrassed.
“I can’t imagine getting one particular appendage right,” the student in blue said. “It moves around a lot, don’t you think?”
“I’d just try painting a garden hose,” another said. “That’s about the same way of things down there.”
A debate ensued among the people in the room over the bobbing and rising of said appendage and whether a garden hose would do it justice.
Angie fisted her hands by her sides.Kill me. Kill me right now.
Cormac appeared at the top of the stairs, black book in hand, a smile of evil delight on his thin face. “Girls, you’re about to have your chance to paint naked men.”
A woman in the back called out, “Cormac? How many models have shown up?”
“Five, Saints be praised! All wearing the town’s boxing club robes. And most of them are pissed!”
Drunk. Great. This was going to be fun, she thought, as everyone pulled out their camera phones. Of course, they were going to film this. Who needed to pay money for a movie when you had this kind of entertainment?
The sound of laughter began from below. People called out indistinct phrases. There was a clamor on the stairs, and some people spilled out into the second floor as if to make way. The laughter grew, an infectious sound even to Angie’s ears. Despite herself, her mouth twitched in response.
The first man appeared in the doorway, his emerald green robe with a shamrock hanging off him rather badly. If he was sixty, he’d had an incredibly hard life, because he looked closer to one hundred. He gave a broad smile, showcasing a few missing teeth. Then he dropped his robe. She bit her lip. He was so short he resembled a leprechaun, mostly bald, with wrinkled skin—everywhere—and only wearing a red bow tie.
“I’m here to apply to be a life model,” he said in his whisper-soft Irish accent.
“You’re not hired,” a woman called out. “But you would save on the paint with that carrot.”
