The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [48]
“I hope you aren’t sculpting me with this thing,” she said, hanging it around her neck.
He grinned. “You will have to wait and see.”
Wait and see. A philosophy Fallon had been getting all too closely acquainted with since Rachel’s visit. She’d spent a few days in a state of panic over the inevitable upheaval of her life back home, followed by a week of lower level anxiety. In the past few days she’d reached a state of grim but steely acceptance. She hated not knowing how things would turn out, but she’d be okay. Many more disruptive changes had rocked her life and she’d lived through those… It still felt like grief, though. After an entire childhood spent moving around, Fallon had grown very attached to her routines and the stability of her living situation.
She took her seat on the worktable and found her pose. Funny how all of this had become normal to her. It was the strangest episode of her life, yet today felt like any other day. She’d adjusted to Max, to her own nudity, to this strange daily schedule. She could adjust to a new housemate or a new apartment just as capably.
Max strode to his dust-covered stereo and punched some buttons, Fallon’s CDs whirring and clicking in the changer. If he’d prefer not to be working to the sounds of PJ Harvey’s mournful wailing, he was kind enough to hide it. It was nice having her music here, a taste of the familiar making her feel welcome, as if she belonged. She turned the thought over in her head as she watched Max setting up. She most certainly didn’t belong here, but now and then she nearly wished she might, somehow.
“It is quitting time,” Max announced at five sharp, pulling his mask down around his neck and unbuckling his tool belt. He strode to the stereo and switched off Fallon’s Simon and Garfunkel CD. “Let me get cleaned up. That was a long session.”
Fallon dressed and strolled outside to sit at the picnic table with a newspaper while he bathed. When he emerged twenty minutes later, he was dressed up. Well, for Max. He had on dust-free gray pinstriped slacks and an untucked white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As he approached he propped a vintage-looking tweed fedora on his head, the picture of offbeat, roguish style, ready for a gallery opening. He sat beside her, smelling like bergamot. Smelling like temptation.
“Ready?”
She nodded. “Where are we going?”
“Just to supper.”
“You’re all dressed up. Kind of. And you smell really good.”
He smiled and stared off toward the ocean. When he rose she followed him inside to grab her tote. He locked the studio behind them and they walked in silence along the dirt road.
“What’s in there?” Fallon asked after a little while, pointing to the paper grocery bag swinging from his hand.
“All in good time.”
“Did you get me a present?” The idea intrigued her.
Max just smirked, eyes on the horizon.
The edge of the town came into view as the sun began to fade. Max stopped by a stand of pines and opened the bag, drew out a handkerchief and a small parcel and tossed the latter to Fallon. It was fabric—pale, green-gray silk, folded and tied with a white ribbon. Fallon pulled the bow loose and unfurled a gown, the most exquisite item of clothing she’d ever touched.
“Oh my God.” She studied it for a minute. When she looked up she found Max crouching, spit-shining his shoes with the handkerchief. The formerly clay-splattered items transformed into a very fine pair of hand-tooled black dress shoes.
He glanced up from his task. “Animal product,” he said with a nod to the silk. “But I hope you’ll make an exception. Go on.” He pointed to the woods.
“What?”
“Put the dress on.”
Fallon blushed. “Right here?”
“Go behind the trees.” He stood and began tucking his dress shirt into his pants.
Fallon glanced back and forth between Max and the woods, uncertain.
“No one will see.” He came over and put a hand on the small of her back, steering her in the right direction.