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And then it’s done. Properly this time, though as Rufus strokes one reverent palm over my belly… well. We did some things right last time, too.
“Stains on green velvet,” I say at last, climbing off his lap with shaky legs. “That might be a lost cause.”
And Rufus laughs, loud and carefree. “Sweetheart, there’s no such thing.”
Ten
Rufus
One year later
“Look to the left by an inch.”
Heaving a sigh, I move my chin.
“Okay, now by another inch.”
I oblige.
“Huh.”
Grinning at the studio wall, I jiggle my baby son against my chest. He giggles wetly, his general stickiness soaking into my gray shirt. Worth it.
“Time to admit it, darling wife.” The light of my life huffs by her easel as I say, “Youare the looker in this family. We’re the muscle, aren’t we, Freddie?”
He blows a bubble. I kiss his head.
“Oh, like that! Stay like that,” Helen says, pointing at me with one hand and sketching quickly with the other. “The light’s perfect when you tilt your head that way. It brings out the silver in your beard.”
“Oh, good,” I say flatly. Wonderful news.
Her mouth twitches, but she’s too busy drawing to laugh. “Shut up and hold still. God, you’re a terrible model, did you know that? You fidget more than the baby.”
It’s true. I’m an impatient man, too restless to sit still for hours. I’m used to prowling back and forth behind the canvas, not sitting quietly in front of it.
But Helen asked me nicely, and I can’t bear telling her no. Not even when it means looking—and feeling—like a prick.
And it’s not so bad lounging here in the pink evening light, holding my baby in the armchair we dragged from the sitting room. The studio walls are plain white, and the only furniture is the armchair I’m sitting in and Helen’s easel, plus her paints balanced on a three-legged wooden stool. My cane leans against my knee.
“No one knows what you look like,” my wife says, chatting idly as she paints. “Isn’t that funny? You’re this huge deal in the art scene, and they could all pass you in the street and not realize.”
“Good.” I blow softly on Freddie’s mop of baby hair. “Don’t want to meet them anyway.”
“You are such a grump, Rufus.”
“I’myourgrump.”
She tries, and fails, to hide her smile. And what I didn’t realize before, what I’m learning now, is that the person modeling is just as free to stare as the person with the paintbrush. And stare I do.
Helen is beautiful in this light. I mean, she’s always beautiful, even first thing in the morning with puffy eyes and pillow creases on her cheek, but in the evening glow, she’s… unearthly. Her long, dark hair is twisted into a low bun, stray locks falling around her face, and her lips are pink and bee-stung.
Toffee eyes glance at me, then down at the canvas. Up at me, then at the canvas, and every time her eyes find me, my heartlurches against my ribs. For the first month or two we were together, I expected that feeling to fade, but I know better now.
It’s never going away. It’sHelen.Living with her is like being struck by lightning dozens of times a day.
“In a good way,” I tell the baby, as though he could hear my thoughts.
“What’s that?” says Helen.
