Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Bess

W hy had I told him? I’d sworn I’d never burden anyone at Wilde Creative with my tragic story. If they didn’t know, they didn’t have to treat me differently. They thought I was boring and a bit of a workaholic, but nobody felt sorry for me. As soon as I saw the shock and pity in Charlie’s eyes, I remembered my rule. This was why I didn’t tell people.

Now I could never go back to how things had been. Being equal.

Had I ever been equal to Charlie, though? Definitely not. The thought gave me the surge of energy I needed to launch myself up from the chair. “I think the next session is about to start. I read on the wall that we have a visiting teacher from Estonia.”

“Oh, really? What wall?”

“That giant timetable they’ve got up on that screen in the hallway.”

“There’s a timetable?” Charlie blinked, oblivious.

He seemed a million miles away, maybe still processing our conversation. Although his general lack of attention to mundane details was nothing new. The man floated through life, buoyed by his own creative brilliance, while others took care of the rest.

I couldn’t help it; I felt compelled to memorize every detail I knew he wouldn’t. If every woman around him had this same urge, he’d never have to do anything non-creative or remember anything at all. We were all enabling him, enjoying the fleeting moments of gratitude and attention he showed in return. Even if I didn’t believe half of his praise.

The attendees trickled back into the art studio and settled at the same tables. I noticed the gay couple and two of the ladies gathered around an iPad, and tiptoed a little closer, curious.

“Nobody knows her over here, but she’s actually huge in Russia and Europe. Exhibitions all over the place. Top galleries.”

“Are you talking about the Estonian teacher?” I asked.

Others made room for me and Charlie, who stopped right behind me, placing a hand on my waist. Everyone turned to him with keen interest. “We did a quick search, out of interest. Look at this!” The suspender guy angled the iPad to show it to Charlie.

I reached on my tippy toes to get a peek at the screen. It was a watercolor painting with a flower motif but primarily abstract. Gorgeous.

“Incredible skill,” Charlie confirmed, adjusting the screen so I could see it. “Look, babe. I know you like this style.” He pecked a little kiss on my temple, and I jumped, startled.

Charlie forced a laugh. “Sorry. Forgot to ground you with my hand.” He rested his hand on my shoulder, effectively holding me in place, and kissed the side of my face again, slowly, deliberately. His warm breath lingered on my skin.

I smiled, trying to relax. I needed to question him later about the level of PDA necessary. Right after I let myself enjoy the tingles traveling down my spine and stopped inhaling his scent. Citrus and pine trees. A hint of something smoky. Intriguing and dangerous.

The suspender guy laughed. “Matthew’s the same, except he’ll throw you on the ground like a ninja if you try to sneak up from behind. I have to announce myself when I enter a room.”

“It’s my jiujitsu training. I can’t help it.” Matthew pursed his lips. He was starting to look less like George.

“I’m Harry,” the suspender guy said. “I’m an artist. Matthew will tell you he’s an art dealer, but he’s an artist too and more talented than I am.”

Matthew harrumphed, but couldn’t help smiling. No, he definitely didn’t look like George, I concluded in relief. In fact, he looked a little like Charlie, but older. Probably because Charlie resembled his dad, even if I tried hard not to notice it.

“Charlie Wilde from Wilde Creative. And this is my better half, Bess. She’s a brilliant designer.”

I blushed and the guys cast dubious looks at me. I could hardly blame them—they’d seen my pitiful sculptures and drawings. “I work on the production side,” I quickly amended.

“Bess is multi-talented,” Charlie insisted, and I subtly elbowed him in the stomach. “Uhh. I’m just telling the truth, Bessie-Boo.” He chuckled, sliding his arms around me, locking my misbehaving elbows against my body.

My mind registered the stupidity of the nickname, but I could barely focus on that part, suddenly distracted by his touch. Heat flooded me from the inside out. This was the closest I’d ever been to him, my entire backside pressed against solid muscle. Something else solid dug into my bottom. I tilted my pelvis, just enough to confirm I wasn’t imagining things. No. A couple of layers of denim did nothing to disguise the situation between my butt cheeks. That was definitely Charlie’s penis. My body took this as a signal to fire out every hormone related to arousal, sputtering sensations like a rusty engine that hadn’t been started in a while. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to. I heard sounds of humans speaking but struggled to understand words.

