Work of Art Read online

  Tiffany glanced at the mouse clock. It was only six. She debated calling, as it wasn’t technically business hours, but her shifts were such that this was as good a time as any. She dialed the number and waited for the other end to pick up.

  “Hello, this is Trent.”

  “Hi, Trent. My name is Tiffany Stanton. I got your number from a friend who mentioned you needed models.”

  “Sure. I’m looking for models for my art class. If you’re familiar with the studio on Eighty-seventh Street, that’s where we are. It’s a gig that goes for three hours each shift, but you’d get plenty of breaks. Do you have a headshot by chance?”

  Tiffany cleared her throat. Her voice was a bit more wobbly than expected. His huskiness had taken her by surprise, yet he genuinely seemed…nice.

  “No, I don’t. To be honest, I’m not an official model or anything. Actually, I’m a nurse.” She knew it was probably too good to be true.

  But he didn’t seem discouraged. “Just send a few selfies over to my cell. I’ll let you know if you fit the look we’re going for. If it all works out, you can start this Friday night…if you can get to the studio by six-thirty.”

  This is going easier than I thought. The conversation continued to flow, along with a few back-and-forth questions. She wasn’t altogether sure why she was taken by his voice, but she felt like it was familiar in some way. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “Okay, I’ll send those over now. I appreciate your time.”

  “No problem. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  It didn’t sound like a scam, which was reassuring, but then, she supposed they never did at first. Still, what could he do with her pictures, anyway? It wasn’t as though he was asking for nude models or something suspicious like that. Not yet, anyway.

  “Thanks. Hopefully I’ll see you Friday,” she said.

  Oddly enough, she didn’t want to get off the line, but eventually she dragged her finger over to the red button.

  Now I just need to find selfies. I hope I’ve got something good enough. She found herself wondering what he was looking for. Tall? Striking features? She had long hair, but she didn’t think she was exotic or unique enough to be a model. But no harm trying.

  She waded through hundreds of pictures on her cell. Most of them were group pictures of family or friends, with her in them, but still not appropriate to send. One was from last fall when she was a bridesmaid, and another was of her sitting at the nurse’s workstation, taken by a coworker so she could send it to her mom in Idaho.

  Then she hit send, and off went her pictures to her hopeful new employer called Trent. She felt weird about sending pictures to a guy she’d never met, but he seemed genuine, and Ginger had recommended him. It wasn’t like she was responding to some random post she’d found online.

  She weighed her options for dinner. There weren’t many to choose from, so she grabbed a packet of noodles. She’d found a box of chicken flavor on sale last month, so she’d stocked up. She could make noodles in her sleep, and cooking would keep her mind off her financial situation and the hope the new job held. She wouldn’t usually consider a second job, as she had little energy left after her shift at the hospital, but how hard could it be to stand still?

  But her mind wandered. What would he say if she wasn’t the right type? Maybe a “Sorry, nobody wants to paint you” or “You aren’t pretty enough and my class will leave if they see you.” She couldn’t quite imagine him saying something that blunt, but ultimately she had no idea. Then her phone dinged.

  Here’s the address for the six-thirty start Friday evening.

  Her eyes grew wide. It was one thing to make the attempt and another to actually get it. He hardly had to think about it at all. She couldn’t help feeling flattered.

  Her fingers flew across the keyboard. Thank you, I’ll be there.

  She danced around her small apartment kitchen as the noodles cooked. She was going to be able to pay more bills and maybe even afford a night out once in a while. She turned up the radio, and danced across her apartment until she realized her blinds were open, and even then, she didn’t immediately stop to close them. Let them stare. I’m having a good night.

  She was happy with her dance routine, but she thought she’d better give the pot a stir. For the first time in a long while, she felt like everything might be all right. Despite the bland flavor, she soon sat down to eat the yummiest meal she’d tasted in a long time—food without any stress sprinkled in.

  And it was all because a guy named Trent had said she was modeling material. Who knew what the future held? Maybe this would become her new gig. Even though she didn’t know it was a thing a few days ago, it was all she could think about now.

  Chapter Three

  The next day, Tiffany felt nervous as she arrived five minutes early for her meet up with Trent. She was comfortable being in groups, but the thought of being a model was still a little outside her wheelhouse. Did she really think she was good enough to model for artistic types? Not really, but the money was too good to turn down, so she’d have to wing it.

  The venue where the class was held was nice. Through the many windows, she could see robins hopping along on nearby tree branches, creating a nice mix of red, green, and yellow. They chirped loudly enough to be heard from inside.

  She’d always been in the role of “support,” whether that meant looking after patients who buzzed and asked questions or being a silent role in the school play. All the Romeos and Juliets of her class had bathed in the limelight while she’d been Rosalind, the girl Romeo gets over in a hurry who never got to say a word.

  She’d been on stage for one scene, spending most of it hiding behind the other actors. But now, here she was, opting for people to stare at her. Probably just a few, so not too bad, but still a little unnerving.

