Chapter 3
Genevieve ran her hands over the hard, smooth surface of the six-foot tall block of marble. It was a beautiful piece of stone, perfect for the sculpture she planned. She liked to live with the block a few days, touch it, and visualize the form trapped within, before starting the work. A finished clay sculpture sat close by, ready to be fired as soon as the clay dried.
In the meantime, she wanted to spend time with the gargoyle on the covered concrete patio outside. And the first thing he needed was a bath.
She strode into the mudroom, and after wiggling into well-worn blue coveralls, she tugged on rubber boots and gathered a bucket of soapy water, a soft brush, several rags, and rubber gloves.
As she walked out on the porch, a gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of the white freesia blossoms tucked among clusters of colorful tulips and drooping, bell-shaped daffodils planted in carefully maintained beds along the front of the house.
She breathed in their perfume and tilted her face up to the tender midmorning sun. After weeks of rain, the weather had turned fine, promising several days of clear skies and warmer temperatures. She pushed back the metal doors of her studio to air out the space, and invited in the greener smell of blooming flowers and rain-washed grass.
Carrying the bucket and cleaning tools, she cut across the soggy grass to the covered concrete patio. The slab butted up against her studio on one side, and the porch that stretched across the front of her long ranch-style house on the other. French doors in the breezeway, connecting her studio to the house, opened onto the patio.
Butterbean, her orange tabby, looked out at her, his mouth moving in a plaintive meow she couldn’t hear. She set the bucket down next to the gargoyle and ambled up the steps to open the door and let him out. He wove through her legs for some attention, and after a few head-to-tail strokes sauntered off, leapt up on the porch, and settled into one of the rocking chairs.
Genevieve turned her attention back to the statue. The gargoyle’s suffering was laid bare in the full sun, and a burst of sympathy swamped her.
“Maybe you’ll feel better once you’re clean.” She tugged on the rubber gloves and started with his hair and his taut, forbidding face. The soapy water and soft brush cleaned the algae and dirt off the stone, leaving it grayish white.
As she splashed and scrubbed, she studied gargoyle’s features more closely. Though set in a grimace of pain and rage, his face had the musculature and physiology of a human, except for the heavy brow ridge and the displaced chin and exaggerated teeth. His cap of hair curled around his ears, along his neck, and across his forehead.
Once he was clean, she’d study him more thoroughly. She worked steadily for an hour, changing water when she needed to, and had cleaned a fair collection of pigeon droppings, dirt, and algae off most of his upper body. She was working on his back and shoulders when a car pulled into her driveway. The low-riding charcoal gray Jaguar gleamed like a troop of shoe shiners had worked over its entire surface.
Simon Martin emerged from behind the wheel with the grace of a dancer. His black suit fit his tall, trim frame to perfection, setting off his dark hair and chocolate brown eyes, although his rich gray shirt paired with a black and red silk tie looked too dressy to be anywhere near her studio.
Hyperaware of her appearance, she looked down at her dust-coated coveralls and sighed. The jeans and T-shirt beneath the coveralls weren’t much better.
“What are you doing?” Simon asked.
Simon wasn’t usually so obtuse. “Cleaning this statue.”
“I can see that, but what is that thing?”
“It’s a gargoyle, sculpted in the fourteenth century.”
His brows rose, and he started toward her, but stopped a safe distance away from the garden hose and water-slick concrete. “And it’s sitting on your patio because…?”
Genevieve gave the area just above the statue’s wings a swipe or two with the brush. When had Simon’s prissiness begun to test her patience? Was it before or after her trip to Scotland? The two weeks she spent in Scotland had given her a breather from the pressure he often put on her to produce, produce, produce. He didn’t seem to realize that art couldn’t be forced. And if she kept working when she was too tired, she made mistakes. The materials she sculpted were expensive, and she couldn’t afford to make many.
He was a good agent. And he was so good to her after Andy’s death…. “I like him, and I want him here.” Did her tone sound as intractable to him as it did her?
His brows rose, and he sidled closer to the gargoyle. “He’s ugly as hell.”
She smiled. “Yes, he is. But he’s one of a kind, and very valuable. I’m getting ready to rinse him, so you’d better step back if you don’t want that beautiful suit ruined.”
He danced away tout de suite, and she smiled as she sprayed the gargoyle down to remove the soapy residue. When he was properly rinsed, she turned off the water and said, “You arrived just in time. I’m ready for a break. Would you like some iced tea, Simon?”
“Yes. I could do with a drink.”
“Come into the kitchen with me.”
Genevieve led the way up the steps of the breezeway, where she took off her boots and padded in her sock feet into the kitchen.
“Have a seat if you like.” She flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and went to the sink to wash her hands.
Simon hiked a hip on one of the metal stools at the breakfast bar off the back of the island. “The kitchen looks great.”
“Thanks. I’m very pleased with it. And the house is much more comfortable now this and the bathrooms have been remodeled.”
