Behind her, the door opened, then closed softly. A male voice said, “Welcome to Beginning Painting. If you’ve brought macramé supplies, you’re in the wrong room.”
He walked between the chairs in that easy, loose-hipped way one associated with cowboys or dancers. He wore a black T-shirt that pulled taut across his shoulder blades, and a pair of faded Levi’s. When he reached the chalkboard and turned around, Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. She didn’t think she was the only woman who reacted that way.
He was young—no more than twenty-nine or thirty—but my God, he was good-looking. Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise good-looking.
“I’m Daniel Boudreaux,” he said, flashing a white smile. “I’m your instructor for the next six weeks. My job is to introduce you to painting.” His blue-eyed gaze moved from face to face; it paused for a moment on Elizabeth, or had she imagined that? “Hopefully, this’ll be the start of a love affair that will last the rest of your lives. For those of you who care about such things—and you shouldn’t, this is art, after all—I studied at RISD and Yale. I have an overload of knowledge and an appalling lack of talent. However, that doesn’t stop me. I fish in Alaska all summer and paint all winter.” He moved away from the chalkboard and stood by the table with the fruit.
“Let’s talk a little about composition …”
Elizabeth’s heart was pounding hard. Soon, she thought, soon he’d say, “Okay, class, let’s begin.”
“… The truest expression of art can’t be found on the tip of a brush. It’s in the artist’s eye.…”
Elizabeth had been a fool to think she could do this. She’d forgotten how to think like an artist, how to let her emotions flow into a paintbrush.
“… Like anything else, painting requires some preparation. None of that mixing your own oils yet. We’ll start with acrylics and make a working palette. Do you see the foil-covered oval I’ve placed by your chair?”
Elizabeth unpacked her supplies in slow motion. The lethargy made sense; she was using muscles that had atrophied.
“… We’ll begin on paper, and work our way toward canvas. So pin your paper up …”
Elizabeth clipped a long, rough sheet of paper onto the easel in front of her chair. She started to reach into her bag, then realized that no one else had moved. She put her hands back in her lap.
“… Now look at the fruit, really look at it. Study the way the lines curl and slice, the way light reflects on the flat surfaces and disappears in the hollows. Painting is about seeing. Look at the bowl, feel its texture in your mind, discern the colors that combine within it. When you’re ready, begin. Later on, we’ll start with sketches and ideas, but for now, I want you to dive right in. Imagine yourself as a child with a set of paints. Freedom in its purest form.”
Elizabeth heard the sound of paintbrushes being smashed into paint—too hard—the thwop of overwet bristles hitting the paper.
She cleared her mind of everything except the fruit. Just that. Light and shadow; color, lines, and composition …
She realized with a start that she wasn’t alone. He was beside her, Daniel, and he was bending down.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She felt herself flush. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” She turned to look up at him so fast they almost conked heads.
He stepped back and laughed. “What’s your name?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Okay, Elizabeth, what’s wrong? You haven’t started.”
“I can’t see it yet.”
“The apples? You could move closer.”
“No … the painting.”
“Ah. Now, that’s an interesting answer. Close your eyes.”
She followed his direction and immediately wished she hadn’t. In the darkness, he felt nearer somehow; she could smell the tangy scent of his aftershave.
“Describe the fruit.”
“It’s in a wooden bowl, hand-carved I think by someone who wasn’t very good. It’s from a solid piece of wood. The table is one of those metal lunchroom tables, probably with a wood-grain top, that you’ve covered with an inexpensive white cotton cloth. The apples are McIntosh, red with strands of green and black, almost heart-shaped. Light hits them on the right side. There’s a feather at the edge of the table, maybe a blue jay’s.”
He was quiet for a moment. She could feel the beating of her heart. It was so loud she wondered if he could hear it. Woman drops dead in art class because hunk tells her to describe apples. Story at eleven. “You don’t like the look of them,” he said at last. “Something’s wrong. I’ve set them out badly. How should I have done it?”
“The tablecloth should be yellow. There should be one apple; no, an orange. No bowl. Everything else is clutter.”
He leaned closer. She felt the separation of air as he moved, the sound of his breathing. Then he touched her hand. She flinched, tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her. The next thing she knew, she was holding a paintbrush.
She opened her eyes. He was looking right at her.