To my relief, Charlie carried the conversation. Something about art. Estonia. Was I imagining things, or did he deliberately grind himself against me? His fingers wrapped around my torso, mindlessly brushing the sides of my ribcage as his breath tickled my ear. Charlie was everywhere, taking over my senses.

It was unfair. This may have been easy for him. I was just another date to touch and tease. But I hadn’t been touched. I had no routine, only a crater of unmet need I’d shoved so deep down I’d almost forgotten it was there. A mere hug from a male sent me into a state of overwhelm. It was part frustration, confusion, and unrelenting full-body ache.

I had to get my vibrator from the car. I’d packed it on a whim, thinking maybe I’d use it, the same way I thought I’d finally use that face mask Teresa had gifted me last Christmas. That’s what a vacation was for, right? But I’d never expected to feel this level of need. All I could think of was sneaking that thing into my bed. The vibrator, not the face mask.

To my relief, the teacher arrived, and everyone returned to their respective tables. Charlie released me, grinning. But I noticed a hint of deeper color on his face as he discreetly adjusted his jeans. Had he got a little too excited?

For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine it. Imagine him. It couldn’t happen, but my mind ran scenarios without my permission, and they all felt amazing. It would be perfect fodder for my imagination tonight.

“You’re evil,” he hissed at me as we got behind our table.

“Why?”

“That ass of yours.” He took a deep, exaggerated breath. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bess.”

I glanced up at him, as innocently as I could. “What am I doing? This is all your plan.”

“You know what I mean.” He winced, raking his fingers through that stylishly messy hair. “You know you’re hot, and I’m just a man…” His words trailed off as he blew out a sigh.

I could hardly process his words, every nerve on my body still buzzing from our encounter. He thought I was hot?

“Everyone! Let me introduce Ilme Kuusk. She’s fresh off the plane from Estonia.”

I had to drag my attention to Leonie and the Estonian artist in front of the class. Ilme was maybe in her fifties and had long, dark hair done up in a messy top knot you’d never find on Pinterest. Her long-sleeved lab coat was covered in paint. Layers and layers of color. Her pitch was low and she didn’t smile, but something about her immediately put me at ease.

“Thank you for inviting me. I look forward to putting on weight,” she deadpanned.

Leonie stared at her, stunned silent.

“Food is very tasty here,” Ilme continued, dead serious. “I store it on my hips to take away. Don’t have to pay extra for the carry-on.”

Was she joking? She must have been.

Leonie found her voice again. “Ilme specializes in watercolors, but she said she wants to give you freedom of expression, so this is not a watercolor class, per se.”

“No. I try every material and medium I can get my hands on. Not everything is available in Estonia, but we make do. We get the best watercolor from Russia. Gorgeous color. Intense, deep color. I brought some with me for you to try. It looks like candy, but don’t eat.” This time, a couple of people laughed. “I also use razor blades, but I was asked not to bring, for legal reasons. They’re worried someone will kill themselves in the class. So, we will use these blunt plastic knives instead. They don’t work, but that’s okay.”

Leonie coughed, her face as red as her tunic. “Our management is very safety-conscious.”

“Isn’t she management?” Charlie whispered.

Ilme turned back to us. “This week, I have a special assignment for you. I want you to create the piece that you would charge a million dollars for. It is only an exercise. Nobody will pay you a million dollars. But this is what I want you to think. What makes art priceless? Think about it. I was given this catalog of art supplies.” She lifted a hefty booklet off the table. “You can order from this and everything will be delivered tomorrow. But I ask you to think about the value of your art as separate from the material value.” She brandished the booklet, eyebrows raised. “Buying expensive supplies doesn’t make art more valuable. Most of this you can buy for a fraction of the price in Estonia.”

“I’ll let you get on.” Leonie scurried away, her cheeks glowing pink.

“She’s running to cancel any future classes taught by Estonians,” Charlie predicted, his mouth curving in amusement. “I like the million-dollar assignment, though.”

