Strangely Normal

chapter 12


I walked between the two dogs who sat like stone lions outside the pool house. The interior had been decorated as nicely as the main house. Music rolled quietly through the room. One side of the room had a sitting area, large screen television, and wet bar. The other side had been transformed into an artist’s studio, complete with canvas drop cloths, racks of painter’s supplies, and a collection of finished and unfinished paintings. The muddy, oily smell of paints filled the air.

Jude balanced on a stool and looked around his easel. “I’m just sharpening my pencils.”

I walked over to a collection of canvasses. There were several landscapes but most were paintings of people, both men and women. There was emotion in the faces that only a true artist could capture. They were nothing short of amazing. “You are really talented.”

“You think? Sometimes I question it. A lot of people can draw and paint.”

“True, but not many can capture the rawness of someone’s inner soul like you’ve done in these paintings.” I pulled out a canvas of a particularly pretty girl who was wearing a sheer as gossamer dress and staring out a window. “Like this girl, you can tell she’s had some crap happen in her life that has scarred her forever. You can see it in her eyes. Either that or she’s an exceptionally good model.”

He walked over and looked at the painting I held. “That’s Ginger. And you’re right. She’s had a shitty life.”

Jude looked up at my face. “Some people are easy to read. I can see every facet of their emotion in their expression, but you’re not like that.”

I smiled and replaced the painting into the pile. “Trust me, I’m not that complicated.”

“No? I guess we’ll find out. Follow me.”

We entered a small closet that was packed full with clothing and period costumes. He yanked out a peasant style dress and held it in front of me then shoved it back onto the rack. He did the same with several silky, sheer dresses but then grunted and returned them to the rack.

He looked me up and down. “The ripped jeans will work, but you need a different shirt.

I glanced down at my faded jeans that had both knees ripped out and a tear across the thigh. “I’m wearing these? I was kind of looking forward to one of these soft dresses.” I rubbed my hand along the row of dresses.

“They don’t suit you.” He walked to the end of the rack, pulled out a package, and ripped it open.

I stared down at it in utter disappointment. “But that is a man’s undershirt. That’s what I’m suited for, the prestigious wife-beater shirt?”

He looked up at me. “Who’s the artist here? You or me?”

“You, I guess, but I’m beginning to question your artistic intuition some.”

He handed me the shirt. “Bathroom is down that hallway.” He pointed around the corner.

I grabbed the shirt and plodded away.

“And lose the bra,” he called.

“Beginning to regret this whole thing,” I yelled back to him. The tank top covered enough that I didn’t feel too self conscious without a bra, but I still instinctually walked out with my arms crossed over my breasts.

Jude was sitting on his stool and looked up from his paints as I stepped around the corner. He laughed.

“Well, that makes me feel better,” I said angrily.

“Sorry. You look fine. It’s just that yesterday you laid out by the pool in a suit that rivaled two bandages, and today you’re shy about wearing a man’s undershirt.”

“And now I feel slutty for wearing the suit. This little endeavor is doing nothing for my self-confidence.”

“Nothing wrong with a little sluttiness,” he quipped.

“That’s it. I’m done.” I turned and headed back down the hall. I hadn’t even heard him move, but suddenly, he had hold of my arm.

“I’m just teasing you, Eden.” He pushed my hair back from my face, and the touch of his calloused fingertips lingered on my skin long after he’d dropped his hand. “You’re not slutty.” He stared at my face a long time. “You’re incredible,” he said quietly. And then in the dark, dimly lit hallway, his face leaned closer to mine and I thought a kiss would follow. But he held himself back. Or it was entirely possible that I’d just imagined the kiss because I truly wanted it. Then it dawned on me that the steely reserve I’d worked so hard to convince Finley of this morning was completely gone. My resolve to not fall for this guy was fading quickly.

He took my hand and led me to a stool he had placed ten feet away from his canvas. He patted the seat, and I climbed up on it. His fingers held my ankles longer than necessary as he slid the sandals off my feet. Then as if he’d already had the pose completely mapped out in his mind, he placed each foot on the bottom rung of the stool so that my thighs were apart and my bare knees peeked through the worn out jeans. He leaned back and looked at me as if he was assessing a piece of marble for a sculpture.

Then without warning, he grabbed the end of the undershirt and tugged it down so that my cleavage and the sides of my breasts were bared. Startled, I pulled back and his fingers lost their grasp. The shirt bounced back up.

He raised a dark eyebrow at me. “It’s still less skin than that bikini.”

“Fine,” I said, “but I may never forgive Finley for getting me that suit.”

He reached forward again and tugged on the shirt. The cool air of the room brushed my exposed skin as he took my hand. “Now hold it there and lean forward some.”

He leaned back again.

“Aren’t you supposed to squint past your thumb or something?”

He smiled but didn’t take his eyes off me. “I never have figured out why artists do that.”