  She’d decided to dress in jeans and a casual, brown sweater. She wasn’t exactly the “I want to dazzle you into hiring me” type. She’d rather eat cheap noodles and bologna sandwiches to tide her through her financial troubles than put herself out there like that. She had some pride, something she’d gotten from her mother along with her love for nice things.

  She walked through the door and into a long, bright hallway. Doors dotted the walls, and she could see people walking around at the end, where the hallway ended in a larger room. She clip-clopped over the linoleum floor and made her way to join the bustle. It seemed like a lot of noise and activity for an art class.

  She reached the archway that marked the end of the hall and stood at the back of the crowd. They were listening to a handsome man with light brown hair. He was speaking clearly, loudly, and he sounded like he had so much…

  She tried to think of the right word. He sounded confident, like a doctor or a scientist who hosted important conferences for smart people. As she approached, she managed to catch bits of the conversation.

  “…managed to secure a bigger place for us all on Ninety-Eighth. It’s got a courtyard and four large rooms. The sculptors will be able to leave sculptures there, and we’ll have the wall space to hang all the paintings from the last class. Decent street parking too. I’ve secured the lease for at least the next three years, so we should be able to start moving in next month.”

  The people in the room clapped as the man stepped away from the small stage. It must’ve originally been designed for a band or a choir, she thought. It suddenly occurred to her that all these people were the artists. She tried to count heads but there were too many. They got in each other’s way, and she lost count, but the group could easily be over fifty people.

  She breathed a slow sigh, reminding herself that she could just leave. She hadn’t signed any paperwork. She could still get out of the modeling gig and go back to taking extra shifts at the hospital and fretting. But before she made up her mind, she heard a voice close behind her.

  “Hey, Tiffany. Glad you could make it. I was just telling everyone about the new place.”

  Of course. He knew who she was by her pictures. His dark eyes were warm and inviting, and she couldn’t tell whether he’d styled his light brown hair, as it stayed in just the right place, but in that effortless kind of way.

  “I didn’t realize how many artists you had.” She tried to make it sound like a neutral comment even as she picked at her fingernails behind her back.

  “Let’s go down the hall to my office. I can explain everything there. Our whole group is here tonight, as it’s our monthly get-together to discuss art and eat some finger foods. We usually work in smaller groups.”

  She hesitated. Smaller groups did sound better, and everyone there seemed fairly normal, as far as artists went. “Sure. Lead the way.”

  They walked down a hallway and into a room painted rainforest green. It was large, with a beautiful mahogany desk and a coffee table with two sofas on either side. It even had a “help yourself” coffee station, which perked her up. It had been a long day at the hospital, and a cup would hit the spot.

  “I’ll make us coffee,” he said. “If you drink it, that is. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “That would be great. Thank you. Just black for me.”

  His back was turned as he lined up the cups, and she studied his office. It was littered with knickknacks and small statues. And a few paintings. Par for the course. He had a certain way he moved. Confidence wasn’t quite the right word. Charisma described it better.

  Her eyes followed him as he brought the cups over. She sat on the comfy sofa and waited for him to speak. The nerves were coming back, and having something to grip helped.

  “I was glad when you called. We only had one spot left, but it was a stubborn one. I filled all the other ones, but that one has been open for a little while. You have a good look for what we n
eed.”

  “Not to question things, but what sort of look is that exactly?”

  He spread his hands. “You know, I wish I could describe it for you. Maybe it’s just the artist in me, but it’s simply a look. You don’t really know what it is until you see it.”

  She shifted in her seat, trying to process that.

  “If I were to try,” he continued, “it probably has something to do with the angles of the face and how the light is cast against it. How a painter might try to capture those flows and angles. See? I told you it was an artist thing.”

  She laughed, although she couldn’t quite put a finger on what was funny about it. She found even more of her unease melting away.

  “What I mean is, you have a face that works for contemporary art forms and historical formats, too. We could dress you up in different eras and make it believable. Not everyone can do that. Some look too classical, others too modern. And since some of my artists are recognized and will go on to sell some of their work, it’s important. But it matters even for those who are here for a hobby and will give the pieces away or hang them up at home. They all want their art to look right, and the model is a big part of that.”

  “So what you’re really saying is, these poor people may be looking at their painted versions of me forever.”

  “Decades, at least,” he said with a smile. His face was beautifully expressive. She wondered why he didn’t just use himself as a model. But maybe he had, and his students had gotten tired of painting the same person all the time.

  She decided to be honest with him. “I appreciate the artistic concerns, but I don’t know about all this. I had the impression I’d be in front of a smaller group. How many will there be to paint me?”

  “Depends on which night, but from fifteen to thirty per sitting.”

  She could hardly imagine sixty, unblinking eyeballs all staring at her. She wasn’t sure she could cope with it, no matter how much she was getting paid. And for hours on end.

  “Can I have a day to think about it?”

  He waved his hand in the air. “Of course. If you need a few days, that’s fine too. Just make sure to let me know then.”

  Her eyes followed his as he looked at the wooden clock on the wall.

