“Thanks,” she answered distractedly. She didn’t like him apprising her so closely, and she turned with him, holding his intent gaze. “What are you doing, Elliot?”
“Well, if you would stand still for a moment, what I’m trying to do is look at you from different angles to see how I’d like to set up the painting.”
“Oh.” She looked away. “Well, let me put my dance shoes on first, okay?”
“No,” he said authoritatively. “No shoes. Bare feet.”
“Bare feet?”
He nodded firmly.
“But, no one dances in bare feet, Elliot.”
“Sure they do,” he said, a smile sliding over his face as he looked too deeply into her eyes. “Not in the studio, maybe. Definitely not onstage. But when they’re all alone, just them, the moment and the music. There’d be such a freedom in it. Right?”
Victoria couldn’t help but smile back at him. “Maybe. I guess I just thought you’d want shoes on for the painting.”
“Nope. Bare feet,” he said simply as he walked to the back door, stripped off his coat and picked up his sketchpad and pencils from the floor. Returning to the center of the room, he took her hand gently and turned her slightly into the light, studying the lines of her as if she were marble.
“Beautiful,” he murmured quietly.
She snapped around to face him, ears humming with his inflection of the word as she struggled desperately to align it with her memory of the caller’s voice. She studied his face intently for any sign of unease, any awareness of what the word had triggered in her.
Elliot looked at her curiously. “Problem?” he asked, his face and body giving no sign that anything was amiss within him.
Flushing, she shook her head and looked away. Seeing his paints and canvas still propped up against a chair at the back of the room, she rushed over to collect them. “Here. Don’t you want your paints?”
Taking them from her, he leaned them against the wall then slid cross-legged to the floor across from the arched window, flipping through his sketchpad to find a fresh sheet.
“Well, aren’t you going to need them?” she asked, confused.
“Not yet. Later. First I want to do some sketching.”
She felt a little rise of disappointment. “Oh. Okay. Of what?”
Elliot threw his head back and laughed heartily as Victoria hastened to quiet him.
“Of you, silly! That’s how it works. For me, anyhow. First I do a few sketches, try to find the right feel until the picture presents itself.”
She stood quietly, feeling a little admonished. “Oh. Okay. So, what do you want me to do?”
“Dance.”
She felt herself brace against the suggestion. She hadn’t anticipated that she might have to actually dance in front of him. “Oh. I thought I’d just have to pose while you did your painting.”
Elliot ran long graceful fingers through his hair as he leaned back against the wall.
“Victoria, we are in a dance studio, you are a dancer and I am a painter looking to express the essence of the dance in you onto my canvas. Does it not seem reasonable then that I should, at least once, have the pleasure of seeing you dance?”
She considered this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose so. But, I can’t put the music on. Someone might hear.”
“You don’t need the music. Just close your eyes and remember it.”
She wrinkled her nose up and grinned at him. “It’d be easier for me if you closed your eyes, too.”
“No doubt. But that really makes it so very difficult for me to see anything.” He grinned back at her.
Seeing he had no intention of giving in, and with their time slipping by, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The disconnection of their gaze left her feeling instantly vulnerable and exposed. She flashed her eyes open again. “Wait! It makes me nervous having someone watch me.”
“Victoria,” he said with exaggerated patience, “you
have
had people watch you dance before, right?”
“Yes, of course. But, that was a long time ago. This feels different.”
“How?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. Just different.”
“More intimate?”
She thought about this for a moment, then nodded.
“Good. That’s what I want to bring to the painting. That sense of intimacy.”
Victoria frowned.
“Well, think of it this way. A dancer dances for an audience. But to the individual watching, the audience is an illusion. They cannot feel as an audience. There is only the interchange between each individual and the dancer. The dancer’s body becomes a work of art expressing the emotion of each scene. It’s really an intercourse or, say, interchange of intimate connection between the dancer and her viewer.”
Victoria looked at him wide-eyed. “Well, if that explanation was intended to make me feel less nervous, it wasn’t a major success.”
Elliot laughed loudly. “Okay, fair enough. Forget what I just said. I know what I wanted to say, but I got lost in there somewhere. Maybe that’s why I paint,” he added, uncharacteristically flustered.
She smiled lightly at his discomfort. This was something of a revelation, that he wasn’t always quite as comfortable expressing his thoughts as he had seemed. Again, she wondered if it were possible that he was in fact the one who’d called her. Suddenly the idea seized her that perhaps he thought she knew that it was he who was calling. That they sat in mutually agreeably anonymity in order to keep things simple and eliminate barriers. She panicked at the possibility. Maybe he had no idea his phone was so full of static that she could barely make out the few words he ever spoke. Maybe he felt he was doing her a favor, listening to her pathetic outpouring of self-indulgent talk. She clamped down over the erratic barraging of her mind. No. It was not like that. She was letting her imagination carry her away. Whoever the caller was, she was almost positive it was not Elliot. The thought disappointed her, and she adjusted it slightly. Anything was possible. She didn’t really have a clue about whom it might be. She knew it could just as easily be some grotesque old wanker from down at the home as it could be Elliot. She strongly resisted the idea. Deep inside her, she knew she’d felt a connection as they’d sat in silence. Anything was possible. Anything. It could be Elliot, she conceded protectively. It could be anyone.
Her compulsive thinking was distracted by the wall clock. “I guess we’d better hurry.”
Elliot spread his hands open and gestured for her to begin. She stood quiet for a moment, eyes closed, refusing to give reign to all the thoughts clamoring through her head. She pulled deeply at a few strains of music, allowed them to calm her, then to fill her with their rapturous, weeping chords. She felt the movement of air, cloud-soft against her skin as she began to move. Slowly, conscious of his eyes on her, her movements became richer and fuller as the music continued to possess her. And then she felt no more. She simply was. A resplendent note dancing in the symphony of life. A capriccio of motion, glorious in her belonging.
