Marie couldn’t remember the last time she’d picked up a pencil for any reason, let alone to draw, and yet here she was turning her car off a country road in western Virginia and into the gently curving driveway of the home of Luc Marchand. Marie had never heard of Luc Marchand, though Nishi swore that he was famous. In certain circles, anyway. And he was French. That was all Marie knew about the man with whom she was about to begin three months of drawing lessons.
She braked her car to a stop in front of the house and stepped out into the August heat. She took a deep breath. Amazing how much cleaner the air was out here than just thirty miles back, in the smog-choked suburbs of Washington, DC. Out here, you could almost forget that Washington even existed.
Marie looked up at Luc Marchand’s Middleburg home, an old Colonial-era Virginia farmhouse with weathered gray stone and meticulously-restored windows. Gracious old maples shaded the front lawn. Behind the house, miles of yellowing fields dropped away beneath a pale blue sky.
A tasteful wooden sign next to the front steps read, “Studio in back. Follow the red brick road.” Ah yes, if she looked carefully, she could make out a trail of faded red bricks pressed into the lawn, a walkway as old as the house.
Behind the house was a newer building, its board and batten siding painted a fresh deep red. The building looked like a cross between a carriage house and a small barn, though it was far too close to the house to have ever been the latter. The place reeked of old, understated money, the kind of money her mother chased incessantly as a professional fundraiser.
She knocked lightly on the studio’s door and heard what sounded like the scraping of wood against a floor, muffled footsteps that stopped for a moment and then began again. The door opened and a man stood before her, a man whom Marie would have pegged as French even if she hadn’t known beforehand to expect it.
Marie knew that the French were a varied people. But still, she had in her mind what a French person should look like. Dark hair, always. Lively, tousled curls. A jaded, slightly annoyed expression.
Check. Check. Check.
A white shirt. Check. Luc Marchand was wearing an impossibly white tee shirt. Marie doubted one could buy a tee shirt that white and crisp in the U.S.
A scarf wrapped insouciantly around the neck. Check. Luc Marchand’s was more of a paint rag than a scarf, but it had the same general effect.
Clever shoes. She glanced down at Luc Marchand’s feet. Okay, well not so French there. His feet were bare.
“You must be Marie?” he asked, rolling the r in her name so that it sounded like ma-rhee and not muh-reee. “Marie Witherspoon?”
Marie was momentarily struck speechless. She’d never heard her name pronounced in a French accent.
“You are not Marie Witherspoon?”
“Yes. Yes, of course I am,” Marie managed to squeak out. Her tongue felt useless in her mouth, like a limb that had fallen asleep.
“Of course you are,” he said, an amused smile flitting across his lips. “Come in.”
She followed him inside the carriage house. He took her purse, set it on an old wooden chair, then looked Marie up and down, assessing her, taking her measure. She flushed.
He laughed. “I am a man, and not an old man. So, yes, I will look over a woman.” He nodded at her. “You are a pretty woman.”
She tried to fix a look of injury to her face. The nerve! But part of her was flattered, nonetheless; after years of living in Richard’s desert of indifference, being called pretty by a man—even an arrogant Frenchman Marie suspected she wasn’t going to like—was a welcome mirage. Then she remembered the decidedly un-French attire she had chosen to wear that morning. Military green cargo pants, out of fashion for several years now, and whose cuffs were worn and fraying. A black cotton tee shirt, faded in the wash to a bluish tinge. No clever shoes. No scarf. The few times Marie had tried to tie a scarf, she’d ended up with something that looked more like a noose.
And she hadn’t replaced the blowdryer that had died the morning after Richard served her with the divorce papers. Her hair was tied back in a limp, pathetic ponytail.
“Sorry,” she apologized, looking down at her clothing. “I dressed for an art studio, I guess.”
“Nothing to apologize for. I’m just French, that’s all. I find, in the states, I can take all manner of liberties if I simply say afterward, ‘I am French.’”
Marie’s failed injury was replaced, at last, by a smile. “We expect bad behavior from you.”
“Ah, she speaks. I will try not to behave too badly with you. But I cannot make any promises.”
Marie was stunned into silence. She had assumed that Nishi had picked Luc Marchand out of some community art center’s directory of class listings. There was no shortage of people in the Virginia foothills who fancied themselves artists. She’d been expecting someone older, paunchy, balding.
Luc Marchand was none of that.
Marie wasn’t sure exactly how old he was, but she guessed late thirtyish. He was over six feet and definitely not paunchy. Lanky, that’s how Marie would have described him. Not skinny but not overly muscled either. His movements as he crossed the studio to a tiny kitchenette on the other side had an almost desperate carelessness to them, as if he were daring the floor to trip him or the ceiling to rain down on his head.