  “But if you were sticking to a day, that gives you until seven tomorrow, rounding up.” He gestured. “It was my father’s, but he gave it to me years ago. He loves cuckoo clocks.”

  It was a beautiful clock, shaped like a house with a carved garden next to it. There was a yellow duck, a brown horse, and a black and white cow eating grass. It was old and unique, and it had Roman numerals on the face instead of the standard numbers.

  “What comes out of the hole?” she asked.

  “Wait for it. It’s almost time.” He turned to get a better view. She figured it was a typical bird, but really she had no idea. Probably a maid. Or a farmer? A dog?

  The clock made the sound of a rooster calling, and at the back, a wooden rooster shot up and made another squawk, then disappeared. Next, a line of gnomes ran across the fence line while a little jingle played. When they were done, they disappeared in a hole on the right side. She placed her hand over her mouth. It was the most unexpected thing she’d ever seen from a clock, a work of art in itself. “That’s hilarious.”

  “My father made a lot of these. I have a collection at home. He even sold some to collectors. He learned the craft from his grandfather in Switzerland. Married my mom after falling in love with her the first time he saw her. He was standing in line buying parts for the next clock when they met.”

  She found herself on the edge of her seat, wanting to know the rest of his story. She’d almost forgotten all about what they were there for. She just wanted to listen to him. His voice was crystal clear with a hint of gruffness that would be perfect for an audiobook narration.

  He straightened. “Anyway, I’d better get back to the meet-and-greet. I’ll give you a call. Will that work?”

  “That’d be great. I finish work at my day job at three tomorrow, so if you call around four we’ll go from there. Thanks for giving me some time to think on it. I promise I’ll have clearer thoughts then.”

  “I understand. I couldn’t do it. I just can’t sit still that well. I like to walk around.”

  So that explains that. Tiffany found his words soothing, relaxing, and she suspected that he could talk her into accepting if he tried.

  “I’ll see myself out,” she said, schooling her features. She had to keep things professional. Although, applying for this job was a lot easier than she thought it would be, especially with him involved.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” he said, extending his large hand. It enveloped hers as she took it. It was warmer than what she expected, as her hands were always the coldest thing in the room. She would’ve found any excuse to keep hers in there, just to warm them up a bit. She told herself that was the only reason and not because of who it was attached to.

  Chapter Four

  The next day brought on another shift with Shirley, perhaps as a reminder that her other job had its challenges, too—with no Trent to make things better. She was “given” her patients by Shirley, as usual. She had a whole new entourage of them that day. Mrs. White, Mr. Elliott, Mrs. Piper, and Mr. Fitzgibbons. All of them were lovely and time-consuming, which was probably why Shirley had picked them for her. Despite Shirley’s love of protocol, she had no qualms about giving other nurses more work, probably so she could “oversee things” in her own spare time.

  But Tiffany tried to keep up a good attitude. She pushed open the door to the first room, still trying to get her brain operational for the day. She’d loaded it with a double espresso, but she still felt like it needed more.

  “Good morning, Mrs. White. I’m Tiffany, your nurse for the day. Just here to give you your medications and make sure you’re okay.”

  “Well, I’m not. That doctor is a complete waste of space. He said I need to lose ten pounds. I mean, the nerve of the man. Who’s he to talk that way to me?”

  Tiffany tried to keep a straight face as she placed the medication down in its transparent cup. She looked at the woman’s chart and saw she was doing fine in terms of her observations. “I think he might just mean to eat a better diet. Keep your internal organs healthy by proper eating. Your heart has to pump the blood around, and if there’s more tissue, or body weight, then it has to work harder.”

  Mrs. White’s expression lost some of its edge. “So I shouldn’t eat…what? Can you be more specific? I mean, there are so many fad diets, and the internet is full of advice about food. I’d like something a little more specific.”

  Tiffany nodded. “I’ll get you some pamphlets on diet. They’re in the public common room. I’m pretty sure they talk about having lots of vegetables and regularly eat lean protein like chicken or fish, staying away from high carbohydrate foods like pasta, potatoes, and bread. Dairy should be limited too.”

  “Oh, really? I like bread and potatoes. Are they fattening?”

  “Yes and no. Bread is often loaded with sugar, and potatoes are starchy, which means they have carbohydrates and become stored as fat within the body if the calories aren’t burned through exercise. Sweet potato is a great alternative.”

  “I see. I guess I’ll read your pamphlets. I thought potatoes were okay. I need to rethink a few things, it seems.”

  Tiffany decided to fetch the pamphlet before she saw her next patient, while Mrs. White was in a receptive mood. She whizzed in and handed over the information, then she went to see her next patient.

  Mr. Elliott was asleep with his breakfast tray still in front of him. He hadn’t touched it.

  “Mr. Elliott,” Tiffany said. “Mr. Elliott, your breakfast is here.”

  At first, he only opened one eye, and he gave a snort. He looked down at the tray and started to wake up as he poured himself a glass of orange juice. “Must have dozed off. Everybody making so much noise last night. It was hard to sleep.”

  “Here’s your medication,” she said.