My heart rate starts rising as I approach the door. I take a deep breath and put my hand on the knob, then retract it. I look around one more time to confirm no one is paying attention to me, and then give two raps against the wood with my right knuckles. I’m hoping everyone’s distracted from the fact that I’m knocking on acloset door. Nothing happens. So, I turn the knob and open.
A small part of me is expecting, and hoping, to see Devo in here, his attention fully enrapt with the outline of my silhouette. The thought gives me a pleasant buzz. But a more realistic part of me expects to at least see a drying canvas in the room, even if no one is presiding over it. I’m wrong, on both counts. I drop my hand from the doorknob and let it hit the side of my thigh. I frown as my eyes frantically search the space.
The closet is full. Bursting, in fact, with art supplies. There are cans of paint stacked to my left, a stockpile of brushes beside it. New and old canvases are leaning against the right wall. I see a set of rolling metal shelves against the back wall with stacks of pottery equipment and boxes full of odds and ends. There’s also a yellow janitor’s cart with a mop sticking out of it, the wooden end leaning against the drab concrete wall.
What?
Where’s the settee and the Persian rug? The very large, very wet painting that had been here a mere 24 hours ago? Maybe I’d expected the champagne bucket to be gone… but all the furniture? The art? The artist? Where was he?
Again, he’s never here when I expect him to be. Devo comes and goes as he pleases and that both intrigues and frustrates me. I shut the door, careful not to make any loud noises, and go to turn on my heel when a male voice makes me jump.
“Looking for your boy?” Alex is awkwardly hanging right behind me, clay covering his fingers and wrists and streaked across the front of his smock. I put my hand over my heart.
“Jesus, Alex, you scared the shit out of me,” I say back, tryingto calm my pulse and looking behind him to see if I have anyone else’s attention. I don’t.
“Sorry”—he grimaces—“I only noticed you in here when you were halfway across the room.”
“It’s okay”—I wave at the air and shake my head, allowing a little laugh on my exhale—“I just didn’t expect someone to beright behind me.”I give him a pointed look.
Alex goes to touch his temple with an apologetic expression on his face, but he quickly lowers it when a cold splotch of clay touches his cheekbone. “Yeah, okay sorry, I should have announced myself.” He’s a little ungainly, but in an outgoing and friendly way—I’ve always liked him. I once overheard him explaining that he feels his personality is more appreciated in the States rather than back home in England.
“I was told to give you a message,” he continues, rocking back on his heels, “in case you came in today.”
“Oh yeah?” I try not to let him see me sweat.
“From Devlin.” He leans in close and shields his mouth from the rest of the studio. “Or should I sayDevo,” he emphasizes with a knowing grin as I roll my eyes. “He wanted me to tell you that you should come to the studio tomorrow. He said he sent you a letter but wasn’t sure it would get to you today.” I narrow my eyes as I think that over. He’s not here. Devo’s not here but he wants to make sure I’m here tomorrow, and he used Alex as a back-up plan to make sure I knew that—that’s thoughtful, I guess? So then why do I feel mad?
I try to keep all of that off my face while Alex assesses me. He cocks his head, knowing I’ve got a conversation brewing upstairs, but also likely knowing that I’m not going to share.
“That’s it,” he says, putting his hands on his hips.
“Well, thank you, Alex,” I say. “You can tell him: ‘message received’.”
He shakes his head in response. “I can try but I barely know how to get in touch with the guy, I just email his assistant…” He looks to the side, then back to me with a grin. “I hope you two had fun yesterday.” He waggles his finger at me, likely trying to get some kind of confirmatory reaction around the infamous Devo-Muse process.
Instead of responding to that particular instigation, curiosity strikes me. “What’s his assistant’s email?”
“Ehm”—Alex shifts from foot to foot—“I don’t think I’m supposed to share.”
“Alex,” I say with acome-on-nowlook. “Devoand I are already in touch.” Technically true, but through the US Postal Service. “I just want to send a thank you to his assistant, you know, for everything he did yesterday.” Alex looks befuddled. I can read a stream of unasked questions in his eyes about what exactly transpired yesterday, but then I see him concede.
“Okay yes, that makes sense,” he mumbles, wiping his hand on his smock repeatedly to get as much wet clay off it as possible before pulling his phone out of his back pocket. After a few taps of his thumb, Alex has pulled up the email. He looks up at me over his phone and mimics a stern impression. “But don’t share with anyone else,” he commands. I nod solemnly, then Alex reads out the email address.
That’s the address I first used to contact Devo, I think. “Are yousurethat’s his assistant?”
Alex casts me some narrowed side-eye. “Yess,” he drags out the single syllable with an arched brow, wondering why I’d question his direct answer. “I’m sure.”
Huh.I think back to the request in our first snail mail exchange. “Please don’t respond to the email address moving forward.”Then I think back to some of my discussion with Devo yesterday, when I’d teased him about his old-fashioned tendencies and Flintstones phone. He’d gone on about how our technology was changing the way humans interact with each other, “diluting” our artistic expression and chipping away at our attention spans. If that’s really his assistant’s email, then…He really commits to being off the grid,I think. I’m partially impressed that Devo practices what he preaches, but also partially horrified that my very firstflirtatious message, intended for Devo, went to his assistant instead. I guess it got through the screening process.
I pinch the bridge of my nose for a moment to rid myself of that fresh embarrassment. Alex laughs awkwardly. “Uh, okay, C”—he bounces a step away—“I’m gonna go back to my piece before it cracks.”
“Yeah, of course, go work on your piece!” I turn to walk away as well, a few steps behind him. “And thank you for the message.”
“You got it,” he shouts over his shoulder.
I breeze by my waiting canvas as I head out just to make sure there’s no letter leaning against the easel. Nothing. I leave the studio a bit confused. A certain blonde’s haughty gaze follows me as she looks out over her next flower painting. I do my best to ignore her, but I can feel her eyes boring holes into my back.So much for ‘fresh as a daisy,’ I think.
Chapter Five
