A laugh hits me.
Mila giggles. “And I know that it took almost twelve years for Leonard Da Vince to paint the Mona Lisa’s lips.” She sucks her teeth. “Twelve years is pretty ridiculous.”
Maybe he was trying to make her perfect?
She shakes her head a few times and mumbles to herself. “Can you believe that?”
I offer no response to the interesting fact this woman had educated me with.
Okay, she knows a little bit about art…
Mila moves around the den, humming and touching things, seeming oddly comfortable in a home I’ve never truly felt comfortable in myself. “Is it only you and your husband who live here?”
“Yes.”
Smiling, she peers over her shoulder and her eyes meet mine. “What is he like?”
I debate the question and except that I can speak no true ill of Adriaan. “He’s a decent man.”
Mila says nothing at all to my response.
“Do you love your husband?” My voice lifts just a little then cracks a lot as I attempt to find something, anything, that would make me not just hope but believe that this woman is much different from me.
Mila twists around to face me, a soft smile playing on her lips. “I’m not married.”
God help me.
Mila
WHY WOULD SHE ASK me that?
With tight lips, I stare at the woman who stands a few feet away from and catch her judgmental gaze as it sweeps over me. Everything about her stance screams cautious and I can’t say I know where it is coming from. She’s stiff and apprehensive…as if I am here justtt to rob her.
“I’m sorry.” She laughs a little. “I just assumed you have a husband.” Her palm touches her cheek in a self-soothing sort of way. “I guess I just wanted to know what he thought about all this because I assumed you had his approval—”
APPROVAL!
“Yes.” Tess laughs a bit, but it’s forced. “I just assumed maybe he had agreed for you to be here.” She sighs loudly and gestures toward me with a hand. “I—I—I guess I just figured he was okay with all of this.” She places her hands at her sides and then they drop to her hips before she tucks them in her pockets and looks away from me immediately.
I take a few more steps toward her until I am standing right in front of her drawing in the fact that we are almost the same height. My eyes drift over her beautiful face and then down over her silk blouse and then fall to the long skirt she’s wearing. I tilt my head just a little wondering just what she looks like when her hair isn’t pulled back like it always seems to be. How long is it? How thick is it? What do those strands even smell like? What would they feel like slipping between my fingers if I ever got to touch it all?
When Tess exhales uncomfortably, I’m pulled back into this moment.
“Is your husband okay with all of this?” I blink a few times, waiting.
Tess inhales sharply through her nostrils and when she lets it all out, I’m almost blown away. “He, uh, um, doesn’t know exactly…” She clears her throat before her chin lifts to face me—almost defiantly. “He doesn’t know about any of this.” She offers me a tight-lipped smile. “And I would like to keep it that way if you don’t mind. I know Evi has told you everything about what this job entails but I must tell you that the most important thing to me in all this is discretion. You mustn’t tell anyone what we’re doing, please.”
I nod.
Tess stiffens, chin lowers, eyes lift to land right on mine. “Do you understand, Mila?”
“Yes, yes, yes, of course—discretion.” I smile.
Tess relaxes and soon something sincere tugs at the corners of her mouth and I know a genuine smile is soon to bloom across those perfect pink cheeks of hers. “I know that my request for you to come here is probably rather strange.”
I smirk. “No, not at all.”
She frowns. “I shouldn’t be doing this.” Her voice lowers and the expression on her pretty face is nothing short of being tormented. “But I’ve been painting for years now and I need to do something different.” Fingers balled into a fist she puts the entire thing to her mouth like it’s food, bites into her own skin and then in a huff she lowers her hand once more. “I have to.”
“I understand.”
Tess smiles. “I want to tell myself, Mila, that this is all for the art but some part of me knows it’s for me. You know…just so that I can see if I can pull this off—if I can make something real leap off the canvas and capture the viewer—maybe keep them entranced too by my work.” Groaning, her eyes lower to the floor. “No one cares about my work.” A short laugh follows her words. “Especially Adriaan.” She purses her lips. “Even though he asks about it sometimes, usually just to be polite, Adriaan does not care about my work.”
Sadness settles deep within me.
“No one cares about my work.” The words are a whisper meant just for her, but I hear them too. “No one cares about my work, but it doesn’t matter because everything I will do from now on will be just for me.” Her eyes flicker to mine and that “gone” look that was etched across her features only a moment ago seems to have disappeared entirely. “Anyways, Mila, we must be discreet.” She covers her mouth with a hand. “Adriaan…” She groans. “My husband wouldn’t be pleased to know that this is what I’m doing.” She stands a little taller. “He is the conservative type and our friends wouldn’t be impressed either.”
What does it matter what your friends think of you?
Just for a second I look around this house and realize that although it is odd, it is filled with not just opulent things but items that denote the level of class this woman comes from. She is wealthy, no doubt. But is she really? Every artist is influenced by their surroundings, whether subconsciously or otherwise. However, when those influences turn out to only have a negative impact on what said artist can or cannot do, I regret to say that I do not see the benefit of Tess caring about what either her husband or their friends will think of her.
“Do you plan to show any of this work to anyone, Tess, ever?”
“No.” It sounds like a shameful whisper.
“What if it turns out to be a masterpiece?” A laugh drifts from me.
Tess places a hand to the middle of her chest. “I have my doubts that it will be, Mila.” She smiles. “Because I can’t say that I’ve ever created any such thing.” She flexes that artistic hand at her side which appears to itch with the need to work and her eyes settle on mine, soft yet fierce at the same time. In them I see that hunger again—fire even. Yes, there is fire in this woman’s eyes…
“How do you know?” Slanting my head to the side, I wait for her response. “Because you sound as if no one ever sees all your work, or, that you choose not to show it to them when it is ultimately complete. How do you know you are not capable to creating something great?”
There is pain in Tess’ confession a moment ago.
Vulnerability.
She has just revealed her tender underbelly to me…
Most of all it is clear she trusts me.
I feel like she’s placed a two-ton stone in my hands and asked me not to drop it…on my own foot!