He held up a bottle of red wine. Marie frowned. At ten in the morning?
“Oh right,” he said. “Too early for an American. Coffee then?”
He set about grinding and measuring and filling the coffee maker. He swung his arms and hips around the tiny space and yet he didn’t once bump into the sharp corners of a countertop or allow a stray coffee bean to fall and bounce into the sink or behind the wastebasket. Despite the seeming unchecked carelessness of his limbs, there was a graceful economy to his movements, a purposefulness to each step and turn. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who would go into a room and then forget what he came in for. Marie did that all the time, as though her days were constantly rebooting.
He looked up and frowned at her. He gestured toward a small metal cafe table and a set of those grey metal bistro chairs that had become all the rage in the furniture catalogs. “Sit down, please.”
Marie sat and looked around his studio while the coffee sputtered and hissed into the pot. The studio looked like the studios she remembered from school. Messy. Canvases in various stages of completion, or inspiration, stood like sleeping sentries around the room. There were landscapes and horses and children and opulent interiors. From a glance, it was hard to say what Luc Marchand’s artistic style was.
One particularly tall canvas held the rough outlines of a life-sized woman’s head and torso, arms and shoulders. She looked like some spectral creature in the process of materializing. Or disappearing, Marie couldn’t tell which.
Two mugs of coffee appeared on the table, along with a small white pitcher of cream and a matching bowl of sugar. Luc Marchand flipped a chair around and straddled it, leaning his chin on the chair back.
“We won’t do much drawing today. A little, maybe. But we need to get acquainted with each other a bit first, so I can determine how best to teach you.”
This close, Marie noticed the small scar on his forehead.
“I fell out of a tree when I was eleven,” he answered her unasked question. He pushed the cream and sugar toward her. “So. Your friend signed you up for private drawing lessons. Have you drawn before?”
“In school.” Marie’s tongue remained uncooperative. She had to force each word from her mouth. “I took a few classes.”
“And where was that?”
“Yale.”
He lifted an eyebrow, tilted his head down slightly in a gesture of deference. “You must have been a good student.”
Marie shrugged. “It wouldn’t have mattered either way.”
“And why was that?”
Marie hesitated. She wasn’t expecting twenty questions out of a drawing lesson. Usually you just showed up, sat down behind an easel and began to draw. And she really didn’t want to get into the whole complicated situation that was her family.
“I would tell you I don’t bite, Marie, but sometimes I do.”
Marie felt her face grow hot. Normally, she wouldn’t recognize innuendo if it bit her on the ass, but Luc Marchand seemed entirely composed of the stuff. He made it hard to miss.
“My father was a senator.”
“And he’s not a senator now?”
“Lobbyist now. No one ever goes home after they leave Congress.” She spit out a sharp laugh. “It would have taken wild horses to drag my mother back to Indiana.”
“And your mother. What does she do?”
“She runs a fundraising firm.”
Luc Marchand seemed to consider this, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “And are you married?”
“Separated.”
“I almost hate to ask you what your husband does.”
“My soon-to-be ex-husband is also a senator. From Pennsylvania.”
He appeared amused by that piece of information. “Why are you divorcing?”
“It’s a long story.”
Luc looked down at his bare wrist. “We have time. Your friend paid for the entire morning.”
“I’d rather not talk about it.” Even as the words came out of her mouth, she knew Luc Marchand wasn’t going to let her get away with that answer.
“Okay.”
He surprised her, after all. She’d been certain he was going to pick and probe, make her rip off that particular bandage. Still, he made her uncomfortable. He was staring intently at her face, like maybe he recognized her. He could have seen her photograph in the paper or a magazine. That was entirely possible.
She looked away from his gaze, toward a nicked and stained work table along the studio’s back window. Brushes and rags littered the tabletop. Beneath the table, the wooden floor was dusty and stippled with morning light. It was all too Vermeer. She hadn’t been in a painting studio since college, but the smell of paint and old wood and dust was stirring up an old yearning in her. Nishi had been on the mark, as usual. Drawing lessons would be enjoyable—she glanced back at Luc Marchand—if Mr. Fancy French Artist could lighten up a little.
“Let’s go outside,” he suggested.
He collected two sketchpads and a fistful of pencils from the table Marie had been staring at. He turned to her.
“Come.”
Outside, she followed him down the gentle slope of the back lawn, to a low stone wall that looked as if it had once seen Colonial militia running past, bounding over it, muskets under their arms. More old maples sheltered a wooden picnic table and benches. Beyond, the fields and rolling hills went on forever, it seemed, stopped only by the low dark mountains on the horizon.
