to stop for lunch shortly? I wondered. Perhaps he thought it would be easier for me afterward. Although I was still quite nervous and embarrassed, I felt a warm, pleasing tingle wash over me as I slipped my skirt down and stepped out of it. When I lowered my panties and then pressed the cool sheet against my body, I felt an undulating warmth climb up my ankles, making it seem as if I were stepping into a tepid bath. I saw that the small valley between my breasts had reddened. I wrapped the sheet snugly around my chest and waited for Tony to return.
He called me from the kitchen.
"I have everything ready, Leigh."
I went into the kitchen. He had made a platter of finger sandwiches and uncorked a bottle of red wine. He poured me a glass and then he poured one for himself. When I didn't move, he pulled out my chair like a waiter in a fancy restaurant.
"Madam."
"Thank you." I took my seat and began to eat. Dressed only in this white sheet, I couldn't help feeling foolish sitting at the small table. But Tony acted as if it were quite an ordinary thing. Perhaps it was because of all his artistic experience, I thought. Whenever I moved, the sheet parted, so I held it together with one hand while I ate and drank with the other.
"Do you think girls are more modest than boys?" he asked, obviously noticing my awkwardness.
"No."
"Did you ever see a boy naked?"
"Of course not," I snapped. He laughed. I knew he was just teasing me again, but it made my nerve ends twang.
"Now don't tell me there aren't any Peeping Janes, just like there are Peeping Toms. I know when girls get together, they talk about boys they have seen naked, just like boys might talk about girls. I bet the girls at Winterhaven do when they get together, right?"
I didn't reply, but he was right. At one of our last get-togethers in Marie's room, Ellen Stevens told us about seeing her brother take a shower. Just recalling it now made me blush.
"It's all right," Tony said shaking his head and smiling from ear to ear. "It's only natural to have curiosity about the opposite sex." He drank his wine.
I took a tiny sip of the wine. I felt flushed. My face grew warmer. He finished his glass and poured himself another quickly.
"There's nothing wrong with modesty," he continued, "unless it's taken to a ridiculous extreme." His face hardened, his eyes turning cold and gray suddenly. "If you're married and your wife still shuts you out whenever she is dressing . ."
He looked up at me quickly as if I had said something to disagree, but I was so still and quiet, I was almost like the statue he wanted to create.
"Why would a wife not want her own husband to set eyes on her?" he asked as if I were the older and the wiser one. "Is she afraid he will see some imperfection, a wrinkle, a large birthmark? Would you always want the lights out whenever you made love with your husband?" he asked. I didn't know what to say. "Of course, you wouldn't. Why should you?" He looked down and muttered, "She's driving me crazy."
I knew he was talking about my mother, but I said nothing. Did Momma think that if Tony saw her naked in a brightly lit room he would know her true age? I wondered. She had such a perfect figure. How could it reveal her age?
I finished my sandwich and sipped a little more wine. Tony seemed in a daze. Suddenly, he snapped out of it and smiled.
"Time to go back to work," he announced and rose from his seat.
I followed him back to the living room that had been turned into a studio and stood where I had stood before.
"I see the wine has given you a crimson tint. I like that. I'll have to capture that," he said. "Does the glow continue down your neck?" he asked and drew closer and ran his right forefinger along my neckline to my collarbone. "You're truly exquisite," he whispered. "A young flower just blooming." His eyes were piercing, bright. He sighed and shook his head. "How lucky I am to have you, Leigh. This will succeed only because I have such a beautiful model"
He returned to the easel and began to draw. After a moment he stopped.
"Just unclip the sheet at your neck and hold it at your waist," he said as nonchalantly as he might say, "Turn your head to the left."
At my waist, I thought. My fingers trembled so when went to unclip it I couldn't do it. He laughed.
"Here, let me help you," he said, coming forward. He lifted my fingers from the clip gently and undid it. I held the sheet against my body for a moment. Then he peeled it down over my shoulders, over my arms, peeled it from my bosom, all the time keeping his eyes on my eyes. He smiled and stepped back, gazing at me. My heart pounded.
"I love that little birthmark under your breast," he exclaimed. "That's the kind of individualistic little thing I can put into the model to make it definitely you. Everyone will look for something that will make the doll more specifically a replica of themselves, don't you see?" He appeared so excited about it that I could only shake my head in astonishment. He rushed back to his easel and continued to sketch.
He worked for more than an hour, stopping often to study me with such intensity and sighing before shaking his head and smiling. Suddenly he stopped and bit down on his lip hard, shaking his head.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I'm not getting this right. It's o, unbalanced. I'm not doing justice to your symmetry," he declared.