What My Flowers Said Ch. 07-09

"Monsieur Donatien?" I cleared my throat.

He nodded, patting some shavings from the front of his apron, "Madame Foster?"

I nodded.

"Un moment. I am slicing your wood."

He disappeared again through the doorway, and the saw resumed its squealing.

I shook my head, pacing away down a tight aisle lined with pipe straps, padlocks, and loops of chain in sundry gauges. My fingers slid softly along the links. They jingled against each other like a lumbering wind chime. Back in the back, the saw was still shrieking. I rounded the end, passing some wheels of braided rope. On a lark, I lifted a little bundled coil from the rack. Even through the oily air, I could smell its grassy fibers. I could feel it twist around my fingers, stiff and flaxen as straw. I shut my eyes, drifting back dreamily to the reed-daggered dunes down in Nags Head, to the stripes of sweetgrass along the shore. That's the thing, isn't it? Winter up here. I ran the rope across my palm. Not everything dies. But nothing grows at all, either. My fingers closed around the coil. I figured if nothing else, I could use it to tie up the wood.

Sauntering back to the counter, I paused to admire a little polychrome display of paint chips. My eyes danced over the reds, stopping somewhere in the fade from strawberry to blood. I drew my favorite from the rack, and read. 'Cardinal.' I sniffed, stuffing the chip in my pocket. Why wouldn't it be?

The old man reemerged with six long wooden slats. Christ. I swallowed, stunned by the size of them. Eleven feet is enormous. He set the stack down by the door, perspiring, and ambled back behind the counter.

"You are sure this is all you need?" He gestured.

I glanced the wood over. The size was still shocking, but beyond that, the grain was gorgeous, and each piece was ramrod straight. I nodded again, anxious again to get started, and set the rope eagerly on the counter.

"Bien," he rang it up, "But there are some sharp edges, Mademoiselle. Be careful you do not get hurt."

"Merci, Monsieur," I handed him the remainder of Mr. Caine's money, "Gardez tout."

I knelt down and began fumbling with the slats, trying pitifully to lash them together. He watched me for a moment, brows arched, then took over without a word, his rough hands jerking the rope into a firm and elegant knot.

"Merci beaucoup," I thanked him again, grunting as I wrestled the bundle up, and tried to maneuver it to through the exit without wrecking his little store.

"Avec plaisir," he scratched his head, "Do you have no one to help you, Mademoiselle?"

"I'm not going far," I huffed, carefully guiding the far end over a pyramid of paint cans.

The address Peter gave me was just two short blocks away.

"That is good, I think," he pursed his lips, "They say tonight will be the coldest all year. Moins vingt, sans facteur vent."

Marvelous. I peered outside. Already the sun had vanished, and the sky was buried in a slate-gray mire of clouds. Just your luck, isn't it. Penny?

"Restez au chaud, Mademoiselle."

For the third time I thanked him, and pushed through the door, lugging my load with both arms. My teeth chattered as I struggled my way to the studio. First fall. Second fall. Simon of Cyrene. Veronica waves her hanky. At an empty crosswalk, my mind flashed again, profanely, through the Stations of the Cross.

I was panting a little, and a cold sweat had beaded up on my temples by the time I found the address. From the front it looked abandoned, but there was an old white flatbed on the curb outside, with a little Nova Scotian flag on the antenna. I shivered and smirked. Gotta be the place. Laying the wood down beside a steel door, I knocked lightly.

Nothing.

I balled my fist and knocked harder. The door swung open, and there stood Peter, wrapped in a grimy leather apron, with his welding mask flipped to the back of his head.

I leapt back. His clothes were powdered with pale plaster. His arms were sweat-slick and smudged in black ash. I grinned. It felt good not being the grubbiest of the two of us. And it was nice to see him, for once, not refined and natty like the other night, but filthy, and sunk in his work up to the elbows. It was a better look for him than I cared to admit, what with the way his shoulders filled out his shirt, and the rippling veins along his arms. I crossed my arms, my teeth still chattering. I tried not to stare.

"Evening, ma'am," he beamed, "Welcome to Chez Mulgrave."

"Thanks, Peter," I shivered, "I um, really do appreciate this."

"Hey, don't sweat it," he ran a gritty hand through his hair, and spotted the pile of wood at my feet. "Wow," his eyes widened, "Not messing around tonight, are we? C'mon, lemme grab that," with a gloved hand, he lifted the lumber for me, and I tailed him timidly inside.