She scanned the space and its ceiling-high green cabinets. Their glass doors gleamed, and her grandmother’s antique dishes added style and color. With travertine tile as a backsplash and marble countertops, the kitchen also brought a bit of her studio into the space. She had an office in the studio, but found herself spending more and more time at the kitchen table in front of the bank of windows looking out onto her front yard.
She filled two glasses with ice, poured fresh-brewed, sweetened tea into them, put a slice of lemon on the rim of the glass, and set one down in front of Simon. “Is this just a visit, or is it about business?”
“A little of both. I’ve only seen you twice since you returned from Scotland.”
“I’ve been doing some sketches for a new sculpture and finishing the clay sculpture of the one I’m working on now. And doing a little gardening.”
“I’m glad to see you’re staying busy. I’ve been busy, too. I sold Reclining Woman to a collector yesterday for thirty thousand dollars. He was very impressed with the sculpture. It’s going to have a front and center place in the window of his office building in New York.”
A small twinge hit her. She always grieved a little over every sculpture when it sold. A piece of her went with them each time. “What kind of business is it?”
“A fashion magazine. He said they were all about the beauty of women, and the sculpture is big enough to make a statement. He also asked about the model.”
“She wants to remain anonymous, Simon.” If anyone approached her, Juliet would never agree to sit for her again. “You could make me lose one of my best models, plus she has an extremely protective boyfriend.”
Chase wouldn’t physically harm anyone… Or would he? But since he was a police officer, he could definitely make things difficult for anyone who tried to harm Juliet. And then there were Juliet’s abilities. Genevieve got a glimpse of them last time she visited, and she had a newfound—and profound—respect for witches.
“Okay, but if ever she changes her mind, she could hop a plane and have a job on a fashion runway in half a second.”
For a moment Genevieve wondered if Juliet would be tempted by such an offer, considering the work she did at the bar. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”
“What have you been working on?” he asked.
The table was littered with sketches of both the gargoyle on the patio and ideas she had for a series of nude male sculptures inspired by him. She didn’t want Simon poking into them. Not yet.
“I’ve finished the clay sculpture for the latest work. We can wander out there, and you can check it out. It’s too wet to be fired yet, but it’s drying.”
“You always hold your cards close to the vest, Genevieve. I wish you would talk to me about your ideas.”
But she didn’t feel she could. He tried to guide her to safer subjects, more mainstream art forms, and it wasn’t where she wanted to go. She made money because she pushed the envelope instead of staying inside it. “I want to do more nudes. Male and female.”
He raised a brow. “They’re harder to sell.”
“But they do sell eventually. And I want to look at applying for commissions for public art.”
“Most of the time those are created from metal.”
“Which won’t be a problem. I do the sculpture and create a mold from it. Then the mold is poured in bronze and constructed.”
“You make it sound very easy.”
“Not easy. But with public works, you build a far-reaching reputation because of the number of viewers, depending on the venue.”
“Don’t you think you may be reaching a little far?”
Why was he representing her if he didn’t believe in her? She glanced toward the drawings on the table. She’d never doubted her ability. Other things, certainly, but never her sculpting. It was a gift, and came to her as naturally as breathing. “No. I don’t think I am.”
She reached for her iced tea, taking a sip to cover a tangle of feelings. “Why don’t you bring your drink, and I’ll show you the clay sculpture.”
She started toward the breezeway again, but Simon caught her arm. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Genevieve. You are an extraordinary talent. It’s just that I don’t want to see disappointment interfere with your creativity.”
She studied his patrician features. “Simon, you have a fantastic eye for what will sell and what won’t, but by its nature, art is a series of experiments that sometimes work and sometimes don’t. I didn’t learn without some disappointments. And if I stay with what’s safe, I might as well sell my art to a corporation that mass-produces it in miniature, so everyone can have a copy instead of the few who want a piece that’s been a creative struggle to produce.
“The mass production would probably make more money, but it wouldn’t make me happy, because it wouldn’t really be mine.” She appealed to the business side of him. “But to produce a work everyone can view, discuss, and enjoy will make the pieces I sell more valuable.”
He flashed her a self-deprecating smile. “Okay. I understand. I’m a greedy bastard, always wanting to steer you toward projects that sell quickly.”
She allowed him to charm her and laughed. “Sometimes. But not always.” There were times she could almost be attracted to Simon, but his controlling nature put her off.
Besides, she wasn’t ready to let any man into her heart again. Not yet. Andy’s loss had left her reeling emotionally. Going to dinner with Jonathan Taylor while she was in Scotland was as close to a connection as she wanted right now.
“Do you want to see the next sculpture?”
Simon inclined his head. “Of course I do.”
They crossed the breezeway and went into the studio. The gentle breeze drifting through the open door had freshened the air, and sunlight glinted off the five-foot square block of marble.
She paused beside her clay model. The clay still retained a few darker damp spots, and it would need to be bone dry before she could fire it. Otherwise it would explode. She ran her fingers over the woman’s arm, enjoying the silky-smooth feel of the dry clay.