Luc took a seat on the wall and patted the spot next to him. When she sat down, he handed her a sketchpad and pencil. She flipped over the cover to the first, empty page.
“Draw blue,” he said.
“What?”
“Draw blue.”
“You mean draw something that is blue?” Marie asked for clarification.
“No, I meant what I said. Draw blue.”
She frowned. “Do you have that condition ... what is it called?” She tried to pull the word out of the depths of her brain.
“Synesthesia?”
She nodded.
“No, I do not.”
He flipped open the sketchpad on his lap and Marie watched in wonder as his hand flew across the page. When he was finished, the center of the page was filled with a swirling tangle of lines.
The man was crazy. Marie began to doubt he was even a real artist.
“See? That’s what blue looks like to me.”
“Why is that blue and not red?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what I see when I imagine blue.”
“That doesn’t make any sense to me. What are you thinking about when you do that?”
“I’m not thinking about anything. I’m simply seeing.” He tapped her sketchpad. “Don’t think. Just draw.”
Marie stared at the ivory cotton paper in her lap and tried not to think. But thoughts intruded anyway. How quiet it was out here. How hot a late August breeze could be. How uncomfortable this man was making her feel. Whether the paint stains on the back of his hands were permanent. Why he hadn’t put on shoes when they came outside.
“You’re thinking, Marie. I can hear the gears turning.”
She sighed. “I don’t know what blue looks like. It’s the color of the sky, or someone’s eyes. Or water.”
“Then choose another color. It doesn’t matter so much which color. Let your mind go blank and allow your fingers to take over.”
Marie took a deep breath and tried to do as he instructed. She let her pencil begin to move across the paper. It felt entirely random, at first, but after a few seconds her movements became more purposeful. It was maybe even enjoyable, she admitted to herself, just a little.
After a minute, she lifted her pencil from the page. Luc leaned into her to take a closer look, his arm pressing against her shoulder. “And what color is that?”
“Red,” she declared confidently.
“Hmm. Doesn’t look like red to me.”
Her bubble of momentary confidence burst. “Yellow?”
Beside her, Luc Marchand’s laughter jostled her shoulder. “We’ll compromise and say orange.”
Then before Marie knew what was happening, Luc’s arm was on her back and pulling her body against his chest. She opened her mouth to object, but found her lips quickly sealed over with his. She tried to free her lips from the kiss, trying to speak, but the only sound that came out was more akin to loud humming than any meaningful protest. Pushing at his chest only made him tighten his arms around her more securely.
He lifted his mouth away from hers for a split second, just long enough to say, “Relax, Marie. It makes a kiss more enjoyable.” Then he resumed the kiss, his hand now cradling the back of her head, pulling her lips further into his mouth.
The nerve of the man! She squirmed in his embrace, trying again to free herself. It was too hot outside to be doing this! Her skin felt like it was melting, all liquid-y and ... melting-like. He tasted like coffee and chocolate. Her mind tried to attach itself to that thought—chocolate this early in the morning?—but gained no purchase. Her thoughts were like liquid, too, the knowledge that she should resist him sliding right past a dawning awareness that this was a kiss unlike any she’d ever had bestowed upon her.
A kiss she suddenly—desperately—didn’t want to end.
She let the pencil drop from her fingers and slid them into the hair at the nape of his neck. He groaned into her mouth and she opened her lips to him, inviting him in. His tongue twirled around hers, sending a shiver that she couldn’t identify as either hot or cold down her spine.
“Marie.” God, the way he said her name. The r’s rolled and tumbled into her mouth, spilling into her chest before settling into her hips as a spreading pool of desire.
She wanted this man. She wanted his lips on more than just her mouth. Wanted his hands on her body. All over her body. She wanted to be flat on her back beneath Luc Marchand, his weight pressing her into the damp heat of summer grass ...
And then just like that, it was over. Luc pushed away from her, his breathing ragged, and the hot summer air resettled between them. There was a wild look in his eyes, but Marie barely saw it for all the spots and flashes of light shooting through her vitreous jelly. She tried to focus on his face, on his lips. The lips that had left hers bruised and tingling. But nothing settled in her vision. All she could see was light and color, the shapes of her desire.
“Marie?” The r’s in her name were deeper now, huskier. Deprived of oxygen.
Breathe. Air into lungs. As the light show in her eyes faded, Luc Marchand’s face began to come into focus again. No one had ever made her insides do that before ... just liquefy. She hadn’t even known you could do that with something as innocent as a kiss. There was nothing innocent about this man. The months since the divorce filing had left Marie unsure of what exactly she knew anymore but this was a no brainer. Luc Marchand didn’t have an innocent cell in his body.
