The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (best books to read for women TXT) 📕

in front of the couch. I’d like you to face three-quarters toward the windows. I’ll start with a sketch. You’ll need to hold your right arm out at times. It may be tiring.”

Linton rose and took his position as Emma instructed. She made her way to the table, flipped open her sketch pad, and then rummaged through the bag. “I’m sure I put a charcoal pencil in here.”

From across the studio, Linton said, “I haven’t touched anything.”

“I suppose I forgot it, so—” She turned, her words stopping at the sight. Linton stood partially disrobed, his trousers drooping at the waist, shirt dropped like a rag over his shoes. It had been months since she had seen a man—her husband—in any state of undress. Linton’s body captivated her; yet, it stoked a hot flush of embarrassment that washed over her.

“Linton . . . Lin . . .”

“I’m sorry. Have I shamed you? If so. . . .” He placed his hands discreetly over his crotch.

“A bit.” Emma regained her composure. “Why would you assume I want you to take off your clothes?”

“I studied mythological art in drawing classes. I remember our teacher telling us most images of Narcissus are of a naked youth staring into a pool. If you prefer me in Roman garb, we’ll need to get the costuming.”

Emma found the pencil, retrieved her sketch pad, walked past him without a look, and sat on the couch. There, she studied the lean muscles of his back, the curve of his buttocks beneath the low-slung pants, the sinewy line of his legs.

“Actually, the image I had in mind was of a young man partially draped. The silks you have in the studio are perfect. I can see some benefit in having the statue naked, except for a well-placed obstruction in the front, perhaps a partial column. Narcissus—naked to the world, absorbed by his own vanity, oblivious to mankind’s disasters—it’s ideal.”

Linton faced her and removed his hands from his groin. “I suppose this was a forward, perhaps sinful, thing for me to do. But I hope you won’t think of my nakedness that way. I only do it for your art.” He pushed his pants and shorts to the floor and stepped out of them.

For once, his striking face wasn’t the sole object of her attention. Linton’s chest, belly, and legs were lightly coated with black hair. His penis was uncircumcised, resting below a thatch of dark pubic hair, his chest and abdomen as sculpturally defined as Michelangelo’s David. Emma sensed the soft fire smoldering in his body. He was as handsome and as erotic as a dark god, so different from Tom, who had approached their sexual relations as if they were clinical studies.

“Linton, I don’t think . . .” Emma set her drawing materials on the couch, stood, and walked toward the windows. He quivered as she passed. She placed her hands on the casement, thought for a few moments, and then turned to him. “You’re such a beautiful man, but I’m uncertain whether we should go ahead with these sessions.” She detected a stirring in his groin.

“Why not?” Linton asked quickly, his brows furrowed.

“It’s rather obvious, don’t you think? I’m married. You’re not. We’re working intimately together. Surroundings such as these may lead to temptation.” She pointed to him. “I should have asked you to disrobe, rather than you taking it for granted. It’s not proper.”

“I won’t surrender to temptation, Emma. This is our art. Remember, you’re a sculptress.”

Emma returned to the couch. “May I ask you a question?”

Linton nodded.

“Are you a homosexual?” She cringed at her effrontery, but she had to know the truth because of the answer’s impact on their relationship.

Linton froze for a moment and then pulled his shorts back up. “My God, not that rumor again. It’s hard enough for a man in my position to meet women, to carry on any kind of decent relationship, but . . . that lie has dogged me for years, as it does many male artists. Who told you that?”

“I shan’t say. Apparently, it’s widely held gossip.”

His jaw clinched. “It’s Alex’s fault. Our association has tainted me. . . .”

“Don’t blame Alex,” Emma said. “He’s been the best mentor and friend you could wish for. Am I right?”

Linton sighed. “Yes, but sometimes guilt lives by association. I have no quarrel with homosexuals, but I’m not one. The only hand I’ve placed on another man is to shake his.” He crept toward the couch as if ashamed of his reputation and sat timidly next to her. “Please. I live for art—it’s all I have to keep me going. We can create a beautiful statue. I know it. We can inspire each other to work.”

A sense of relief traveled through her, with Linton’s admission. Perhaps there’s hope for passion yet, bliss, a child in our lives, if it would work out. And yet, those thoughts frightened her. She had no right to think of Linton as a lover, no right to break her vows to Tom for an immoral affair that would be the talk of Boston.

She looked at the beautiful man next to her and, buoyed by her sense of right, picked up her pad and pencil. “All right then, there’s no time for sitting, Mr. Bower. Please resume your position—but appropriately draped.”

Linton dutifully obeyed Emma’s request, grabbing the large scarves from the couch, arranging them on his body as she ordered, and turning in a three-quarter profile toward the window.

As the afternoon light flooded the studio, Emma sketched, working and saying little as Linton held his pose perfectly. Only when Narcissus, gazing into the mirror, appeared on the pad fully formed did she stop. As the shadows grew longer, Emma put down her pencil and ended the session, satisfied with her drawing.

She thanked him as he dressed, and looked back at the windows as they left the studio. Steel-blue clouds splotched with crimson covered the city as the sun lowered in the west.

The afternoon had been the most