Holy...I froze in the doorway, stunned by what I saw. The space was tremendous, with smooth cement floors, twenty-foot ceilings, and the last flecks of light streaming in through three enormous glass garage doors. To either side of us stood shelf upon shelf of moulded wax models, pots of plaster and polyurethane casts, and scraps of poured metal spruing scattered all over. Unreal, I breathed, barely aware that my mouth was dangling. He's casting bronze in here, isn't he?

Floored, I moved to a shelf of wax statues, tilting my head to admire them. They were entirely different from his welded obelisk, and not just because of the medium. Every last one, as far as I could see, depicted a human form; all subtly stylized, and sculpted in incremental variations on a theme. Some were male, though most were not. And at least in the larger ones, I could make out two bodies entwined. I reached up on my tiptoes, running my hand along a girl's pale, angular elbow, and up the rough ridge of her arm. Am I crazy? My skin reddened. She looks familiar.

"Not bad, eh?" Peter shuffled his feet, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, "Place used to be a body shop. And I think a little steel mill before that."

"Peter..." I murmured, "This is amazing."

"Well, it's no Hôtel Biron. But I guess it does in a pinch. A real pain to heat it, though." He stepped over, helping me out of my coat, and hung it up alongside a huge parka of tattered leather, smeared with oil stains, and scorched black along the sleeves. "I mean I can bundle up easy enough," he tossed his helmet and gloves down near our coats, "But my models are always complaining."

I raised a brow. His models?

"C'mon. Over here," he took my hand, "This. This is what I wanted to show you."

He led me out of the maze of shelves, and again I stopped cold. There in the center, glowing brightly beneath a skylight and surrounded on three sides by scaffolding, was a massive, half-finished rendition of the amorous miniatures on his shelves. I gasped softly. The forms were towering, and still emerging from the wax. But from what he'd already chiseled away, I could make out a man and a woman entangled, both of them utterly bare. I edged closer, marveling. The girl was seated on a rough, round pillar, her arms raised high above her. The man knelt at her ankles, arms clasped about her waist, his face hidden between her thighs—like some gently bent homage to Rodin's Eternal Idol. I blushed, circling slowly, and gazing through the battered, crisscrossing bars. The pose itself was more than shocking, but after his obelisk, the curves were much softer, sweeter even, than anything I would have expected from Peter.

"It's stunning..." I breathed, barely audible.

"Here," he put his hand on the small of my back, "Care for a closer look?"

He flipped a switch. I jumped as the floor lurched beneath us, and began to rumble and rise. It was a pneumatic lift—the kind they use to work on the undercarriages of cars—and inch-by-inch it carried us up to eye-level with his colossal statue. I clutched his arm as we jolted to a halt.

"See it yet?" He said softly.

See what? I squinted, shaking my head.

"Daphne and Apollo..." he nudged.

I bit my lip, still stumped. But then the details fell into focus. I saw how the girl's hair was woven thick with laurel leaves, how her curled toes took root with the pillar beneath her. It seemed odd to me that he'd spent such time carving out these painstaking details—like David's veins, or Proserpine's pale thighs—yet the girl's face he'd left formless, and blank. I bit my lip, trying hard not compare him to Bernini.

"It's really something, Peter."

"But seriously," he crossed his arms, "What do you think? Like, critically or whatever."

I wasn't sure what he wanted me to say. The theme itself was timeless. The composition modern. In fact, speaking critically, it didn't seem all that different from his obelisk after all. Both were moving marriages of ancient, and avant-garde.

"Well I'm no critic," my brow creased, "But I don't think you need my help at all. It's brilliant."

"You're sure?" He pulled me closer, "Not too derivative? Too played-out?"

I shifted anxiously in his arms.

"I mean, plenty of people have tried it. But this... this is—" I glanced down at his cunning Apollo, "It's unique, to say the least." The heights made me dizzy, and I clutched him a little harder, "It's um, very vertical."

"Yeah," he smirked, mistaking my death-grip for something it wasn't, "I was thinking 'on a pedestal', you know?" He turned to face me, "And I was thinking about what you said that night at Marie's. How even Picasso couldn't improve the nude, and Schiele couldn't make it ugly," he shrugged, "Just is what it is. The perfect subject. A work of art."

My cheeks and chest glowed, "I must've been pretty drunk."