He reached toward her and flipped over a clean sheet of paper on her sketchpad. “Now draw a color for me.”
Now? Now he wanted her to draw? When the only thing she could think of was ripping off her shirt and begging him to touch her? How could she draw now?
“Any color,” he prodded. “I don’t care.”
He leaned over and picked up her pencil, gently curled her fingers around it. How was it that he was touching her hand, yet she felt his hands everywhere?
She began to run the pencil across the page with as firm a touch as she could muster. Her hands were shaky, though, and her heart was still pounding with both fists against her chest. But she did her best, on the off chance he might kiss her again. Already she was craving another kiss like that. Just one more hit, that’s all she needed. Please. Just one more.
When she was done, she tilted the pad up for him to see. The lines were spidery and delicate, outlining narrow shapes she had shaded in.
“And what color is that?” he asked.
She studied it for a minute, wanting so very much to get the answer right this time. “Grey,” she declared finally.
He nodded. “Yes, I can see that. Grey. Bon.”
She wasn’t sure she’d actually been seeing grey, but grey was what she was feeling. Indefinite, nebulous, cloudy. She felt all of those things right now. Everything in her life had been black and white. Her life had been on a track. She’d had a role to play, a purpose to fulfill. She’d had status. Then Richard filed for divorce. Kicked her to the curb.
Ever since, she’d been wandering across a field shrouded with fog. Not sure what she should be doing. Or what she wanted to be doing. Letting other people make decisions for her. And now she had stumbled into this man and his sexy r’s rolling off his tongue, his kisses that had rendered her temporarily blind. Like she hadn’t been blind enough already.
“Why did you kiss me?” she asked.
“I wanted to turn off your brain, so you could draw.”
Oh.
“So that was all just a drawing lesson?”
“Yes, Marie, it was.”
But his eyes said otherwise. She wasn’t that blind. He ran his hand back through his hair, damp and curling from the heat. Instantly, she recalled the feel of it, the skin between her fingers sizzling to life.
“Do you kiss all your students?” she asked.
His face darkened. “Not normally, no.”
Not normally. What did that mean?
He stood. “Let’s go inside where it’s cooler.”
Cooler was a good idea. Something had just happened here and she wasn’t sure what. Marie needed her normally cooler head to prevail. She was not in the habit of kissing sexy French men. Sexy French men were not in the habit of kissing her. She imagined Luc Marchand was going to regret this in the morning. Conceivably he was already regretting it.
She stood and followed him back up the hill. She was not noticing his very fine ass. No, she absolutely was not. Her imagination had gotten the best of her back there. Or maybe it had just been a simple lack of sex. That’s what Nishi would say. You just need to get laid. Take the edge off.
Easy for Nishi to say. She was married to Imran. Imran was perfect. Luc Marchand was clearly not perfect, even if his ass was.
Luc held the door of his studio open for her. Compared to the sunny day outside, the studio was cool and dark. Marie blinked her eyes several times until they adjusted to the dimness.
“Water?” Luc asked.
“Please,” she answered.
Inside, things were different. Like there’d never been a kiss outside, just minutes ago. Her internal organs were solid again, her skin no longer melted chocolate, the pool of desire in her hips leaking away. But her lips, those were still tender and kissed.
Luc set two glasses of ice water on the bistro table and motioned for her to join him.
“So, Marie, why are you here?” He took a long drink of water and studied her intently.
She nervously palmed her glass. “To take drawing lessons?”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“I’m here to take drawing lessons,” she said again, this time with more authority.
“But this wasn’t your idea, was it? It was your friend’s idea?”
Marie shrugged. “I drew in college. I used to draw all the time.”
“But you stopped.”
Marie really didn’t want to get into this, the demands on her time as a young politician’s even younger wife. Evening receptions, Kennedy Center openings, charity boards, her mother’s neverending fundraising circuit, ribbon cuttings back “home” in Pittsburgh, interviews and photo shoots, organizing dinner parties at their home in Great Falls, hiring caterers, deciding seating arrangements, then reading up on everyone’s pet legislation, and on and on and on. And then after the on and on, making it to the gym before it closed because heaven forbid she not look like the young, perfectly adorable wife.
There hadn’t been time for drawing or knitting or gardening—not that she wanted to knit or garden, but if she had there hadn’t been time for it.
“If you were really passionate about it, you would never have quit,” Luc added.
She sighed and flicked her hand through the air, conceding the point. “Do you only take on passionate students?”
