I sigh, “Do you want to come with me?”

“What an excellent idea,” he smiles, linking my elbow with his as he guides me out of the dark room.

CHAPTER 12

The Portrait

Climbing the stairs of the Fine Arts Building hand-in-hand, Reed and I find a brass placard on a door declaring the room to be “MacKinnon Studio.” As we step in, I gaze around at the spacious artist’s studio; it occupies a large corner of the old building and has the appeal and charm that one associates with the old craftsmanship of the turn of the century. Leaded glass windows line the back wall, and the lighting in the room is impeccable.

A young woman sitting at the small desk in the corner of the room stands as we enter. “You must be, Genevieve,” she states smoothly, approaching me with her hand extended. “I’m Debra, Mr. MacKinnon’s assistant.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, shaking Debra’s hand in introduction. She’s about my height with long, dark hair. Her black-rimmed glasses, which cover her warm, amber eyes, can only be described as librarian, but her air of authority, not her glasses, makes her seem older than me—maybe a senior. “This is Reed Wellington,” I continue politely with the introductions.

“Ah, Reed, of course, how are you?” she states briskly, shaking his hand.

“I’m well. It’s nice to meet you, Debra,” says Reed with a charismatic smile.

“Well, please come in. Mr. MacKinnon will be joining us soon. He wants me to get started with your hair and makeup before he gets here. How much do you know about what we’re doing today?” she asks me, moving over to a closet near her desk in the corner.

“Not much,” I say. “I know that I’m supposed to sit for a portrait, and that you need pictures, so that Mr. MacKinnon can work without me being here as often.” I add sheepishly, feeling naїve for not getting more details than that before agreeing to this. I peek at Reed and I can tell by his frown that his thoughts are straying along those same lines.

Debra says, “He’s going for the ‘Goddess Persephone’ thing with you—a queen who inspires devotion—or, something like that. Anyway, I have a dress for you—I think Mr. MacKinnon got it from the theatre department. They did The Iliad a few years ago. The dress is a little revealing because it’s a Grecian gown that plunges in the front and it’s backless from the shoulders to the small of your back. But, it covers all the important parts. It’s a little transparent under this lighting, but hey, that’s art.”

I can’t look at Reed as I begin to blush when Debra pulls the costume from the closet. It’s ethereal all right; it is exquisite white silk with gold piping interlacing the bodice, not at all the cheap theatre department material I expect.

“Please, come and sit over here, and I’ll get started on your hair,” Debra directs. I sit down at a lighted mirrored table and Debra begins working on my hair. “You can have a seat over there.”

Debra points to a comfortable seating area that has a sofa and chairs. Reed goes to a lounge chair and sits down, watching me disapprovingly. I can tell I’m going to hear about whatever it is that he is thinking. Deciding not to worry about it, I watch Debra in the mirror. She deftly weaves my hair into an intricate pattern of small braids with delicate, golden threads adorning them. The effect is startling, and when she finishes, I feel rather like a goddess. She applies a soft layer of cosmetics to my face in such a way as to make my skin appear to glow.

“Well, that’s it,” Debra says. “There is a bathroom over there where you can change your clothes.” She retrieves the gown from the closet and follows me to the bathroom.

“Okay,” I reply uncertainly, taking the beautiful creation she hands to me.

The dress is so delicate; it floats around my arms as it cascades like liquid toward the floor. I go into the bathroom and disrobe, and then I carefully step into the white, gossamer silk, feeling it cling to my body, as fabric will when it’s wet. I had hoped that I’d be able to wear my bra with it, but there is no way. The bodice plunges midway to my abdomen and barely covers my breasts on either side. The back of the gown is almost nonexistent; my skin is bare all the way down, revealing the two small dimples on my lower back. The dress covers me just above my rounded posterior, flowing with a long train behind me. I’ll need to pool the train of the gown over my arm if I don’t want it to drag on the ground, but the length in the front is perfect, as if it were made for me.

