For the Love of Art Pt. 04

What the hell kind of site did that? Better question, what site went down and required a passcode for reactivation?

It was dumb on my part to jump to such a conclusion as the passcode being the birthdate of a man she was no longer with. And the price to pay now was my being locked out until tomorrow.

Maybe it was a sign, I reasoned with myself as I glared at the webpage. A sign to leave it alone and maybe even lie down for a second and recognize that I was on Winter break. Lounging was in order, not playing psycho-stalker student detective.

Just leave it alone.

*****

Even as I did just that—for one whole day—even as the days went by and Mr. Ryne and I were true to our intention to strictly practice my presentational skills, the need to get into that website only expanded like a growth in the back of my mind.

The days we spent modeling me into an ideal presenter were some of the oddest this year had to offer. Mr. Ryne never addressed us—what we were or the day-long fling that had occurred. I never prompted him to, because the more aloft he became towards it and the more adamant he became in ensuring I was my best come Friday, the more removed I felt from it all. The kiss had never happened. His touch had never happened. I was too chicken to ask if his sudden distance meant the Christmas tree plans were canceled. I was afraid he'd say yes.

For once the dynamic was actually student-tutor, nothing more. It was nerve wracking, but I wasn't about to be the one to get haughty if he felt we couldn't go on. It wasn't like it didn't make sense. I was his student and he was presenting me with advantageous proposals that was entirely unfair to other students. At this point, my only job was to jump however high he commanded me.

Still, I'd taken each day in stride, listened actively to what he had to tell me and expressed gratitude where it was due. Multiple times, the session was moved to his minilibrary, where my gaze would inevitably wander to the books on the shelves and I would think of her. Then the picture. Then the money in the envelope. Then the website. My chest would fill with courage and I would believe today to be the day I finally asked him about her, some time after our session concluded. But it was the session itself that depleted my spur of courage.

He had a habit of being reserved and quiet one moment, literally telling me to go draw like I was a child while he finished up some things before we started, but then he would begin the session and turn into an entirely different person. He was fond of movement, hand gestures, and looking into my gaze as though I were the judge and his speech had been written just for me. And he would smile the smile I'd only ever seen in the professional photos of him in news articles, and that was when a barrier would fall between us. My tongue would stall afterwards. And I would lose the nerve to ask him anything. How did you address a potentially sensitive subject with a man of various masks? How could you trust someone so good at playing whatever role suited the moment?

Maybe my presentational skill wasn't what I needed to work on, rather I should have first visited my poor confrontational ability.

His dwindled interest in me didn't deter my curiosity. Each day had followed the same trend. After returning to the dorms from our session, I would try an eight digit code—the latitude of Wales, then the longitude, the first eight digits of the serial number on the back of The Absolute Eye, and even a suspicious listing of eight numbers on a note I'd found at the back of the book, though I quickly found out they were just a listing of page numbers.

Hopeless. Up until the day before the gala.

It was during a small debate between Becky and I, one where neither of us bothered with largely supportive facts, that it came to me. Becky was arguing that mothers were instinctively protective of their children and would lay down their life if ever it came down to it. I was arguing that I wouldn't think twice of sacrificing my newborn child because nine months with a fetus draining you of life wasn't enough to build that kind of die-for-you relationship. Seeing as neither of us had children, neither of us were passionate in our defense. But that night it left me thinking.

Mothers and their children. I'd tried Mr. Ryne's birthdate because I naturally assumed he was the closest to Clare. But I'd forgotten all about the girl. Then I remembered the birth certificates—only the dates were a blur. They had seemed too insignificant at the time.

Very significant now. Now that I needed to see them one more time.

Early the morning of the gala, I knocked on Becky's door, expecting her to have just woken up, but she opened the door immediately. Behind her were suitcases and clothes strewn everywhere. Mr. Grinch played from a portable radio.

That's right, she was leaving this evening after picking me up from my last presentation session. Just then she was looking at me impatiently. "Take it you're not trying to help me pack?"

I crossed my arms, stood taller. Averted my eyes. "I need something skimpy to wear, but can't promise the condition of it upon return. I have fifty dollars."

