beauty he longed to know.
It was three A.M. Pressing his fingers into clay, he shaped, molded, and smoothed out the facial contours until they matched the vision he’d committed to memory. Her nose was sleek and straight and as regal as her high cheekbones. And her eyes ... he’d captured them just as they’d looked when she’d sat next to him in the cafe, before the arguments had begun. She’d listened to Harry and Andy, yet lowered her eyelids occasionally and given him a sideways glance, as if she didn’t want him to know she was looking. But he knew, and he’d caught her a time or two. That was when the gold flecks in her amber eyes sparkled. He couldn’t capture the brightness of her eyes in clay, but he could re-create that sidelong, secretive glance.
He’d molded her lips earlier, the slight, innocent smile embedded deeply in his mind. Now he traced his fingers over the full lower lip and wondered if the luscious red ones he remembered would be as soft and sweet as he’d imagined. Memories of her lips and her eyes had kept him awake long into the night. When fatigue made it difficult for him to keep his eyes open, he slept fitfully on the chaise in his studio, his legs and shoulders dangling over the edges. The antique satin lounge had been designed for a graceful beauty, not a giant of a man, and each time Jon tossed and turned, he nearly fell to the floor. When he did catch a few winks, Elizabeth Fitzgerald haunted his dreams.
Finally, he gave up his halfhearted attempt at slumber and paced his studio floor, back and forth, back and forth. He thought about her lips and those big amber eyes, envisioned her stretched out on his chaise in those red hooker boots and nothing else, and he watched the lights in the hotel windows, wondering if she was able to sleep peacefully in that empty hotel. And when pacing and thinking wore away at his nerves, he did the thing that had always given him peace—he turned a lifeless mound of clay into a thing of beauty.
Sitting down on a stool, he took a good look at the bust he’d spent the night creating. Wisps of hair softened the woman’s forehead, and he’d swirled her long, heavy braid over one shoulder, draping it across the slight hint of her breasts, the place where his sculpting had stopped. He hadn’t dared go any further. That he’d save for later, when he had a clearer image to commit to memory.
He drew up his shoulders, stretching out the kinks and tension from hours of painstaking work. Tomorrow he’d make the mold, and later he’d pour the bronze. And when the time was right, he’d break open the cast and polish the roughened figure until it glimmered, just the way he imagined Elizabeth’s skin would glow when caught in the firelight, or after a night of making love.
Damn! He was obsessing about a woman who might never again give him the time of day. Long hours awake, too many hours wrapped up in his work, and a strange, overpowering desire to be with Elizabeth Fitzgerald again were taking their toll on his mind.
Maybe he needed a kick in the head.
He opted for coffee instead.
oOo
Elizabeth opened the kitchen screen door, shivering at the annoying squeak of the hinges, and threw out a bucket of dirty water onto the once pristine snow. She’d already discovered she couldn’t dump anything down an inside drain. If she tried, the water wouldn’t disappear; instead, it bubbled and glugged.
She needed to crawl under the sink or get a plumber. The first she didn’t want to do because she hated tight, closed-in spots—a fear she hadn’t rid herself of after the quake. As for the plumber, she’d called everywhere, but no one wanted to drive all the way to Sapphire. That answer didn’t end with plumbers, either. Carpenters, handymen, housekeepers—no one wanted a job. Not with her. Not in her hotel. Not in the middle of nowhere.
Hauling water had become a necessity. Thank God the stove and refrigerator worked, along with the toilet
It was three A.M. Pressing his fingers into clay, he shaped, molded, and smoothed out the facial contours until they matched the vision he’d committed to memory. Her nose was sleek and straight and as regal as her high cheekbones. And her eyes ... he’d captured them just as they’d looked when she’d sat next to him in the cafe, before the arguments had begun. She’d listened to Harry and Andy, yet lowered her eyelids occasionally and given him a sideways glance, as if she didn’t want him to know she was looking. But he knew, and he’d caught her a time or two. That was when the gold flecks in her amber eyes sparkled. He couldn’t capture the brightness of her eyes in clay, but he could re-create that sidelong, secretive glance.
He’d molded her lips earlier, the slight, innocent smile embedded deeply in his mind. Now he traced his fingers over the full lower lip and wondered if the luscious red ones he remembered would be as soft and sweet as he’d imagined. Memories of her lips and her eyes had kept him awake long into the night. When fatigue made it difficult for him to keep his eyes open, he slept fitfully on the chaise in his studio, his legs and shoulders dangling over the edges. The antique satin lounge had been designed for a graceful beauty, not a giant of a man, and each time Jon tossed and turned, he nearly fell to the floor. When he did catch a few winks, Elizabeth Fitzgerald haunted his dreams.
Finally, he gave up his halfhearted attempt at slumber and paced his studio floor, back and forth, back and forth. He thought about her lips and those big amber eyes, envisioned her stretched out on his chaise in those red hooker boots and nothing else, and he watched the lights in the hotel windows, wondering if she was able to sleep peacefully in that empty hotel. And when pacing and thinking wore away at his nerves, he did the thing that had always given him peace—he turned a lifeless mound of clay into a thing of beauty.
Sitting down on a stool, he took a good look at the bust he’d spent the night creating. Wisps of hair softened the woman’s forehead, and he’d swirled her long, heavy braid over one shoulder, draping it across the slight hint of her breasts, the place where his sculpting had stopped. He hadn’t dared go any further. That he’d save for later, when he had a clearer image to commit to memory.
He drew up his shoulders, stretching out the kinks and tension from hours of painstaking work. Tomorrow he’d make the mold, and later he’d pour the bronze. And when the time was right, he’d break open the cast and polish the roughened figure until it glimmered, just the way he imagined Elizabeth’s skin would glow when caught in the firelight, or after a night of making love.
Damn! He was obsessing about a woman who might never again give him the time of day. Long hours awake, too many hours wrapped up in his work, and a strange, overpowering desire to be with Elizabeth Fitzgerald again were taking their toll on his mind.
Maybe he needed a kick in the head.
He opted for coffee instead.
oOo
Elizabeth opened the kitchen screen door, shivering at the annoying squeak of the hinges, and threw out a bucket of dirty water onto the once pristine snow. She’d already discovered she couldn’t dump anything down an inside drain. If she tried, the water wouldn’t disappear; instead, it bubbled and glugged.
She needed to crawl under the sink or get a plumber. The first she didn’t want to do because she hated tight, closed-in spots—a fear she hadn’t rid herself of after the quake. As for the plumber, she’d called everywhere, but no one wanted to drive all the way to Sapphire. That answer didn’t end with plumbers, either. Carpenters, handymen, housekeepers—no one wanted a job. Not with her. Not in her hotel. Not in the middle of nowhere.
Hauling water had become a necessity. Thank God the stove and refrigerator worked, along with the toilet
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