Christy gave me a quizzical look. “Are you serious?”
“Um… yes?”
“Oh my gosh, sometimes I think Erin’s right about you, you really are a dork. Sayuri’s sixty-four. She was a teenager before the war, Paul. I stink at math, but even I know how old she is.”
“I guess I never thought about it.”
“How old did you think she was?”
“Like, in her fifties.”
“She was fourteen in 1934. That’s why I named the series 1934-1984.
And it’s why Delilah was perfect. She’s thirty-four in real life. Get it?
Fourteen, thirty-four, sixty-four?”
“Um… is it too late to admit that I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes?”
She laughed brightly. “Way too late. But you’re still cute.”
“I’m glad someone thinks so,” I muttered. “I don’t feel like it. I feel like an idiot.”
“Well, you aren’t. So get over it. And tell me what you think of my sketches.”
I stopped beating myself up and focused on the drawings instead.
“I think they’re amazing,” I said. “I love how you’ve captured the shy girl, the confident woman, and the radiant older woman. Did you intend to do that?”
“Oh my goodness! Paul, dear… yes! I said I wanted to show time and
beauty. The modern Sayuri isn’t perky and slim like the girl—and don’t tell Wren this, but I had to fudge her body a bit to make it look younger—but the older Sayuri has… I dunno… an inner beauty. It shines through everything, even time.”
“Well, you nailed it,” I said. “And I think I just figured out why.”
“Oh?” she teased. “Two in one night?”
“Be nice,” I shot back, friendly rather than petulant. “No, I just realized that you love your subjects. Not romantic love, but you clearly love them.
That comes through in your art. And you make your viewers love them too.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said after a moment. “I never really thought about it. I just sculpt them how I see them in my head.”
“It’s why the Replicant works as well as it does. Yeah, you see the guy’s pain and heartbreak, but you really feel for him. He makes you think about hope, what might’ve been… if only he weren’t dying.”
“If you say so. You know this stuff better than I do. I’m just an artist.”
“I don’t think you’re ‘just’ anything. You’re amazing. And seeing these sketches makes me love you even more.”
“Really? Why? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, but… why?
What’s so special about these?”
“It isn’t the sketches. It’s the way you see the world. I think you’re a lot more like Laurence than you realize. You’re pretty positive. At least, you are in your art.”
“If you say so,” she repeated, unconvinced.
“I say so.” I leaned in to kiss her, and we both lingered over it.
“Mmm, nice,” she said when we finally pulled apart. “And I just thought of something. Wait here. I’ll be right back.” She hopped up and scampered upstairs. She returned a minute later and tossed a sketchbook on the bed in front of me. “Oh, one more thing.” She dashed off but then stuck her head back in. “No peeking.” She shot a glance at the sketchbook, in case I hadn’t understood. Then she ran downstairs and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Ugh! I always do that, forget the corkscrew.”
I did my best not to chuckle as she set the bottle and glasses on the nightstand and disappeared again.
“Maybe I can’t plan things!” she called back as she ran down the stairs a second time. She gave me a breathless grin when she returned. “Wren and Trip looked at me like I’m crazy.”
“You sort of are.”
“Maybe, but I’m your crazy. I also have a corkscrew, so you’d better watch out!”
I held out my hand and she gave it to me. “What’s the occasion?” I asked as I carefully cut the foil from the top of the bottle.
“You’ll see.” She closed the bedroom door and untied the belt on her dress.
“Oh?”
She grinned. “I like being a nudist with you. Now it doesn’t seem weird to take my clothes off. Besides, you get this look in your eye…”
“It’s called ‘lust.’”
She ignored me and made an effort to toss her dress at the hamper. She missed, but at least she’d tried. She distracted me by changing the subject.
“Oh my gosh, I don’t know what I’d do without push-up bras.” She reached back and unclasped hers. “Even Terri makes me feel inadequate, and she’s my size. Sometimes I hate being so small. At least I’m bigger than some. Like Linda, Jody’s girlfriend. I don’t think hers even qualify as mosquito bites.”
“Yours aren’t small,” I said. “And you know how I feel—”
“I know. ‘Can you touch ’em?’ I get it.”
“Besides, I like you for more than your perky boobs.”
“You really think they’re perky?”
“Oh, please. You know they are. I see you check ’em every week to see if they sag. And for the record, they don’t. Now, are you going to take off your panties too?”
“I was planning on it. But what about you, Mr. Nudist?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” I stood and unbuttoned my khakis. I made a point to toss them in front of the hamper, where they landed on her dress.
She noticed and grinned. She added her panties to the growing pile and waited for me to finish undressing.
“You’re probably wondering what I’m up to…,” she ventured.
“Yes and no. I’m curious, but I don’t really care as long as you’re nude.”
“Have a seat and I’ll show you.” She waited for me to scoot to the center of the bed. She sat next to me seiza-style before she changed her mind and sat cross-legged instead. “I know you like to look,” she said as she drew my eyes to where her shaved labia parted slightly. “And I like to show you. I still feel a little weird about this, but only ’cause it makes me feel vulnerable. But… I like feeling vulnerable around you. It makes me all warm and tingly. Well,
even more warm and tingly than usual. Oh my gosh, I’m chattering, aren’t I?
“I don’t know why,” she continued. “I’m not nervous. Never mind, you don’t really care. You think I’m cute no matter what.”
“Guilty as charged,” I said.
“Okay, so… what I want to show you. Hey, don’t we need wine or something? I went back for the corkscrew and everything.”
I grinned and poured two glasses. I handed one to her and then clinked mine against it. “What’re we drinking to?”
“Us. And… um… Brooke?”
My eyebrows rose with an amused question.
“I told you, she said I could show you my sketches of her. Well, here they are.” She flipped through the book until she found what she was looking for.
Then she set it on the bed and angled it toward me.
Brooke lay on her stomach with her eyes closed. Her hair curved over her head and back, and she had her arms tucked under her chest. I couldn’t see anything other than her shoulders and back, but she was clearly nude.
“She was still recovering,” Christy said. “She doesn’t like this one, ’cause I drew her freckles, but I think she’s beautiful.”
“She is.”
“Here’s another,” she said as she turned the page. “She posed for this one, and she tried to make me promise not to add her freckles, but I ignored her and did it anyway. She’s really self-conscious about them. I told you, didn’t I?”
“Mmm hmm.”
Brooke was sitting on the couch with her hands thrust between her thighs.
Her arms pushed her breasts together and made them look a little bigger than I’d imagined them. They were firm and full, capped with pale nipples. Her coppery hair swept to one side and cascaded over her shoulder. Christy had done a good job with the shading and highlights, and how the shadows played across Brooke’s face. She was looking directly at us with an amused half-smile.