For the Love of Art Pt. 03

The room he dropped me off in, I wasn't sure if it was a lounge or mini library. The ceilings were high scales, the woodwork matching the floorboards. A fireplace crackled lively from the corner where a brown bear rug was laid out before two loungers. Along the side wall were shelves and shelves of books, ending where a row of cathedral windows looked out to the front driveway. I only knew it was the front because of the familiar fountain and peeks of green out towards the end of the property. If not for the exposed gray granite and soldier pine trees, I wouldn't have been able to make out the front, the back, or the side, because outside, the world was glittering white planes of snow. Becky hadn't been exaggerating.

"Two feet," Mr. Ryne said from beside me.

I surprised myself by not flinching or shifting away from the evaluation of the snow's height. He would notice if I became too resigned and lost in my thoughts. I looked to the bookshelves once more, grabbing at straws of distraction. "Those books . . ."

"Look arcane?"

"Old," I admitted. I didn't peg him as someone who enjoyed collectibles, unless the menagerie of books were all relics of art.

He huffed in amusement, crossing his arms. He was looking outside, ire making its way back into his gaze. "I'm going to fix up the powerlines. Maybe shovel aside some of the snow. I apologize if this conflicts with some of your plans."

He looked down at me. "I know how eager you were to get back to business."

Deep breaths, deep breaths. "It's alright. Can't stop nature. Do what you have to do."

"Planned to," he said softer. He was looking at me with an intensity that bred clarity to how he managed such detailed portraits. Those blue eyes were always watching. Always aware and receptive. He was always steps ahead, always quick with retorts because he digested the nuances of his surroundings. Similar to wild predators.

I hugged my stomach, determined to keep my head on until I found a way home. "Mind if I read any of the texts?"

He paused just a moment before striding towards the bookcase with an indifferent look of boredom. With the same apathetic nature, he plucked one of the bindings down, flipped through it, then tossed it onto one of the loungers. "I've never read any; can't promise you anything from them."

Which was fine by me. I didn't care about the books so much as creating space between us. Getting rid of him. Sitting down and thinking. Though, it did bring to question why he would own such a vast collection if he never indulged any of them. That was just wealthy people for you. "It's alright. Anything to pass the time, right?"

Cyan blues flicked toward me, studious. Scrutinizing.

The look traversed beneath my skin, until I wanted to shed it. Seeing as that wasn't an option, I shifted on my feet, then pushed myself to near the loungers where he stood. I sat down. Picked up the book he'd pulled down. Procédé en Creux. I even pretended to know French, for that matter.

He hovered in front of me, arms banding around his chest, legs slightly apart. He was waiting for something, or had caught onto my sudden change in persona.

Did he see how intent I was on appearing nonchalant? He must have saw through the guise, even as I flipped past the table of contents and straight to the Roman numeral marked chapters.

I couldn't be held to blame for witnessing his private get off! He had left them there where anyone could have easily pulled one aside to examine them. It hadn't been an invasion of his privacy. And while I was on a rampant of lying to myself, why didn't I just go ahead and pretend the disturbing pictorial depiction of me hadn't left my mind in shambles

"Miss Larson?"

My throat tightened as my heart tried to squeeze through it. I was obvious. Too obvious. Were my palms sweaty? With a quiet, steady exhale, I wet my lips and looked up—or started to. I was sidetracked by the belted pants a space before my lips and what presided behind them. The temptation to inch back on the soft lounger was fierce, but my resolve, for once in its life, was more so. I met the force of his gaze, shooting for the utmost innocence. "Yes, Mr. Ryne?"

Silence was his weapon, and I admit, it was a powerful thing in the wrong hands. In his hands. He used it long enough to obtain my defeat and make me look away, where only then did he say, "You seem off. What's wrong?"

Was it so bad? Would telling him be better or worse? What would come of me when his eyes clouded with dark dismay at my actions, my discovery? My stomach roiled.

No one should be able to read me as well as this man could. All my life I had (to fight, lol) taken comfort in the security of my mind, where no one could enter and go exploring around its contents. I never considered how someone could alternatively flush them out.

I looked up at him, my heart still making desperate attempts at escape as it pounded away in adrenaline spiked fear. I knew nothing of this man who so easily coaxed forth contents of my mind. The blue eyes boring down on me could have belonged to anyone off the street.