She looked down at me blankly. Then a smile split across her face. "I've waited three years for you to say those words to me. Keep the money and get in here." She yanked me inside where we were instantly surrounded by the wardrobe of a hoarder.

"Are we seducing him for money?" she asked hopefully, migrating to her suitcase and uprooting shirts after pants after dresses.

"Nope." If I wanted his money and to prove myself the lowest of scums, he had plenty of cold cash valuables lying around his home that I was sure he wouldn't miss or even notice were gone. Fact of the matter was, I was far more invested in who the man was than the wealth to his name, or adding any to my own.

"Then what's the occasion?"

I flopped down on the twin bed and bunched my nose. "It's petty. Dumb. Possibly crazy—definitely crazy."

"You had me at petty." She looked at me with encouragement. "Go on."

I really didn't want to get into it, because I was already feeling insane. I grunted.

"Grace, we share tampons and a hate for peppermint candles; I think you can tell me anything."

She was right, especially about the candles, and I wasn't sure how long I could hold under her curious brown eyes. So I said quickly, "I need to see a birth certificate of a child that may or may not be his so I can potentially get access to a website that may or may not belong to a woman that may or may not be his ex-whatever, but the documents are in his bedroom and I don't know a sane way to get into a man's bedroom unless it involves clothes coming off." I took a deep breath, then exhaled it, relieved.

Becky blinked at me slowly, her eyes then narrowing in confusion. "Uh, what the hell did I miss between your last session?"

My eyes found the floor. "May not have told you everything."

"I figured that, but a divorcee?" She sat beside me. "Talk, talk. I want to know now. I need to know."

"What you need is to pack."

"Clearly that can wait! We're talking about juicy drama. Spill."

I groaned again. Gossip was not a favorite of mine, particularly when I was connected to it, but for once Becky looked like she wouldn't let it go without a fight. And she was lending me skimpy clothing . . .

"Ugh, fine!" I shut my eyes and relayed it in a formal speech, everything from the kiss in the gallery and the found paintings to the heart-to-heart in the kitchen and fingering gig at the counter. I ended with what I'd found in his bedroom.

"You're shitting me," she said when I fell silently.

"No," I sighed. "Not shitting you. It happened and I wish I'd just never seen whatever it was but I have to know, Becky. And I can't ask him like a normal person because lately we haven't so much as given the other a hug. A hug, Becky. It's crazy of me to even care who she is—who he is, or want access to a website that might contain photos that make me want to puke. Right? It's crazy. Tell me this obsession makes me crazy."

She linked an arm around my shoulder. "No, babe, that makes you a woman. Albeit a significantly more . . . applied woman."

In so many words, crazy.

"So wait," she said. I could see the wheels turning in her head. Becky was a closed book, but after spending three years as her roommate and running into unavoidable bumps in the road, I'd learned to read the slight exasperation in her eyes, the way her lips set apart and her tongue tapped idle small notches against her teeth: she was worried—or scared. And this got her talking more assertively, a habit of hers I think she believed erased the fear. "You find paintings in his weird happy-place basement, you find a photo of another woman then a notebook with a vague paragraph that might suggest some messed up shit. Yeah, I wouldn't call you crazy for wanting to know what's up. But . . .you don't actually think he did anything—"

"No," I interjected sharply, making me wonder just who I was trying to convince. I hadn't been trying to scare her, though now that I thought about it, everything about the way I'd relayed it was accusative on Mr. Ryne's part. I quickly shook my head. "He's not that kind of guy. They're just scraps and pieces of things I had no business snooping around in. The only solid premise I have is my imagination, and that in and of itself is no positive place to start."

"You said so yourself, Grace, the lady mentioned the website and pictures, then started talking about what he 'did to her'. "

I pressed my fingers to my temples. "Okay, you know what, you're making me see just how insane this all is. 'Her' could be anybody! It's all speculation with a handful of content. Speculation I shouldn't even have. The man's offered me a slot in one of the most prestigious art events in the country—"

"So that means you let it go? Hell, this guy works in our classrooms. Around other students."

"He's my instructor, not yours."

"Yeah, but, same thing, right?"

