Felicity dropped her brush on the palette and walked over to the light stand. "Hold still hon. while I fix this." She fussed with the lamp until the angle suited her, and then hurried back to her easel, grabbed her Polaroid, and snapped a quick shot. "Tip your head back just a little. Whoah... that's it. Now try not to move. I want to get these shadows right."

Gavin held his pose as directed, feeling the heat of the bulb on the side of his neck. "Don't be too long, Filly, this heat is melting the makeup."

"Just give me a sec," she said, pressing her tongue against her upper lip and holding her breath as she dabbed delicately at the canvass. "There. Okay, good. You can quit now." She stood back, assessing the result as Gavin shut off the lamp and stepped down from the tiny raised platform.

"How did we do?" He said, coming around beside her, studying the snapshots against the image on the canvas.

"It's getting there," she spoke critically. "There's still something not quite right with the folds in that gown." She turned to him and held the material away from his sides, feeling the texture with her fingers. "I wonder if we shouldn't try the blue strapless."

"Oh no we don't," he chuckled, backing away. "It took you long enough to get this one arranged to your liking. You're the artist. Fix it on there. I'm going to get out of this stuff and take a shower."

It hadn't taken much for Felicity to talk him into being her surrogate model when she started painting. Why hire someone from outside, she had argued, when the basic form was all she really needed to construct her picture. As her talent progressed, so did the basic form. She complained of not being able to capture the true skin tones and shadows, and she grew frustrated over her depiction of hair; it simply lacked truth, she would grumble.

If it wasn't for the fact that she had acquired a following, and was exhibiting—lucratively—in galleries all over the province, Gavin might not have been such a willing guinea pig. He became her surrogate model. She spent hours, meticulously fitting different wigs according to the style of subject she intended to paint. It wasn't that big a deal, he convinced himself, it was only an hour here and there.

He plodded to the bathroom and stepped into the shower stall. Felicity came in to gather up the props, and he heard her humming as he closed his eyes under the stream of water and soaped his slick, hairless body.

*****

"I don't really care," he said, sipping his tea and forking in another mouthful of potato.

"Then why suggest it at all?" Felicity sat across from him trimming the fat from her steak. At thirty-two, she was very conscious of her weight and was determined to keep it at exactly one hundred and fifteen pounds. Gavin only weighed one hundred and thirty-five for heaven's sake. How would it look if she were the same size as he?

"I'm on the damned council, I have to take part."

"I don't know why you even bother with those people." She remarked with flinty disdain.

"Contacts, baby. They're all contacts. All I need is an opening, and old Gavin will be managing their portfolios before you can say scam." They laughed together, digging heartily into their meals.

"I always thought you were a closet Ivan Boesky." Eyes sparkling as she sliced some asparagus into bite-sized chunks. "Oh, and speaking of closet, if you're going to borrow my dressing gown all the time, hang it in your own cupboard. I don't have enough room as it is."

Instinctively, he pulled the flimsy collar about his throat and adjusted the serviette on his lap. "I don't borrow it all the time. Mine's in the hamper and this was on the door, besides" he winked, "it feels more comfortable... after a shower."

"Sure, hon." Felicity smiled benignly at her husband. Since enlisting his service as her model, she'd seen him go from mild reluctance to complacent, even willing acceptance. Not many men, she congratulated herself, would permit their wives to use them in such a way. Then again, not many men would look as good as Gavin did in such a role. She considered him with new interest, watching him fuss with his dinner, wondering just how far her power might extend and whether it would be enough to keep him in line while she explored her other interest.

*****

Tiffany shifted sideways on the chair and crossed her legs. Outside the coffee shop, a gentle summer shower was dappling the windows, distorting the passers-by like a fun house mirror. She stirred her coffee and looked longingly at the cream doughnut Susan was munching. "Is there something about you people that keeps you from gaining weight?"

"You people?" Susan wiped some sugar powder from her lips.

"You know what I mean, you hardly ever see fat Asian women." Tiffany asked her, open-faced, and completely oblivious to political correctness.

"You might be right," Susan said indifferently. "Maybe it's something in the metabolism."

"Well whatever it is, I could use some." She hefted her bosom and sighed. "These seem to be growing exponentially with each calendar year."

"Here they come now." Susan pointed, happy to change the subject.

The McCorkidales jogged across the street and pushed through the glass doors into the coffee shop.

"Over here!" Susan waved, sliding over in the booth.

"Hi," Peter smiled at the women, "it's coming down a little stronger out there." He handed Patty to a seat beside Tiffany and sat next to Susan. "Ahh, Patty, this is Susan Ho, one of our council members and the head of the research committee. Susan, my wife Patty." They exchanged greetings and smiles and Susan introduced Tiffany, who sat a little straighter, giving Peter a warm handshake.

"Patty is interested in maybe helping on your committee, if- if..."

"Wonderful," Susan responded, "the more help the better. So far, it's just Tiffany and I."

"We're hoping to wrangle Allen Gregorio in again as well." Tiffany added.

"Again?" Patty asked with interest. Susan gave her a quick synopsis of the events a few years ago when the town locals produced and performed their own play at the Ashton Hills Playhouse. To sellout crowds, Tiffany added with a prideful note.

"That must have been quite rewarding." Patty said with admiration.

"You don't know the half of it." Tiffany chuckled throatily, pinching her face in response to Susan's admonishing glare.

"The playwright I mentioned, Nigel, is back in town visiting and we thought we would approach him about taking part."

"So, you're looking at putting on some kind of parade?"

"Parade sounds so pedestrian," Tiffany complained. "Let's call it a- a... the Playhouse Silver Jubilee! That's it!" She thumped her hand on the table, hitting the edge of Patty's fingers. "You should do something with those nails, dear." She splayed her own meticulous fingers in example.

"Patty does sculpting and clay modeling," Peter offered in support of his wife. "It doesn't permit for a showcase manicure such as yours."

Tiffany placed a long finger aside her cheek and considered the young man with growing interest.

"Eeeew, that's marvelous," Susan exclaimed. "Silver Jubilee is perfect. And we can certainly always use someone with an artistic bent."

Yes, Peter cheered silently, calculating his coming free time. Patty blushed, her own excitement rising.