I knew then, telling him would yield nothing but a unique complication. But answering with silence wasn't a weapon I was familiar with. And something told me silence may have been worse than the truth.

What I did next was the epitome of playing with fire, dancing on the ledge of a cliff, biting off more than I could chew; I hooked my fingers on his belt—and tugged. My other hand gripped the shirt at his torso and in my eyes, I painted a picture of my own for him: lust. "What's wrong?" I echoed. Sugary sweet, thick with need, I didn't recognize my own voice, let alone the courage that had come over me. "You promised you weren't done with me."

Rather than expose me to a range of responses, Mr. Ryne's face cleared of all expression. Waiting. Waiting for me to shrivel from the boldness of my action and look away with a muttered apology. He even brought to play the oppressive silence of his, and when that didn't deter me, he leaned down close, both hands gripping the back of the lounger on either side of my head. "I don't recall promising you anything," a chaste whisper, his lips grazing over mine in what could not possibly be called a kiss, but left me breathing heavier no less.

I was motionless, my lips seared by the flutter of his, my mind working hard to remember what I'd seen in the gallery. It was out of my control. Anytime he neared, my depthless trench of sound reason flooded. Fear and wariness. Two predominant attributes my body wasn't feeling just then.

"That kiss must've grown you a spine there, hm?" There it was, the grueling edge of mockery, upholding a two-faced coin of affection and sadism. "I left my duckling too long down there in the dark, did I?"

After what I'd seen in his gallery and the irrefutable vestures of fear-topped paranoia sieging my ribcage and battering my mind . . . I still wanted him. I wanted him to do his worst, because something told me that was the only way to sate what twisted desire made me want to pull him closer. To cradle his hips between my legs as he demonstrated the movements of a different kind of art form.

I swallowed the scorch of need. All of me was strung for all of the wrong reasons. My chest was tight, sending each exhale through a tunnel of fire. Anxious, anticipating need contracted my core. "I was just—"

His fingers brushed my inner thigh. "You were just impatient."

There was nothing I could say to that. Not solely because of the trance he held over me, but I couldn't explain the true reason for my shaken state. As well, my behavior from before did point towards impatience. Before now, I had never considered myself an impatient person. Not with the family I grew up with.

He gave one of his mirthy chuckles. Thankfully his hand abandoned my thigh, allowing me to breathe properly again. But then he was cupping the side of my face, his hand textured but maintaining a gentle caress. His thumb glided over my bottom lip, circling the plump protrusion carefully as he kept his gaze to mine.

"There's nothing wrong with impatience. Women can want what they want, when they want it, same as us men. Besides," He grinned, placed a kiss brief and infuriating at the corner of my mouth, before taunting against it, "I like you craving my dick."

He stepped away as if to give me space to let his words fully marinate. They did. More than I could describe. He was looking me over. "A blush, on your skin. Now that's a gradient I'd worship night and day."

Words you'd only hear from the lips of a true to nature artist. Again, I didn't defend myself against any of the claims. Was it possible to want to run as far from someone as you could, as well as pull them impossibly close?

"You start these things," I began slowly, stamping out the petty wish to put emphasis on 'you'. "But you don't finish them."

Watching me, he scrubbed his thumb knuckle over his chin, then swept the hand through his hair. The red ruby piercing winked at me. "Because the electricity is out."

"So?" What was I doing? I wanted him gone, and fast.

"So, it's embarassing. I seldom have guests, and when I do, this happens."

He sounded genuinely upset about something so unimportant. He had the fireplace going. Daylight was somewhat with us still. And it was freezing outside. I didn't know any kind of guests I'd bother to go such lengths for. And no part of me would muster the energy to feel "embarrassed" over it, to say the least. I said again, "You can't stop nature."

He released a deep sigh and relented. "You're right. But the firewood will last only so long and I refuse to let you ice up while in my home."

My brain was doing the lack of comprehension thing again. My eyes flicked to the windows, where I was pretty sure flurries of snow had begun to descend again. He was going to be out in that miserable weather . . . because the firewood would run out? I pursed my lips before nodding. "I'll be here."

