“No, ma’am. Declan’s not my boss any longer. And we’re not in James McCormick’s home right now.” He paused for emphasis, planting his hands on his hips in a gesture of dominance. “You’re on my turf.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “That’s right.” She gave him a bright smile. “Marie it is!” Her eyes crawled over him appreciatively, with a cold inventory that would make a less hardened man squirm. “Do you do yoga? Want some free passes to my class?”
Was she checking out his butt?
“I train at a gym, Marie. My workouts are all very basic. It’s all about lifting.”
She blinked, eyes on his arms. “I’ll bet it is, but yoga can help with core strength and stretching. Balance is paramount for good lift technique, you know.”
“I do.”
“At your gym, are there more men...like you?”
“More chauffeurs?”
She tittered. “More, you know—big guys who could use a little downward dog.”
Every sentence out of this woman’s mouth sounded porny.
“I can ask around.”
“You do that.”
“Why are you here, Marie?”
“Agnes has been avoiding my class ever since she sold me that oregano. It’s time for a throw down.”
He looked at Agnes.
Looked at Marie.
“The woman is ninety and looks like an artifact from the MFA’s Mayan Civilization exhibit, Marie. You’re going to fight her?”
“She cheated me! And she’s ninety-two. She really has no excuse. You live that long, you’re supposed to be filled with wisdom. Not bullshit.”
“It was an honest mistake!” Agnes shouted, moving behind Corrine.
“No, no you don’t,” Corrine protested. “You don’t get to use me as a human shield again, Agnes. I lost some of my weave the last time.”
The last time?
“Look, this is a community-based art class and you’re interrupting, Marie.”
“But my son-in-law is in here! And Agnes needs to be taught a lesson.”
“The only lessons being taught in here are by me.” Gerald had learned years ago how to use his body as a weapon without touching the target. Guiding her through nonverbal cues, he made Marie Jacoby take one step backwards.
One was all he needed. Once you open that door, you can shoo an annoying fly out.
“But I—”
“Enrollment is closed. We don’t have any space in the class.” Blocking unruly people was an art, too.
She took another step back.
“I don’t want to be a student! Even I draw the line at ogling my naked son-in-law!”
“Glad to know you have a line, Marie,” Declan called out.
“Can’t I just stay and finish my business with Agnes?”
“You’re welcome to a chair in the hall.”
She moved slowly, but Gerald wasn’t worried. Inertia set in when you glared at someone, puffed out your shoulders, planted your hands on your hips, and most important—
Didn’t back down.
“This isn’t fair!” she finally squeaked as Gerald reached for the door, her body halfway in, halfway out of the room.”
“My classroom. My rules.”
“Then you’re a dictator!” she said in outrage.
“The Clay Dictator.” He grinned. “I like the sound of that.” Her face flashed through the small mesh-glass window, screwed up in furious confusion.
Click.
Declan McCormick did a slow clap.
So did Agnes.
“You!” Gerald said, jabbing a finger in Agnes’ direction. “Deal with her after class.”
“You can’t get away with this, Agnes!” Marie’s muffled voice came through the door. “I will hunt you down and I will find you and I will...” Her voice trailed off.
“Over oregano?” Declan shook his head slowly. “She sounds like Liam Neeson in the movie Taken over oregano?”
Gerald and Declan shared a shrug.
Declan dropped the robe.
As Gerald walked from student to student, admiring technique, correcting proportions, using his voice and hands to guide, he studied his former boss—and now, friend. Inviting him to be a model had been natural. A few years ago, he’d been asked what he did in his free time, and when he’d mentioned sculpting, the conversation had ventured into issues of finding people comfortable enough to pose.
Declan McCormick, of all people, had offered.
Gerald had accepted.
And here they were, on their fifth course together.
The guy’s body was fabulous as a subject, but to Gerald, all bodies were fabulous. Short, tall, lean, plump, old, young—the endless fascination with all the variations and permutations of the human form didn’t stop just because a body didn’t meet society’s standards of beauty.
He rejected those standards. They were false, based on commercial and corporate ideals.
His next model was a seventy-eight-year-old great-grandmother who had scars down one thigh from being dragged for a quarter mile during civil rights protests in the 1960s.
Beauty came in all forms.
His criteria for modeling in his class were simple: Twenty-five bucks an hour, ninety minutes of holding still, no silly giggling over being nude.
Declan waived the fee.
By the end of class, Gerald was uncharacteristically wiped. Normally, teaching refueled him.
Reconnecting with Suzanne, plus the burden of the inheritance, led to an emotional gravity he struggled to manage.
Earlier that day, he’d made his decision: donate the relic. Have Suzanne’s firm figure out the international law intricacies. He wanted it to go to the right cultural institution so it could be preserved, studied, honored and used to understand old civilizations.