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He nodded and strummed the guitar. "Well, I guess I should put this away. My first surgery is early tomorrow." He put the guitar away and we went back to bed.
Beside me, Drake tossed and turned. I wondered what it was that was keeping him from sleep. Finally, after about half an hour, he was still, his breathing deep and slow.
It took me a long time to fall asleep, excitement about my first class making it hard to let go.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning, I got up when Drake did, showering while he made coffee. I dressed in my cute little flowery sundress that I had hoped would entice him the previous night.
He held me at arm's length and looked me up and down. "Ms. Bennet, you make it very hard to leave you all day when you wear that dress."
I held the skirt out and smiled, curtsying. "You like?"
"I love. You're not wearing it to your art class are you?"
"Of course not," I said, and turned in a circle. "I put it on to show you what you missed yesterday. I'll wear something more appropriate to an artist's studio. My overalls and a t-shirt."
"Whew," Drake said and mock wiped his brow. "Thank God, or someone would definitely steal you away from me. But please wear that tonight when I come home. No matter how tired I am, I'll have to ravish you if you're wearing that."
I laughed and leaned against him for another kiss. "You ravishing me is my one desire."
Then he really had to go and waved to me as he closed the door.
Once again, I was alone. But at least I had the first studio class to look forward to.
My class didn't begin until 10:00AM so I had plenty of time to get ready. I ate my breakfast and dressed in my work clothes, which consisted of an old pair of denim overalls and a black t-shirt underneath it. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and put on a pair of high-tops to complete the ensemble. I looked like an art student. I needed some artsy earrings so I chose a pair of hand-made dangling earrings I bought at a flea market sale in Harlem several years earlier.
Yes, I did look the part. Even my black choker fit the 60s vibe.
Then, I called Jomo and waited for my ride to the Institute and my first class, my stomach filled with butterflies.
Jomo was helpful as usual, telling me about the Institute and how many famous African artists had been through its doors in the past.
"Who is your teacher?" he asked as we drove through the busy streets of Nairobi.
"Talia Abasi," I replied.
He waved his hand at another driver and honked his horn before answering. I gripped onto the door handle as we went around a curve a bit more quickly than I would have liked.
"Oh, she is very good," he said finally.
"How do you know about her?" I asked when I got my breath back.
"She won a national medal for art. I saw her on the television."
I nodded, glad that my teacher was well-regarded in her own country. Sefton was the artist in residence and was also renowned, but the last thing I wanted was to be trapped in a class with him. I could imagine him strolling around the studio, checking out every student's work, making suggestive comments that would drive me crazy as I tried to figure out if he was being rude or if it was my own overactive imagination.
Jomo dropped me off at the Institute, an old five story colonial building built during the Raj, which had been converted into a school. Outside, on the lawn, were a series of shed-like storage containers. Inside were artist studios, the walls covered with brightly colored paintings and prints.
I walked up to the old building, my stomach tight, and entered the cool dim interior. The artwork and photos of former students lined one wall.
A banner above the office, in what I assumed was Swahili and English, read,
"Art is a lie that lets the artist tell the truth." Picasso
I went into the office and checked with the secretary, who had me fill out an enrollment form. She gave me directions to the studio where the class was being held. I went down the hallway, and took a staircase up to a studio on the top floor. The space was large with high multi-paned windows. The natural light would be amazing. Several students were already there, sitting on benches with easels attached, their portfolios and art cases on the floor beside them. In the center of the room was a platform about ten feet by ten, raised off the floor about two inches. That's where the model would pose.
The easels were arranged in a circle around the center of the room. On each easel was a pad of newsprint. The pages were large, about twenty-four by thirty-six inches. I took a seat at an easel bench closest to the door and sat down, my stomach still in knots. The ot