"I know you will. Possibly overnight at this rate. Which would give me more than enough time to tender to that impatience of yours." He spoke before I could inject my optimistic hope that the snow may well let up. "In any event, judging by your preference of early morning tutoring, I'm guessing you're one to head to bed before the sun sets. I'll leave clothes for you in the laundry room, if you want to wash your current pair for the morning when the electricity returns." He pointed through the adjacent kitchen to a door. "Laundry room's just through there. Guest room, second floor, end of the hall, make a left. Don't pout, Miss Larson. I'm not sending you to bed early, just giving you options."

I started. Had I been pouting? He'd done a great job of making it sound like he was putting me to bed, and I may or may not have resented his assessment of my sleeping habits. There was nothing wrong with sleeping when the sun did. I resisted a tut of annoyance. "I hope it doesn't come to that." Realizing how steely my voice had become, I cleared it, then covered with, "I'd hate to bother you any more than I have to."

"Mhm," was the vague, skeptic response. But thankfully, he didn't linger, disappearing towards the back of the home momentarily before reemerging, dressed to the teeth for the winter hell. He'd scavenged a shovel from somewhere and was hauling two large ice salt bags over one shoulder.

I watched him quietly, having yet to move from the spot he'd left me. He didn't look over at me either, which brought on an odd feeling, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was. Blowing out a breath, I ignored it. Too much introspection while trapped in his home and I would drive myself up the wall. Seeing as I had no desire for cornering myself in a self-made nightmare, I busied myself with the many foreign titles at my disposal. Anything to keep my mind off of the portraits and looming fate of when he decided to 'tender to my impatience'. As well, I wanted to pass the time.

That's exactly what it did. An hour, maybe two, traipsed by. Somewhere between, Mr. Ryne had gotten the power back on, but all of the lights had remained off. When I hunted down the switches, all came on except those in the foyer and lounge room, where I, once more, sat and accepted the impending darkness.

Blue daylight had long waned to a warm copper glow, shadowing half of the room. The charring wood smell was welcomed, its breaths of heat inspiring, but at the same time, it was still hard to focus on any of the material I picked up. Or bat away the ballooning eerie sensation in my stomach. As I looked around the quiet home, I was suddenly young again, sitting in the corner loveseat of my Aunt Rita's apartment, watching the grownups talk and talk and talk while each passing minute felt like the hands of time were pushing me from existence. I'd wanted to go home, wanted to pick at my older brother before climbing to the top bunk and falling asleep before my head hit the pillow.

Like now, that same displaced yearning for familiar walls had me wanting the sanctuary of my dorm room. To be away from this place of hands and teeth.

Even if I wanted to continue reading through the homesickness, the words were becoming harder to see. This didn't stop me from trying. I wanted to remain awake as long as feasibly possible. Not out of fear of the unknown, but I thought it only right that I not head off to bed without notifying or saying some words of goodnight. The idea in and of itself was absurd. At least, with my art instructor it was. But it was a hard ingrained habit. My Ma used to wait up until the wee hours of the night when I stayed at a friend's house past the set time. For her, it was parental guarding, but when I waited up for my brother to get home from a wrestling match, it was a courtesy of goodnight. Becky thought it was weird, coming into our dorm to see me dragging around, just to offer a zombified goodnight before crashing myself.

A habit was a habit, even if Mr. Ryne deserved cold hard silence for a goodnight.

By the time I was skimming a book called El Ojo Absoluto by Gérard Wajcman, the pages were blurring as I stifled a tear-inducing yawn. I was by no means fluent in the Spanish language, especially not when tired, but of all the foreign written textbooks I'd pulled from the shelves, Spanish was the only language I could, at the very least, read and understand. The Absolute Eye. The book had scarcely held my interest. The author went into the conspiratorial concept of the all-seeing eye and how fragile all moments of time were, how no one thing transgressed without a witness. As it went on, it delved deeper into the art of shadow perception, how shadows afflicted the observer with emotions stemmed solely from lighting. When another yawn successfully lulled me toward the surreal scape of the Twilight Zone, I decided to trudge on three more pages.

A mistake.

Because it was as I neared a quarter of the book that I began to notice writings on the pages. Annotating markings, highlights, and sticky notes toward the spine.