My fingers sunk further into my head, trying to push understanding into it all. "Becky, the birthdate might not even be the passcode. I'd have gone this ridiculous length for nothing." The way I sounded now was as though the entire scheme hadn't been my idea from the start.

"Think of it this way," she reasoned. "What could it hurt if you try the birthdate and it fails?"

"Because what if I try it and it doesn't fail?"

"Then you get closure in knowing your boyfriend-teacher might be a beater, rapist or even a killer—or all three wrapped in a Mexican tortilla."

"She said she forgave him for whatever it was he did. You can't forgive murder."

"Psh, with a face like that you can."

I stared at her. "You're really bad at the whole reassurance gig, but it's nice to know you're probably the type to help bury a body."

She smiled, but the strain hadn't loosened in her eyes. "What're you going to do?"

We looked at one another a moment, both of us seemingly realizing simultaneously the accusations skirting our minds and just how grave they were. That was the main reason I didn't want to speak up about it with Mr. Ryne. Nothing about the suspicions were something we could recover from if ever he found out about them.

As much as I wanted him to be the perfect image his latest actions had catered him towards, I knew sleep wouldn't come until I knew for sure. I straightened. "I'm going to get a picture of those birth certificates."

She smiled. "Good, and if I get back from break to hear about your remains found in a bodybag, can I have your computer?"

I shoved her away from me and she snorted laughter. But me, I had a strange jitter in my chest that I couldn't place as fear of my own or a high, buzzing anxiety. Before today, the fear had been closely isolated to me, myself and I. Now that it was made known to someone who didn't judge it as absurdity, rather she validated it, made it much more real.

Becky leaned forward, eyes narrowed at my hair. "Does that straighten?"

I debated a white lie for the sake of time, but figured I may as well optimize the opportunity. "If you have two hours and one hell of a flat ironer."

*****

"I look slutty," I whispered as we pulled up to the black gates of the estate.

"You look hot."

"Skanky."

"Sexy."

"Whorish."

"I'd bone you." She read my look of dread and rolled her eyes. "Seriously, you're not even showing leg. And could you have found a bigger coat?"

I sat in the passenger seat, hugging myself, legs clamped together, ankles crossed, eyes fixed ahead. "I tried."

"Remember," she said as if I hadn't spoken. "if things start to go south and you feel backed into a corner, then you go south and back him into a corner. Know what I mean?"

I gave her a disgruntled look when she started imitating a blowjob with her tongue and hand.

The dismay didn't last. If anything, I was reminded once more of what I was about to attempt. The entire ride, we'd joked about it, but as the large home loomed before us with its flagstone portico and winter flurries drifting around the menacing force, the nature of what I was trying to do sank in. My objective was to literally lure the man to his bedroom if Plan A failed—which was asking to simply use the bathroom.

Seeing as I wasn't a seductress, I held tight to the ruse of using the bathroom. The SUV pulled into driveway.

Like all other days, the estate's doors opened and I made a silent prayer.

"I was serious about the computer," Becky whispered.

That was enough to get me opening the car door. "3 o'clock?"

She leaned over, gave me a hug. "3 o'clock, girlie."

As usual, she wasted no time abandoning me there at the bottom of the steps, hands stuffed in the pockets of the criticized large jacket.

What was unusual was the silent greeting. For the past four days, the moment Becky sped off on his impeccably salted pavement, I immediately received a briefing on what we would be doing this evening.

With my ride turning from my line of sight, I started towards Mr. Ryne with feigned cool. The look on his face explained his sealed lips. It wasn't uncommon, the look of disbelief when one laid eyes on my hair when unnaturally burned into submission. It fell just past my shoulders, landing on the darker side of brown. Rather than wearing approval, he opted for amused, raised brows, stepping aside and ushering me in.

You can do this. Easy peasy, lemon squeasy.

The clean pine scent of the home no longer broadened my senses like it used to. Much the same, I found myself no longer questioning Mr. Ryne's chosen attire. All week it had been trimmed and crisped and serious. Today he adorned himself in straight tweed suit pants, black, complementing the immaculate white dress shirt and stern tie. His hair was damp, as though he'd just finished his time in the shower, his eyes lively, red piercing winking. In the same ear blinked the nimbus glow of his bluetooth.

