The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [42]
“He told me he was macking you cray-zee,” Rachel said in an overdone imitation. “And that you could use a familiar face. And he said to bring your CDs. I tried to call him back but the dude that answered after like fifty rings said it was a pay phone. I came anyway.” Rachel flashed her gigantic white smile, as big as she was small.
“He called you?”
“He did. Is that his actual accent? It sounds like a put-on.”
Fallon nodded and gathered mugs. “Yeah, that’s authentic. Did it sound like he was coming on to you?”
“A little bit.”
She nodded again, secretly disappointed.
“Not as much as I’d’ve preferred.” Rachel yawned deeply.
“So, he doesn’t actually know for sure that you’re here, now? Do you think I’m supposed to introduce you?”
“Maybe,” Rachel said. “He said come soon and this seems pretty soon.”
“Well, he doesn’t have a phone so we’ll have to swing by his studio. You may as well meet him, so when we explain this to friends over drinks someday I won’t sound like I made him up.” Fallon poured their coffees and they sat down at the rickety dinner table. “Where are you staying? And for how long?”
“Two days. That’s all I could get a sub for. And here, I hoped. Car’s out front.”
“Oh, man, vehicle access. I never thought I’d miss that.”
Rachel smirked. “Shame on you and your carbon footprint.”
“I’ll make an exception.” Fallon smiled, gratitude washing over her like warm water. “Well, I usually start the sittings at ten. Until four. But we can just drop by and let him know you’re here.” She breathed a sigh of relief. Deadline or not, she was glad of a day off this well timed. After the wine-fueled spooning and discovering Max’s NC-17 sketchbook, her cautious side wanted a couple days’ distance. Yesterday’s sitting had been a challenge—she’d been unable to rid her mind of those images.
Fallon’s phone buzzed to life on the counter.
“Wow, since when am I so popular?” She jogged to answer it, noting a New York area code. “Must be work. Hello?”
“Fallon, darling.” Donald Forrester’s voice drifted into her ear like a cloud of noxious swamp gas.
“I told you never to call me at this number,” she said, icy.
“Now now, don’t be like that,” he said, patronizing as always. “You probably don’t know how much I have invested in this project, but trust me, it’s considerable. I think I have a right to ask after the progress…?”
“I told you November. Now fuck off.”
“Fallon, really—”
She pushed the end call button and tossed the phone onto the sofa, rubbing a hand across her forehead. She made a disgusted noise.
“Forrester?” Rachel asked, incredulous. “God, what a skeez.”
“I know. He makes it sound like some amazing favor he’s doing me.”
“Instead of extortion? What I’d pay to give him a hard kick in the—”
“Listen, we’re not talking about him. This visit’s for us, okay? I’ve been dying to explore more of Cape Breton.”
Rachel nodded, obediently dismissing her anger. “And so you shall. Good thing I learned to drive in the city—the narrow roads here are crazy.”
Fallon looked at the microwave clock. “We’ll head over to Max’s soon. He runs in the mornings. I’m sure you’d love to catch him in the bath but let’s wait ten more minutes. Then you’re taking me on a little trip into civilization.”
“Artists go running?”
Fallon grinned to herself. “This one does. This one’s full of surprises.”
Max did a little dance of uncertainty, caught halfway between the ringing door and the whistling kettle. He chose the door, pulling it open and then dashing across the studio to flip off the burner.
“Good morning,” he shouted to where he assumed Fallon would be. Then he sensed something different about her energy—she wasn’t alone. He turned to find her standing alongside a tiny woman with a halo of kinky, curly dark hair, even wilder than Fallon’s.
“Why, hello.” He returned their matching smiles and crossed the studio. “I’m Max Emery.”
“Rachel Stein.” She came forward and shook his hand warmly with her child-sized one, black eyes smiling.