Debra sighs when she sees me in the dress. “It’s beautiful on you,” she says, adjusting the fasteners so that the gown lies perfectly. “Mr. MacKinnon just arrived. He’ll pose you, and then we can take the pictures.”

“Okay,” I say, realizing that I have to leave the bathroom in this gown that feels like little more than cobwebs covering my body.

Debra seems to know what I am thinking because she leans closer to me and says, “You look wonderful, and just remember, it’s art, and who knows, it could become a piece of history one day.”

“That’s a nice way of looking at it,” I say before taking a deep breath and walking out of the bathroom.

The conversation that is transpiring between Mr. MacKinnon and Reed turns to silence as I approach them from the bathroom. I’m not looking at Mr. MacKinnon as I near them because I’m captivated by the smoldering darkness that enters Reed’s eyes.

I want to move right to Reed, but Mr. MacKinnon steps in front of him and speaks directly to me, “Genevieve, you’ve exceeded my expectations. You’re lovely. We should begin. Please, if you would step this way, I have set up over in this corner,” he says, leading the way to a lighted area that has a dark backdrop and a Grecian style chaise. I sit stiffly on the chaise, feeling uncomfortable in the spotlight.

“Now, has Debra told you the theme that I’m going for with this portrait?” he asks.

“She mentioned the Goddess Persephone,” I say as I lean back against the bolster of the chaise, following the gesturing movements of Mr. MacKinnon.

He lifts my feet onto the chaise and arranges the train of my gown in such a way as to drape over the end of the lounge. In this position, I face Reed directly. We make eye contact, and there is a heat in his eyes that I can feel. My body becomes liquid; all of the tense embarrassment flows out of me, and it is just the two of us. I can hear that Mr. MacKinnon is taking pictures, but all I can do is watch Reed watching me.

“You’re Reed Wellington?” Mr. MacKinnon asks Reed as he continues to snap photos of me from different angles.

“Yes, that’s right, sir,” Reed answers him politely as he approaches the set and stands near the light.

“And how do you know our model here?” he asks charmingly, making small talk.

“Genevieve is my…girlfriend,” Reed says in a sexy, possessive way.

I’m somewhat taken aback by the term girlfriend. It is almost ridiculous that someone as perfect as Reed would desire someone like me, insane really, and yet, he’s becoming so much more than my boyfriend that the term seems inadequate to describe what is between us.

“Your girlfriend, is that right?” Mr. MacKinnon replies with a smile.

“Yes, she’s mine,” Reed says, never taking his eyes off of me. His words warm me, making me feel desired. Reed’s eyes soften as he says, “She almost allowed someone else to accompany her here today, and I can’t help but think of how close I came to missing seeing her like this.”

“Yes, that would’ve been unfortunate. But there will be the portrait,” Mr. MacKinnon assures him.

“I’m eager to see how it turns out,” Reed says.

“As am I,” he replies from behind his camera. “Genevieve, I want to try something else…a different pose. Allow me to tell you about the Goddess Persephone, so that you might better understand what I’m thinking.”

Drawing nearer to me and holding his camera away, he says, “Pretend you are the Goddess Persephone, Queen of the Underworld. Hades, the ruler of the Underworld, has taken you from your home and your mother Demeter. You love Demeter dearly and wish to see her again. Hades has given you a pomegranate to eat. You know that if you eat the pomegranate, you will have to remain in the Underworld with Hades for all of eternity. However, if you do not eat the fruit, you will have to leave the Underworld. You would then never be allowed to return to the Underworld or to Hades. You care for both Demeter and Hades, so you must choose which of your loves will have you for eternity.”

Stepping forward, Mr. MacKinnon places a pomegranate in the palm of my hand. I look at it dumbly for a moment, and then the scope of his words hit me. Reed or Russell. Angel or soul mate. I have to choose which of them will be the love, not only of my life, but also of my existence. Anguish in its purest form rolls over me in wave after wave of torment.