Her eyes fluttered open, her awareness of Elliot total and yet wholly unconcerned, as if she were drugged by the dance. He was peripheral and yet central to the pleasure fueling her moment. Lost in an ecstasy of movement, she danced into exhaustion finally twirling into stillness, extending a vibrant, long left leg toward him as she tipped forward in a slight bow.
He stood up quietly and stepped toward her. She straightened, eyes blinking as if suddenly awakened as she felt his warm hands across her shoulders, lightly encouraging her back into the position she had ended with.
“Like that, Victoria. Perfect. That’s the way I want to paint you.” His voice sounded oddly altered, moved with emotion. He again began to circle her, slowly nodding his approval. “Yes, definitely. That’s the one. Can you hold that for me while I do a quick sketch?”
She stood full in the streaming light, her chest heaving from the exertion of the dance. The raw, sizzling energy coursing through her veins made it all but impossible for her to be still. It had released her to dance so freely. It had released her to dance so freely in front of him.
He stood against the wall for a moment observing, then walked back over to her. She drew up, afraid he was going to admonish her for her inability to stand in stillness. Instead, he walked behind her, searching fingers slipping lightly into her hair, seeking out the little hairpins that fastened her hair into a tight bun. Gently he worked them free until her hair hung loosely down her back. Gathering it over to one side, he finger-combed it lightly, then arranged it forward so it partially shielded her face.
She looked up at him shyly. “Thank you.”
Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself to become more pliable under his hands as he gently shifted her position, delicately molding her fingers beneath his own. He tipped her still further forward, her left strap sliding down until it hung precariously close to slipping right off. She tried to imperceptibly raise her shoulder to keep it in place, but Elliot’s palm gently pressed it back down. Suddenly, the strap released its tenuous hold and slid part way down her arm, openly exposing the top part of her breast. Automatically, her other hand flew up and snatched the strap back into place.
“No,” he said firmly, his hand covering hers as she held the strap up. “Leave it. I like it that way. It’s . . . unexpected.”
Struggling deeply within herself, she tried to remember why she shouldn’t listen to him, but her thoughts refused to cooperate as her attention was circumvented by the feel of his hand on hers. Overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, she gently withdrew her hand out from under his.
“Thank you,” he whispered as he softly slid the strap back over her shoulder and down her arm.
Victoria said nothing, her mind a flurry of conflicted emotion as Elliot easily sauntered over to his easel, put his canvas in place and immersed himself in his sketch. She tried to relax into the moment, but her senses were hyper-alert to the sounds of the comings and goings outside the ballroom doors. Twice, she imagined she heard Bobby’s voice booming out over the din coming from the steadily growing lunchtime crowd filling the café. Victoria’s heart started to flutter manically, her breath pulled away from her. She cursed herself as she bit her lip nervously. Why had she ever agreed to do this? If word ever got out, Bobby would go ballistic.
“What was that?” she asked suddenly, yanking her strap back into place, eyes fixed on the window behind him.
He looked up trance-like. “What?”
“That noise,” she whispered, as she made her way over to the blacked-out window and listened intently.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Shh,” she said. Waving him off to one side, she softly padded toward the back door, opened it slightly and peeked out. A large yellow tomcat, beat-up and mangy, flew off the stairs as she did so. “Oh! It’s just a cat,” she exhaled with obvious relief.
“Victoria, I think you’re letting your nerves run away with you a bit,” Elliot offered kindly.
“I know. You’re probably right. It’s just, you know, I’m still not sure that this is such a good idea.”
“It’ll be fine,” he grinned. “I promise.”
Victoria smiled back at him. “I hope so. Anyhow, I’d better go. I still have some errands to run.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “Where do you want me to put my stuff? In the broom closet?”
She looked around. “There’s a broom closet?”
“Well, not anymore. You’re using it for a coat closet. But, that used to be where they kept the brooms and mops and stuff. How about I put some hooks up on the wall by the doors for the kids to hang their coats on and then we can use the closet to keep the painting?”
“But . . . we can’t keep the painting here.”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I can’t very well be packing it in and out of here if we’re trying to be discreet about things, can I?”
Victoria shook her head, her mind racing. She could not believe she hadn’t thought this through.
“Listen,” he said quietly. “It’s not a problem to keep it here. I had to get a key from Pearl to empty out that room when I was cleaning up. She made a big fuss about making sure I didn’t lose it because she only has one. Why don’t you see if you can get it from her again, and we’ll just keep it while the painting is in there.”
“Okay,” she sighed with relief. “That’d work great. Otherwise, I’d be worried sick about someone going in there and seeing it.”
Elliot reached his arms around her and gave her a quick hug. “You shouldn’t worry so much, Victoria. Trust me. Everything is going to work out fine.”
“Sorry,” she apologized, joining Rose in a corner booth. “A couple of the parents didn’t get there until late.”
“No problem. Gave me time to balance my checkbook.” Rose waved her off with a smile. “How’ve you been? Too busy with the studio now to call, I suppose?”
“I’m sorry, Rose. Went and planned this Christmas recital . . . I don’t remember them being so much work. The kids are trying really hard, though. I think we might just pull it off.”
“That’s good. So, you’re enjoying it? Not too busy for you?”
“No, it’s not too busy. I love it. Other than Bobby trying to sabotage me every chance he gets. Last week he actually set the clock back so I’d be late. Denied doing it of course, but the batteries were just fine when I checked them. I keep hoping he’ll just get used to the idea and quit being so difficult.”