His fingers took hold of my chin, and I sucked in a small breath. The near kiss or imagined near kiss in the hall had left me feeling unbalanced and vulnerable, and now I seemed to have little control over ridiculousness.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Uh huh.” I swallowed back a sudden case of nerves, and even after the last silly overreaction to his touch, I was completely unready for his next move.

His rough thumb reached up and dragged down lightly over my bottom lip. “Make sure to keep that pouty look you’re so good at.” His gaze never left my mouth as he spoke.

“I’m not pouty—”

He put up his hand. “Don’t move, don’t talk. This is perfect.” He strolled back to the sound system and glanced back at me. “I hope you don’t mind, I do my best work listening to Pearl Jam.” He turned up the music and then sat on his stool. For a few minutes, he fished around in his pencils and eventually chose one.

Then he lifted his green gaze for the first time since he’d sat at his canvas. His mouth opened slightly almost as if he was shocked to find me sitting there. His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed hard once and then began sketching strokes across the canvas. He glanced my way and then returned his attention to the drawing. Several times he shook his head as if frustrated with the lines he’d drawn.

Fifteen minutes in, I discovered that sitting in the same position for an extended time was more taxing than I would have thought. A cool breeze danced through an open window and across the room, moving a long strand of hair across my face. “What do I do?” I asked.

“Don’t move yet. I’m just finishing with your arms.”

“But it tickles.” I moved my nose up and down but the hair stayed put.

He placed down his pencil and walked across the floor toward me. The crackling energy I’d felt between us the night before when he’d stood over my bed returned now and grew with hot intensity as the space between us disappeared. I was not the only one noticing the sudden charge in the atmosphere between us. He stopped directly in front of me, and even with loud music bouncing off the walls, I could hear the unnaturally fast rhythm of his breathing.

He hesitated a moment and then his hand came up slowly and brushed the hair off my face. His fingertips had only grazed my cheek, but I felt the sensation of his touch through my entire body. He looked back at me as if he’d smoothed his hands over every inch of my skin. The air between us heated and what had started out as a casual session between an artist and his subject had somehow erupted into something completely different.

Without a word, and leaving a stream of heated tension in his wake, Jude returned to his stool and sat. He picked up his pencil again and seemed reluctant to move his gaze from his canvas to his model. After a long pause, he looked at me with such raw, urgent emotion, I lost my balance and my foot fell from the stool.

“Sorry.” I quickly tried to reposition myself on the stool.

“That’s all right. Take a break.” He walked over to the wet bar, lit a cigarette, and reached below the bar to pull out a bottle of liquor. He poured himself a shot and threw it back. Then he relaxed against the counter and smoked his cigarette in sullen silence.

I got up and walked around to stretch. Jude was a hard person to read, and I had absolutely no idea what going through his mind. But I knew what was going through mine. Finley had warned me and I had waved it off as impossible. What a naive, self-confident fool I was.

Jude tossed his cigarette in the sink and returned to his canvas. I returned to my stool and attempted to recreate the same position and expression.

“Lean forward more.” His tone was colder than before. “That’s it. Now pull the hem of the shirt down lower.”

I exposed more skin.

He said nothing at first. “Lift your chin a little.”

I followed his directions.

He turned back to his canvas and then turned his face to me.

“F*ck it,” he growled and threw the pencil across the room. “Never mind. This isn’t going to work.” The stool scraped the floor as he stood abruptly, pulled out another cigarette, and slammed out the door of the pool house.

I sat there momentarily stunned and determined to fight back the tears of hurt that burned my eyes. The stool nearly fell over as I jumped off and raced to the bathroom to change. My hands shook as I changed quickly and took steadying breaths to keep from crying. I threw open the door and slammed directly into Jude.

“I’m sorry, Eden.”

“Whatever. I told you I’d be a boring model.” I tried to slip past him but his arm blocked me.

“That’s not the reason and you know it.”

“I don’t know anything except that this was a mistake.” His arm was like steel as I pushed against it.

He took hold of my waist and pressed me against the wall. “I was fooling myself. I thought I could handle it, but you looked so goddamned beautiful—”

The stress of the morning had taken its toll. Tears broke through. “Please, Jude, just let me go.”

Slowly, he backed away and held his hands up in surrender. I ran for the door. I swiped clumsily at my tears and then fanned my face to dry them. I definitely didn’t want Finley to know I’d been crying, so I went straight to my room and shut the door behind me. She would still be busy with the tattoo artist. I had a reprieve from human contact for a few minutes, and I took advantage of it.

I washed my face and plunked down on my bed feeling suddenly homesick. I wondered what my family was up to and if they’d arrived safely up north. Our family van was not really the long distance type of vehicle. I wondered if we’d be moving up north if dad got the job. And I wondered how long I’d last in this totally unconventional and somewhat turmoil filled summer job. Jude had definitely added a layer to the position that I was not prepared for.