“Of course you do.” I turned so he couldn’t see my eye roll. Charlie had no hesitations about charging a million dollars for a day’s work. Or one idea.

Ilme walked around the room, handing out order forms and catalogs. As soon as I glanced at it, I froze. Were art supplies really this expensive? I flipped through the catalog, desperately searching for something I could afford. Where was regular paper? Why did it have to be acid-free, thick, and textured? I’d be too nervous to breathe on it, let alone draw or paint.

“Are you okay?” Charlie’s voice landed soft in my ear, distracting me from my panic. “Please keep breathing.”

“It’s so expensive?—”

“Excuse me,” he called out, stopping the teacher in her tracks. “Would it be okay to use found materials? I’m hugely inspired by… nature. There’s a forest outside, I think. Materials, like… sticks… um… leaves? Pinecones!”

It was obvious Charlie didn’t forage.

Ilme cocked her head. “What are you thinking of? An installation? A sculpture? Little animals with stick legs and googly eyes?” She mimed little pinecone animals with her fingers.

Harry laughed, along with Miranda and a couple of the other ladies. Ilme cast them a sharp look. “You think nobody will pay a million dollars for pinecone critters? You’re wrong! The rich buy the stupidest things.” She gestured at her forehead. “Forget the buyer. Focus on the value. When you say, ‘this is worth a million dollars,’ what you really mean is ‘I love it so much I don’t want to sell’. Some of you will say ‘this costs a million dollars’ because you think you’re a big deal and you want to sell it to some rich sucker out there.” She narrowed her eyes at Charlie. “And, some of you will think ‘nothing I do could be worth a million dollars’.” She looked at me.

I swallowed. Was she psychic or something?

Ilme waved her finger at us. “Either way, you’re missing the point. You’re focusing on yourself. Ego stands in the way of creation. You must surrender yourself and let ideas flow through you… Tap into the divine!” Her eyes burned with conviction, her posture challenging. “It is not you. You’re only a medium channeling it onto paper or canvas or clay or whatever you work on. And it doesn’t matter what material you use. Pinecones are fine.”

“I’d like to use natural materials, too,” I piped up. “Maybe some autumn leaves.”

Her eyes scanned my outfit and softened with understanding. “Okay. I think they have some resin in the storage room you can use. I’ll show you how.”

My lungs deflated in relief. “I’ll look it up online. I’d love to learn that technique.” I’d google the shit out of this.

“Great. Do that.” She walked back to the front of the class, addressing the whole group. “I was asked here to run a workshop for creative people who are stuck. You think, if you just breathe mountain air and sit in a bathtub and have a green drink, you find a million-dollar idea. But I tell you a secret.” She leaned in, stage whispering. “Sometimes, you’re stuck because you need to be stuck. Your mind is trying to tell you something but you’re asking the wrong question.”

Charlie raised his hand. “What’s the right question? Can you tell us now and save us the time?”

Miranda laughed.

Ilme cocked her head at him, unfazed. “Sounds like your subconscious is hard at work on something. Focus on the pinecones and you’ll get there.”

“Thanks for the palm reading,” Charlie muttered.

A soft murmur went across the room. It felt like a mix of fear and confusion, as well as a trickle of understanding. I couldn’t decide if the Estonian teacher was totally unhinged, a genius or something in between. I was leaning towards the in-between. People were hardly ever either. In a way, her words made sense. Thinking of creativity as a force flowing through us relaxed me. Maybe I could partake in that without the burden of being an artist and having incredible ideas. Whether there was a current of divine creativity floating in the air we could tap into, thinking this way lessened the pressure I felt. Maybe that was the point of it.

I set the catalog on the table, relieved I didn’t have to order anything. I’d collect leaves and wait for that divine intervention, as promised. What if it didn’t flow through me, though? What if I was too blinded by the stresses of daily life and constant struggle to be a vessel for any creative forces?

Ilme’s low, resonant voice halted my thoughts. “Tomorrow, we’re going on an excursion. Dress up warm. Those of you who are planning on using natural materials, bring bags for collecting. I’ve been told there are a lot of things up on the mountains. Pinecones, leaves, sticks, rocks… even bears.” It was the first time I saw Ilme smile, and I realized she was missing one of her front teeth.