With him as coordinator of the gala, I found out pretty quickly he lived on his phone the closer the event approached, the blue light of the earpiece going off no less than twice in thirty minute intervals. Seeing as this was the day of, I wondered if maybe the poorly planned heist should have been moved to after the event.

When he routinely held his hand out for my coat, I realized two things at the same time. One, he was actually speaking with someone on the bluetooth just then (big surprise), and two, even if I wanted to tap out, I'd already let Becky help me dress to impress.

"I'll call you back to get it sorted," he said to whoever was on the other line.

Inside, I cringed and groaned and felt the full weight of the light attire. This was it. Couldn't well walk around with the fur-hooded black jacket.

Aiming for nonchalance, I unbuttoned it, then unzipped with neither haste nor delay. "Busy today, huh?" I was proud of my steady voice as I slipped the thing off.

"You have no . . ."

I looked up at him innocuously as I held out the coat to his suddenly idled hand.

"Idea," he finished quietly.

That carefully built distance he'd been tending between us was incinerated by the heat of his gaze. It became apparent then, whatever professional delegations he'd been shuffling us towards the last few days had not been a loss of attraction, but a mysteriously inspired choice. He was looking at me as he had towards the start of the semester.

Was that actually a good thing?

The props belonged entirely to Becky, who insisted I was not as nude as I felt with the outfit she had settled on. It wasn't so much the dark woolen boots or black yoga pants, as it was the top. Maybe I was exaggerating, but I may as well have come topless for all the skin it showed. It was a black cut out shoulder blouse, long sleeved and the very thing Mr. Ryne would have had a fit over had we been painting. Down each arm were slash designs that contradicted the comfort of my usual plaid shirts. At my back, the top was slit in a fitted reveal of skin. None of these things bothered me as much as what had Mr. Ryne's undivided attention. Becky had gone out of her way to find the perfect cleavage flaunting shirt, promising it would do all the work for me with its exposing incision right below the neckline.

So far, Mr. Ryne was proving her right. He ran his hand back and forth over his chin, thoughtful. He wasn't even trying to pretend to look elsewhere as his brows remained in perpetual shock. "Okay," he made out, taking my jacket tentatively. Then, after a composing clearing of his throat, he said with more force, "Alright then. Today we're going to—"

I smiled. "Do you think I could use your bathroom before we begin?" Might as well try for Plan A, then maybe I could ask to borrow a sweater or something.

It took him a long moment to drag his gaze from the cut of the blouse, and by the time he did, his pupils were large and blown. "What?"

"Bathroom?" I asked. Crap. My voice had wavered. It was one thing to have a man ogle you furtively. Different story when apparently the guy couldn't care less about his licentious observation.

"Oh, right. I finally got around to fixing the lower levels. Down the hall, on your right."

My smile tightened. Of course the handy art teacher repaired the bathrooms, so obsessed with his image, when I was depending on the single functioning bedroom bathroom. "Thanks."

Plan B. Somehow I knew I'd have to reduce myself to it.

Moments after waddling around the bathroom aimlessly, I washed my hands, then my face, then decided that was enough time.

In the minilibrary, Mr. Ryne was setting down three thin hardback books with looseleaf binders beside them. He looked up when I entered. "Yesterday we went over posture, vocals and range. Confidence. We covered the key basics you're to bring to light on your piece. Today we're going to review it."

"I'm not trying to be demanding, promise," I started. "But do you think we could work upstairs? I love the view from the mezzanine."

The exasperation in his eyes didn't bother me much, namely because I knew it wasn't directed at me. It was the day in general. I didn't think he'd caught a break since the last time I was here.

Even with that as the case, he was picking up the books and heading for the staircase. "Can't see why not. A change of scenery is always wise."

I followed him up the spiral staircase. It was true, the mezzanine's view was spectacular. Plants hanging above the panoramic windows. Daylight flourishing across the floors. And the cute little sitting area right beside the view.

I had to remember my purpose was the bedroom down the hall. The door was open, and even from this distance I saw the cynical tidiness.

Mr. Ryne took a seat, flipping through one of the books.