I squinted to read the writing. Mr. Ryne had said he never read any of the books. If that were the case, who did this belong—

The answer came in the form of two letters I'd seen before. 'C.L.' The initials distracted me from the note itself. Downstairs, the painting of a cabin hanging on the supply closet, it'd had the same initials painted in the corner. Above the current initials, the note itself only read, 'Light and dark, two composites of synergy.' Beneath that was the scrawl of a website: 'absoluteshadowdive.com.mx'.

Who even signed notes?

I looked through more pages, where similar notes and tags adorned the parchment. I stopped only when I flipped one more page, and saw a photo that, for the second time today, sunk my heart to my stomach.

It was a photo of the same cabin, only in this, the sun was shining palpably through the age-crinkled film. The wheat was more golden and rich. And on the lip of the cabin's porch, there stood three people, all of smiling faces, but only one stood out.

Dimitri Ryne. There, smiling for the camera with the photogenic cyan whirlpools and the perennial shadow of facial hair. He didn't look much different than he did now, save for the small touches of flawless skin, complexion sun kissed and not so . . . weathered.

Beside him was a woman of rich brown eyes and a spaced-tooth smile that radiated optimal elation. Crows-feet gathered at the corner of her eyes, but she was young, her skin pale and captivatingly smooth. She was beautiful.

Then I spied the little girl, no more than seven years old, standing in front of the two of them on the lower step. There was something about her that made me want to look away. Something about the smile. The eyes were large and innocent, blonde hair to the shoulders, the tips of her fingers caked in dirt as though she'd just finished digging when called away from the fun for a family picture.

Family.

Why was that my first assumption? Neither wore a wedding band. The child shared absolutely no resemblance to Mr. Ryne, from the sunny cap of blond curls to the dark brown eyes like a curious doe.

It was the embrace, I decided. The way the woman's arm wrapped around Mr. Ryne's waist and tethered him to her the same as I'd been tempted to do in the gallery below.

Jealousy was a wave I didn't bother to fight as I stared at this woman. This woman who Mr. Ryne held with equal vise and a smile that rivaled the woman's and her attractive overbite.

That was enough. If I looked any longer, my mind would proceed to expand the sea of unknown and already I was running on fumes and an early morning protein shake. With one last case of hungry curiosity, I flipped the picture over, and was rewarded with a brief script of no impressive penmanship. It read simply,

To: Dimitri D. Ryne,

I thought we had more time.

Loving you in black and blue, Clare LaMonte

I snapped the book closed feeling worse than I did before reading it. Those three lines, they resonated. They could mean anything. Too many things. Was this Clare LaMonte his ex-girlfriend? Worse, ex-wife? And had he had a child?

More time . . . Did that not generally imply death? Exactly how old was Mr. Ryne again . . .

Outside, I heard the scrape of the shovel. When I looked to see the lone clothed figure discarding a scoop of snow, there came nothing but the drift of disquiet in my chest, as silent and forlorn as the snowfall itself.

This couldn't go on. All the questions—questions I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answers to. It was reasonable to take a standpoint of logical deductions. Everyone had their secrets, big and small. The portraits in the basement, there was a chance of there being a reasonable explanation for why a man would spend days painting the same muse over and over. The unmentioned woman in the photo, there was a chance Mr. Ryne had a perfectly good reason for never speaking of her.

I rubbed my eyes. I was too tired for this. Something felt wrong about all of it. I'd come here to hone my trade and learn the intricacies of art, instead I was learning things I had no business whatsoever knowing. But the man had kissed me and I'd returned it. Did this grant me permission to know of his past love affairs?

"I think I'm going to sleep," I muttered. There was no point in my dwelling on the obvious, that I would have to sleep under the same roof as my art instructor after unburying the things I did. He lived on the edge of the boonies, the buses weren't running even if I wanted to chance the walk to a station, and I was pretty sure I'd just heard my stomach growl.

Tomorrow's problem. For now, I returned all of the material back to the shelves then followed his directions to the laundry room. Upon flipping on the lights, I searched high and low for the acclaimed clothing he'd laid out for me, but all I found was the softest white t-shirt I had ever had the honors of stroking, folded neatly on top of the drier. I unfolded it and held it up. It had to be an extra large.