out of New York. They loved their Manhattan apartment, but they agreed it was not where they wanted to raise their children. Little John was five years old now and needed more of the outdoors than walks in the city’s parks. Anna was three and restless. Morris was a loud and active toddler who showed signs that he would soon resent the confined space of an apartment. Cindy had looked at homes in Westchester County and in New Jersey. This was her first venture into Connecticut.
“You can buy anything here, from an apartment to a town house to a little frame house on a quarter of an acre to a million-dollar-and-up estate,” said Amanda.
She herself was living in a penthouse apartment atop afive-story brick building situated on a shady street of Edwardian buildings. She drove Cindy there, and they went up in the elevator. The main room of the apartment was a greenhouse on the roof of the building. That served as Amanda’s studio. Besides that, there were two bedrooms, one of which she used as her living room, a kitchenette, and a bath. She started a pot of coffee and led Cindy into the studio and offered her a seat on a couch.
With a glass roof and glass walls on its east, north, and south, the studio afforded an artist ideal light. Amanda had installed sheer curtains on the east wall to prevent people in the taller building across the street from having a view of her models posing. From the other sides, no one could see in. Through the windows that faced south she had a view of Long Island Sound and the north shore of Long Island. The studio was cluttered with easels, palettes, brushes, boxes of squeezed tubes, cans of rags, magazines, newspapers, empty pizza boxes, and burger cartons.
Amanda offered herself to be kissed, and Cindy kissed her. “I do wish you’d move here, Cindy. I really do.”
Cindy stood and looked at the unfinished painting on the easel: an adolescent male nude in Amanda’s unsparingly realistic style.
“That’s Greg. He’ll be here any minute. He’s a student at Greenwich High School, and as soon as school’s out—”
“He looks awfully young,” said Cindy.
“He’s sixteen. His parents gave me written consent to paint him. His mother sometimes comes with him and sits here while I work. She prefers that he make his spending money as a model rather than by delivering newspapers or bagging groceries. He won’t pose for classes, though, and I doubt I want to do more than two or three pictures of him.”
Amanda moved behind Cindy, put her arms around her, and caressed her breasts. “If you lived here, you could model for me again. I could change your face a little, so no one would recognize you.”
The gallery had sold six more nudes that Amanda had done of herself. At the moment she was the world’s most famous artist’s model, more famous as a model than she was as an artist. A huge mirror stood on a big wooden easel in a corner of the studio.
“I’m not sure I want to take my clothes off in front of you again,” said Cindy. “You’re horny enough as it is.”
Amanda kissed the back of Cindy’s neck. “I love you,” she said simply.
They talked this way to each other, but Cindy was sure that Amanda didn’t really mean what she was saying. She did not believe Amanda was in love with her in the romantic sense, only that she was attracted to Cindy and considered her not just her benefactor but her best friend. She had allowed Amanda to kiss her breasts and her belly when she was posing for her, but she had never allowed her to put her tongue in her furrow—nor, for that matter, had Amanda tried to. When they had a moment alone, she returned Amanda’s kisses, including wet kisses on Amanda’s proffered nipples; but she had never done anything more.
The coffeepot coughed, and Amanda went to the kitchen and returned with steaming mugs of her favorite strong black coffee.
“I see in the news that Mr. Hardeman has died: the original Mr. Hardeman.”
“Good
“You can buy anything here, from an apartment to a town house to a little frame house on a quarter of an acre to a million-dollar-and-up estate,” said Amanda.
She herself was living in a penthouse apartment atop afive-story brick building situated on a shady street of Edwardian buildings. She drove Cindy there, and they went up in the elevator. The main room of the apartment was a greenhouse on the roof of the building. That served as Amanda’s studio. Besides that, there were two bedrooms, one of which she used as her living room, a kitchenette, and a bath. She started a pot of coffee and led Cindy into the studio and offered her a seat on a couch.
With a glass roof and glass walls on its east, north, and south, the studio afforded an artist ideal light. Amanda had installed sheer curtains on the east wall to prevent people in the taller building across the street from having a view of her models posing. From the other sides, no one could see in. Through the windows that faced south she had a view of Long Island Sound and the north shore of Long Island. The studio was cluttered with easels, palettes, brushes, boxes of squeezed tubes, cans of rags, magazines, newspapers, empty pizza boxes, and burger cartons.
Amanda offered herself to be kissed, and Cindy kissed her. “I do wish you’d move here, Cindy. I really do.”
Cindy stood and looked at the unfinished painting on the easel: an adolescent male nude in Amanda’s unsparingly realistic style.
“That’s Greg. He’ll be here any minute. He’s a student at Greenwich High School, and as soon as school’s out—”
“He looks awfully young,” said Cindy.
“He’s sixteen. His parents gave me written consent to paint him. His mother sometimes comes with him and sits here while I work. She prefers that he make his spending money as a model rather than by delivering newspapers or bagging groceries. He won’t pose for classes, though, and I doubt I want to do more than two or three pictures of him.”
Amanda moved behind Cindy, put her arms around her, and caressed her breasts. “If you lived here, you could model for me again. I could change your face a little, so no one would recognize you.”
The gallery had sold six more nudes that Amanda had done of herself. At the moment she was the world’s most famous artist’s model, more famous as a model than she was as an artist. A huge mirror stood on a big wooden easel in a corner of the studio.
“I’m not sure I want to take my clothes off in front of you again,” said Cindy. “You’re horny enough as it is.”
Amanda kissed the back of Cindy’s neck. “I love you,” she said simply.
They talked this way to each other, but Cindy was sure that Amanda didn’t really mean what she was saying. She did not believe Amanda was in love with her in the romantic sense, only that she was attracted to Cindy and considered her not just her benefactor but her best friend. She had allowed Amanda to kiss her breasts and her belly when she was posing for her, but she had never allowed her to put her tongue in her furrow—nor, for that matter, had Amanda tried to. When they had a moment alone, she returned Amanda’s kisses, including wet kisses on Amanda’s proffered nipples; but she had never done anything more.
The coffeepot coughed, and Amanda went to the kitchen and returned with steaming mugs of her favorite strong black coffee.
“I see in the news that Mr. Hardeman has died: the original Mr. Hardeman.”
“Good
Similar Books