“That block won’t be big enough for her, will it?” Simon asked.
“No. It isn’t for her. I’ll be firing this one and using her as the sculpture with a wooden base. I’m going to use a polymer to create the impression of water trickling down her body and pooling around her, a sort of modern Venus rising from the sea. The wooden base will be part of the piece.”
“Have you used the polymer before?”
“I used it in a series in college This one will be very different from the first.” She rested her hand on the sculpture’s knee. “She’ll be the first of three, based on classical themes. I want to experiment with some different materials before I do another stone carving, and I’m saving the marble block for something special. I have a large wooden block coming for another wood sculpture, too. It will be here next week.”
“Your diversity is remarkable, Genevieve.”
“So many ideas… Sometimes my mind won’t let me sleep because I have so many of them.”
“Be careful not to burn yourself out.”
“I won’t. This is what I was meant to do.”
Her worktable was empty of tools until she needed them, but was covered with scattered drawings of the sculptures she planned. “Come see what I mean.”
He followed her to the worktable. “You’ve drawn her from every perspective.” After a moment’s study, he looked up. “Have you thought about framing and selling your drawings?”
“They’re just working sketches.”
“They’re beautiful. And they’d sell.”
He was always looking for ways to turn a profit from everything she produced. Which was what she paid him for. She thought about it for a moment. “If they’re still in good shape after I’ve finished with the project… Sometimes I have to make notations and adjustments.”
His attention still rested on the back view. “Your grasp of human anatomy is amazing.”
“I studied anatomy in college, and took several other classes on human physiology before I went to Florence to study. When I sculpt, I see the structure beneath the stone, or build it from within the clay.”
“Like Michelangelo, who said he saw the angel in the marble and carved until he set him free.”
She smiled at the quote. “Something like that.”
Had the sculptor of the gargoyle seen him hiding beneath the surface and freed him? Was the agony she saw in his face from the struggle and pain of birth? Or was it some other agonizing experience? Who was the inspiration for the sculpture, and who was the artist? She should have done research and learned more about them both before leaving Scotland.
“This isn’t the same model as Reclining Woman?”
“No. Someone younger. She’s twenty, going to school, and doesn’t want anyone knowing she’s sitting for me. I’ve changed her features so she’s anonymous.”
Simon studied the sculpture a moment longer. “She’s lovely. And you’ll make her famous, yet no one will know who she is.”
“In today’s world, it’ll keep her from being hounded on social media, and possibly harassed by the people around her.”
“I see what you mean.” He studied the other drawings closely.
“Who will you get for the male sculptures?”
“I haven’t chosen anyone yet. I’ve been doing some freehand sketches, but I’d prefer a model.”
“You need to be careful about the type of man you approach for this, Genevieve. By the very nature of what you’re asking them to do, it may leave you open to… unwanted advances. Why don’t you call me, and I’ll hang out and act as a buffer?”
Touched by his concern, she smiled. “I may do that. Thank you for offering.”
“I want you to be safe.”
She read sincerity in his brown eyes and nodded. “I know you do.” He had been very attentive after Andy’s death. Offering to stay until she found her feet again, although she’d preferred to mourn in private. “I promise I’ll be careful. There are professional models I can hire.”
“I’m sure whoever he is will find it gratifying.”
His wry tone triggered a laugh. “It isn’t any different for me than drawing a female body, Simon. They’re called models for a reason. You don’t date your models. And it can screw up a good working relationship…when you find a good one. I’ve even been known to invite their girlfriends so they can see nothing is going on. I just want to do my work.”
He fell silent for a moment while he carefully set the drawings aside on the table. “That will change one day, Genevieve.”
Her eyes stung, and she looked away. “I’m not in any hurry. Andy and I had a past together. We went through school together from the first grade. Parted ways when I went to college and he went into the Marines, but we always stayed in touch. It seemed natural for us to be together when we found each other again here in Superstition. There was a history there. I loved him before I fell in love with him. I didn’t just lose my lover, Simon. I lost a dear friend. He’s not replaceable.”
As she turned, she glimpsed impatience—or was it anger?—in his expression before his features returned to their usual careful charm.
“He wouldn’t want you to lock yourself away, Genevieve.” Simon rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’d better go. I’ll transfer the money for Reclining Woman to your account this week, as soon as the check clears.”
She dropped her gaze to hide her uncertainty. “Thanks, Simon.”
Ice rattled in the glass as he set it on the worktable. “Call if you need me.”
She wasn’t certain about that, either. There was a tension between them that hadn’t been there before Andy was killed. Simon seemed to resent her grief. Was it because he thought it might interfere with making money? Or something else?
She hoped not. Their relationship had always been about business more than friendship. She couldn’t imagine there being anything more than that between them.
Simon sauntered out the open door, and when she heard his car start, she breathed a sigh of relief.