Page 1 of Wolf's Fate
ONE
Willow
“I thinkI need to have sex with my husband.”
Coughing on my water, I sprayed my canvas as I choked out a laugh. “Lorna!” I looked at the older woman, who was frowning at the canvas in front of her. I quickly dabbed at my canvas before the water did too much damage.
Lorna glanced up at me and then at Peter, who seemed to be eager for an explanation. I saw her blush and then, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, I watched her shake off her doubts.
“What do you see on the table?” she demanded of Peter, my other art student.
“Um…” He cast a quick look at me before he answered. “Fruit.”
Lorna nodded triumphantly, her expression one of someone who just won a major argument. “Fruit.Exactly.” She frowned at me.Motioning for me to come over, she pointed at her canvas in accusation. “I painted a cock and balls.”
Peter got off his stool, and the three of us gathered aroundher easel. I tried to hold back my laughter because I was her teacher, not her humiliator, but it was very hard because she had indeed painted something very close to resembling male genitalia.
Moving closer, I looked around her easel to the small table with the offending fruit in the center—some apples, a couple of bananas, and an orange. They were arranged innocuously. Standing back, I met her expectant look. “Well…it seems that your subconscious is telling you something.”
Lorna’s hands flew to her cheeks, and Peter narrowly missed getting her paintbrush in his eye. Seeing his overly dramatic jerk of his head away from her, I started giggling.
“Oh my,” Lorna murmured, her eyes still glued to her artistic offering. Leaning forward, she let out a grunt of dissatisfaction. “I didn’t even use artistic license,” she grumbled. “That looks to scale.”
I automatically looked again, and then I cracked up when I saw her impish smile.
My watch vibrated against my wrist, and I lost my smile a little. “Okay, you two, lesson’s over.” With a mock scowl at Lorna, I shook my finger. “You’re lucky I don’t give out detention.”
Lorna huffed as she got off her stool. “I’m old enough to be your mother,” she reminded me.
“Who paints pornography.” Peter chuckled, packing his paints away.
Lorna, who was on her way to the sink to wash her brushes, gave a small curtsy in acknowledgement. “I didn’t get two boys delivered from the stork, you know.”
The petite mother of two and Peter fell into easy, familiarbanter as they tidied up their workstations. I half listened to them as I covered my own easel and watched the seconds tick past on my watch.
After a few more minutes, they both hugged me—Peter’s lasting a bit longer than it should, as usual—and left with a promise to see me on Thursday. Once they were gone, I tidied up their tidying up, a small smile on my face as I did so.
When I checked my watch again, I lost any humor I may have had. Walking over to the small sales counter, I waited.
Right on time, they both walked into my store. One russet-haired and brawny, the other leaner but just as fierce.
“Willow,” Royce greeted me with a warm smile. “How are you?” His gaze darted over my face, seeing things that makeup failed to hide from someone like him. “You look tired,” he added sympathetically.
“Hi, Royce. Hi, Ned.” Ned gave me a simple nod. He was usually quiet, although today I saw his attention land on Lorna’s piece, and his lips twitched.
That small smile relaxed me, even if it wasn’t for me. It reinforced my belief that Ned was just stern and I shouldn’t take his grim demeanor personally. He saw me watching him, and I tried not to bristle as his gaze swept over me, his frown returning.
“You look like shit.”
My smile was as brittle as I felt. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
I heard Royce’s huff of laughter from the other side of the room, where he was admiring the new art on my walls.
“My wife would love that,” he told me, pointing to the painting. It was of a messy coffee table, littered withan open journal, a coffee mug, and some fresh-cut flowers lying beside them waiting for a vase, or maybe waiting to be hand-tied with the length of pink ribbon lying over the table, twisting and turning as it lay strewn across the contents and the lightly checked tablecloth. A simple wooden spindle-backed chair sat half pulled away from the table, giving the impression that the person dealing with the flowers had just left their seat.
“You like it?” I asked him, walking to stand beside him.
“I like the way you use light,” Royce told me, and I could hear the sincerity of his words. “It’s clever. It’s more than just adding shadow or using light to draw the eye to the main focus; it’s the way you add depth and emotion to your work.” He pointed at one of the fatter curls of the ribbon. “See, here, the light is skimming along the edge. The source of the light is directional, but if you don’t look closer, you won’t see the shadow on the same piece where the edge is frayed and worn. You highlight the superficial but see the depth when you look closer.” He gave me an appreciative glance. “As I said, clever. You tell a story with it and what the overall piece is.”