"In vino veritas," he chuckled. "You know, I'm really looking forward to having you here, Pens." His tone fell lower, "Really. Reminds me of when I was first getting started. No money. No studio. No bed. Very self-conscious about my work."

I bit my tongue, and let my eyes lose focus. About the last thing I needed right now was another man pointing out how pitiful and pathetic I was. Mr. Caine had given me enough of that to last half a lifetime. I cleared my throat, breaking away from him.

"But you said you were strictly non-objective, didn't you?" I tried steering us back to abstractions. I was comfortable in abstraction, "Something change your mind?"

"Change of heart, more like it," he scratched his head, sidling closer, "What'd that guy who translated Dante say? You told me that night," he smirked, "Modern art is what happens when painters quit looking at girls, and convince themselves they have a better idea."

Ciardi... I grimaced. Are there laurels in the seventh circle?

"Maybe," I flushed crimson, retreating, "But I think I like Diderot better."

He narrowed his eyes at me, still grinning.

"Mille peintres sont morts," I murmured, "sans avoir senti la chair."

He chuckled softly again, shaking his head.

"You're nuts, you know that?" He touched my arm, "I just... I can't believe how bright you are. You don't even know."

I dropped my eyes, embarrassed, just as he reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. By instinct, I jumped back, and just about tumbled right off the edge of the lift.

"Whoa!" He caught me, pulling me back to him, "Easy, Pens," he steadied me, "Last thing I need is to be scraping you up off the floor."

"Sorry," I swallowed, "Just jumpy, I guess."

"I'll say."

I wriggled my hips and he let me go, slipping his hands back in his pockets.

"So look, uh, I've got a confession to make."

Don't we all? I held my breath.

"You said I don't need your help with this," his brow was tense, "But you're wrong." He shook his head, "Truth is, I didn't ask you here just to get your advice."

I eyed him warily, "...what do you want from me, Peter?"

"Honestly," his ears went red, "I uh, I was hoping you might pose for me."

Pose? My brow furrowed, "Y-you mean like..?"

He nodded to his bare-skinned sculpture, and crossed his arms. I stared back at him, blushing furiously. Whatever I could've expected him to say, it absolutely wasn't that.

"Come on," I shook my head, "you're joking, right?"

"I'm not," he took off his glasses, wiping them on his shirttail, "Not at all, Pens."

I spluttered at him, stunned, "Why? I mean, why me?"

As the initial shock wore off, I could feel a fire rising in my belly. He turned away from me, scratching his head. Whatever reaction he was hoping for, this clearly wasn't it, either.

"What can I say, Pens?" He shrugged, "You're a muse. You inspired me. Here I've been chipping away at this thing for weeks. Ever since that first night at Marie's," he combed a shaky hand through his hair, "And I've tried to ignore it. I've had some girls come through and sit for me. They're good," he frowned, "They are. But they aren't you."

My fire dimmed a little, doused by something like sympathy. Still, I couldn't bring myself to believe what he was saying.

"It's frustrating, you know? Sometimes it's like torture," he spun back to me, adjusting the glasses, "I mean, I've got this thing in front me. This image. It's so clear, it feels like I could reach out and touch it. But every time I try," his eyes darkened, "it just comes out empty. Like a shell. A husk," he shook his head, "I really thought I had it with this last girl. That's why I went big," his lip curled, "But now, just look. It's just more of the same."

"Peter..." I murmured, at a loss for words.

"Then the other night, back at the gallery. Being there with you," he looked down at me, his voice husky, "I think I finally figured out what was missing."

"Peter, I..." my voice faltered, "I mean, I don't—"

He stepped back a little, letting me breathe.

"I really don't think..."

"I'm sorry," he cut me off, rubbing his eyes, "That uh, that really wasn't fair of me." His jaw clenched, "I uh, I shouldn't unload on you like that."

I blinked at him, still baffled.

"Look, I don't need an answer from you tonight. Just promise me you'll think about it, Pens," he nodded down to his faceless Daphne, "I mean, you can only carve so many laurel leaves. At some point, you gotta focus on what actually matters."

Are there laurels in the seventh circle? My toes clenched as he flipped the switch, and lowered us back to the ground. Or apple trees? Péché Originel. L'Origine du monde. I still couldn't quite remember how to speak. Even breathing wasn't easy.

"C'mon," he took my hand again, and a quiver moved up through my wrist, "I've got a little office upstairs. Thought we could set you up in there."