“That’s perfect, Genevieve. You’ve captured the very essence of the struggle,” Mr. MacKinnon says as he snaps my photo at different angles. I can’t look at Reed now. I don’t want him to see my struggle because I don’t want to hurt him, just as I don’t want to hurt Russell. Mr. MacKinnon purrs with satisfaction as he says, “Well, you’ve certainly provided me a range of things I can work with. I think I prefer the sultry pictures we took in the beginning of the sitting to the others, but it will be a tough decision.”

I’m not listening to Mr. MacKinnon. I want to escape from the lights and hide myself away in a dark corner. I rise from the chaise and begin to walk to the bathroom to change out of the gown, but I hesitate, and turning to Mr. MacKinnon, I ask, “What did Persephone decide? Did she eat the fruit?”

“Yes, she did, but not all of it, only enough so that she could return to Hades for half of each year. A divine compromise, they are rare amongst the gods,” Mr. MacKinnon says softly.

I am quiet on the car ride to Reed’s house for dinner. I’m feeling edgy after my experience at the art studio with Mr. MacKinnon. I want to erase today and start again. All the knowledge I’ve gleaned is beginning to eat at me, and I feel like my brain is corroding.

When we reach Reed’s house, he opens up my door and escorts me into his home. He must’ve called ahead to Andre, or maybe Greta, because the large, formal dining room table is set for two; the finest china graces the table, as does what appears to be real silver silverware. Reed holds out a chair next to the head of the table for me, and then he seats himself. I look around the cavernous room in awe; this isn’t Saga, and it is also far from the dining I do with my Uncle Jim. Andre, Reed’s personal chef, enters the dining room with two dinner plates not long after we are seated.

“This smells wonderful, Andre,” I say, breathing in the aroma. “Thank you.”

“It is very nice to have a guest. I hope you enjoy it,” Andre says, and then he turns and leaves the dining room.

“Do you eat here every night? In this room, I mean?” I ask Reed contemplatively, while tasting fish that melts in my mouth.

“Usually, why?” he asks as if evaluating my question.

“It’s nothing…it’s just that…” I say, my voice trailing off when the image of Reed eating here all alone in this big room comes to me. How lonely this must be with no one to share things with, but then again, it may be his idea of unwinding after having to pretend to be human all the time.

“It’s just what?” he asks me curiously.

“Well, it’s so formal. I feel like your parents are going to walk in any minute and scold us for using all the good china.” I say plainly. Reed laughs at my comment. “Does Andre know about you…I mean…you know…that you’re special?”

“No, I’m sure he has seen some things that have made him wonder about me, but I don’t believe he knows my secrets. I try not to keep the same staff around for long because people do catch on,” he says wryly. “I compensate them well when I have to let them go,” he adds as he fills the glass stemware in front of me with wine.

We eat together in silence for a while. I feel awkward and stiff, not knowing which piece of silverware I should use, since there are three forks, and although the food is delicious, I can’t enjoy it in here.

“Okay, Reed, let’s go,” I say, rising from my seat and picking up my plate and wine glass.

“Where are we going?” he asks in surprise, but stands immediately when I do, probably out of politeness.

“You do have a kitchen, don’t you?” I reply, selecting one fork and one knife from the several on my place setting.

“Yes, this home is equipped with a kitchen,” he replies with a puzzled expression.

“Well then, let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll follow you until you can draw me a map,” I say, smiling at him encouragingly. We need less formality between us, and I’m not going to get that in the dining room. A look of intrigue crosses Reed’s face while he picks up his plate and begins leading me from the dining room to the kitchen.

Reed’s kitchen is the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen. It has sleekly crafted wooden cabinetry that hides the appliances so that you have to guess where the refrigerator is located. The granite counters gleam in the light from the fixtures above, and a polished wooden table sits just in front of a large, stone fireplace. The fireplace is not lit, but it doesn’t need to be; it is romantic even without a fire.