Luc Marchand flipped the chair around so he could lean back, away from the table. He crossed his arms across his chest as he studied her face. Marie dropped her eyes to stare at the paint rag tied around his neck. The paint rag couldn’t stare back, or remind her of kissing.
“I prefer to, yes. I can only take on so many students at a time, so I want to make sure each one is serious about learning. I expect my students to put in the necessary amount of time to do this well. So I need to know whether this is something you want, or whether you’re just here because your friend paid for the lessons.”
“Most people don’t care, as long as they get paid.”
“But I do care, Marie. I don’t want to invest the time in someone who doesn’t know why she’s here.”
He tilted his chair back, letting the front legs lift off the floor. Marie could see the schoolyard condescension in the gesture.
“Are you looking for something fun to do on the weekends?” he asked.
Marie shrugged. “Have you ever been through a divorce, Mr. Marchand? It’s not much fun.”
“I’ve never been married, no. But fun is not what I teach. So tell me, would you be here if your friend hadn’t paid for your lessons?”
She was stuck. The answer, of course, was no. She was back working at her mother’s firm and due to begin evening classes for her MBA in a few days. She was saving money like a madwoman so she could move away—escape was the better word, really—from DC when she finished her degree. Drawing lessons were a frivolity she wouldn’t have indulged. Nishi had known that.
That was the simple answer. The harder truth was that no, she hadn’t even thought about picking up a charcoal pencil or paintbrush in years. The idea had not even been on her radar until Nishi had presented her with it.
But now that it was on her radar, yes, she did want to take drawing lessons. She just couldn’t say why. It was something she felt, not something she knew.
Outside, a gust of wind swept up a small pile of leaves and twigs into a sudden cyclone, a swirl of green. Just as quickly, the wind lost its gumption and released them. Marie and Luc watched, together, as leaves hit the studio’s large picture window and then were quickly whooshed away.
“So Marie?” Luc said. “No reason? No reason why you want to take up drawing again?”
She sought frantically for words, but none came.
“You have to go, then. I don’t teach people who don’t know why they want to learn. When you have a good reason for taking up my time, return.”
Marie picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder.
“Well. Okay. I mean, I don’t think that’s ...” Just shut up already. “Well then. Goodbye.” She felt his eyes burning into her back as she walked toward the door. Outside, she hurried to her car, humiliated, her ears hot and buzzing. She slammed the car door shut, narrowly missing her own ankle. Well, that went well. She hoped Nishi could get her money back. Was he being serious when he said he only taught people who know why they want to learn? Whatever happened to the concept of learning for the sake of learning? Maybe that was out of fashion these days. Or out of fashion in France.
If she were Nishi, she’d march back in there and tell him exactly what she thought of his arrogant, pompous, French ... pomposity. She’d demand to be given her damn drawing lessons same as the next person who showed up with cold, hard filthy lucre.
Not to mention the way he had kissed her! Taken advantage of her. Made her feel things she hadn’t come here to feel.
She leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. She wasn’t Nishi. As Marie Witherspoon, dutiful daughter of a former senator and chameleon-like soon-to-be-ex-wife of Congressman Richard Macintyre, she was going to turn the ignition and carefully back up the winding driveway, hoping she didn’t take out Luc Marchand’s mailbox or any of his—probably heirloom—plantings. She would look both ways up and down the road before pulling out, and then she would drive the speed limit all the way back to her apartment, where she would eschew the handicapped and inexplicably “reserved” parking spots for the closest other available spot she could find. Later in the day, she would thaw some of Imran’s curried barbeque chicken and have that for dinner. Then she would surf the internet for awhile before taking a shower and falling into bed.
That’s what she was going to do. In her fog-shrouded field, doing what she always did was the safest way to avoid injury. Doing something out of the ordinary, say driving to Middleburg for drawing lessons, could lead anywhere. Over a cliff. Into a ditch. Stuck in a dead end.
She inserted the key into the ignition and turned. As she backed up the driveway, a hard knot of irritation—at Luc Marchand, at Tricky Dick Macintyre, at herself, at the entire damn world—tightened in her chest.
At the top of the driveway, she looked away from the rearview mirror and down toward Luc Marchand’s lawn and the stone wall. She remembered the coolness of the stone through the thin cloth of her pants, the liquidy thing her insides had done, and how edible Luc Marchand had tasted. She had wasted a perfectly good Saturday morning. And yet, as she drove the winding country roads leading back to suburbia, everything looked sharper—the rough bark of trees, the hard glint of cars, the splintered wood of fences—and more in focus than it had in years.
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