Still reeling, I let him lead me up a precarious catwalk to a room overlooking the studio floor. My feet felt like lead. My heart was still pounding. He turned the door handle and flipped on a lamp.

"Voilà. Your private atelier, Madame."

My eyes went wide, and a sharp chill skimmed through me. Is it real? I stepped in, doubting. Is this really for me? My lips parted. The walls were bare brick, and fitted with huge steel windows. The scuffed floors creaked underfoot. Along the far wall—his 'office,' I guess—stood a chesterfield, an antique radio, and a slate gray tanker desk, with a rusty old shotgun mounted above. He saw me staring, and scratched his head.

"It was my Dad's," his arm dropped. "You know, he probably thought God was punishing him, having a son who'd rather see a Brâncuși exhibit than go out duck hunting with him."

"...I take it two aren't close?" I breathed.

"He died. A couple years back," his brow creased, and he shook his head, "But yeah, we never quite saw eye-to-eye."

I saw him blink some dew from his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Peter."

"Hey, c'est la vie, right?" He shrugged it off, "Kinda nice having his gun around, really. Somebody broke in last spring, and made off with a couple grand worth of tools."

I nodded absently, running my fingers along the rough brick. The whole rest of the room was spare, and weathered. Blank canvas. I breathed softly, biting my lip. Another rosy tingle was moving through me as I tiptoed up to the window, watching the snowflakes swarm like satin moths, and flutter dreamily against the glass.

"So what do you think?" He followed me, shuffling his feet, "Is this gonna do the trick?"

My breath fogged the window. I closed my eyes. It's funny. For a moment, I actually felt like I might cry.

"It's perfect," I whispered, turning to him. "Really. It's more than I could've hoped for..." I sighed, "I just—I don't know how to repay you, Peter."

"Hey, don't sweat it."

He smirked, and set his hand on my hip. I let him. Right then, right there, it felt right with him, and I actually kind of liked it.

"And look, about what I said earlier, Pens. I uh, I didn't mean to—"

"...I'll do it," I murmured.

He stiffened. The words hung in the air, as startling to me as they were to him.

"Y-you will?" His voice was hoarse, "For real?"

I shut my eyes, resigned, and nodded. His hand slid higher, up onto my waist.

"Right now?"

My skin burned scarlet. Pushing his luck, isn't he?

"If that's what you want," I bit my lip, "I just—I guess I'm nervous."

He spun me round to him, "Don't be. You're beautiful, Pens. And we'll do this right. I promise." He pointed, his voice trembling with excitement, "There's uh, there's a fresh robe for you in the washroom," he nodded, "You can undress in there. I swear, I won't touch a hair on your head while we're working. And we can stop any time you like. Cool?"

I swallowed the knot in my throat, and nodded. I had no illusion of knowing what I was doing. But he'd been so good to me—so free, and funny, and warm. I owed him something. And if this was the way to repay him, the way to please him, then at least in that tender, transient moment, I was willing. I could make myself open to him. I could make myself vulnerable. Nudes to heaven, I quivered. Naked, to hell. Are there apples in the seventh circle? 'A girl who was deathly allergic...' Did he drown after the fall?

Slipping lithely out of his grasp, I crossed over. I thought of La Fornarina, Bella Simonetta, Lizzie Siddal as Lady Godiva—all those demure, denuded muses, frozen forever. Objectified. 'I'm just a gaze, Miss Foster. A pair of eyes, devouring.' And then I thought of Evelyn X, all stripped and bound, in strokes of oil and ochre. That portrait, I shut my eyes. She's fearless, isn't she? My thoughts taunted me. You're not too afraid, are you, Penny? You're not going to run?

I clenched my jaw, steeling myself. But just at the edge of the door, I slipped on something, and turned my ankle, tumbling clumsily to the ground.

"Christ!" Peter hissed, hurrying over, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," I shook my head, embarrassed beyond words.

What the hell was that? A sharp pain pulsed through my ankle. I glanced down to my foot, and flushed. The proverbial banana peel, still stuck to the tip of my shoe, was a silky red thong, with a little lace ruffle around the waist. Peter spotted it too, and the color drained from his face.

"Cécile," his voice cracked, "One of my models. I'm sorry, Pens. I swear, she leaves her shit everywhere." His cheeks glowed like embers as he snatched up the panties, and stuffed them hastily into his pocket.

Ah...I felt something sinking inside me. So that's how it is, is it?