by Sable Sylvan
“Yes, tons, for work,” explained Lance. “It’s an acquired taste...but I like my scotch with a peaty, smoky flavor, like Laphroaig. Have you ever had scotch?”
“No...I’m not allowed to drink,” admitted Zelda. “It’s bad for my health.”
“Ah, yes, lots of medications can’t be mixed with alcohol,” said Lance. “Well, if you ever get better, I’ll take you on a scotch tasting, my treat.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get better,” said Zelda, tearing up.
Lance put his cup down and took Zelda’s cup away from her, as it had already been ruined and made salty by the tears. “Hey, hey, Zelda...” started Lance, pulling her close on the couch so that her head was against his shoulder. “Zelda, what’s wrong?”
“I won’t ever get better, Lance,” said Zelda, still crying. “I’m going to be stuck in this tower forever.”
“Oh, you can’t say that,” said Lance. “I’m sure you’ll get better, Zelda. Or, you can move somewhere else, somewhere with lots of clean air.”
“Like the south of France?” asked Zelda.
Lance laughed, he couldn’t help himself. “No, Zelda, like somewhere in America...you could move to Missouri, or Oklahoma, or even Alaska.”
“You’re just saying that because you live in Alaska,” said Zelda crossly.
“As great as it would be to have you as a neighbor, trust me, Alaska isn’t just cold, it’s clean, and if you like cities, there’s always Anchorage,” said Lance. “Or, you could do what I do, and have a cabin in the woods, away from everybody, and just get your groceries airdropped from a plane.”
Zelda wiped her eyes. “You get your groceries...from a plane? And somehow, me having take out for dinner nightly is weird?”
Lance noticed that Zelda’s eyes were drying. Rather than comment on it, he continued to distract her with his story to try and cheer her up. “Okay, so, it’s not exactly Air Force One, but there’s a helicopter that airdrops my groceries for me,” explained Lance.
“Just for you?” asked Zelda.
“No...you really have no idea who I am, do you?” asked Lance. “My name’s Lance...Lance Asher.”
Zelda’s eyes widened. “Like...Asher Lumber Co. ‘Asher’?”
“I don’t work for the company, I’m a pretty distant cousin genetically,” explained Lance. “My father was cousins of one of the founders, rather than siblings, but I did grow up with the guys. You’ve heard of them, I presume?”
“What girl in the PNW hasn’t heard of Aspen, Thorne, and Cedar Asher?” asked Zelda.
“Well, most girls also know about me, at least back in Alaska...maybe I don’t have as much cache as I thought,” said Lance. “I run a business that focuses on airdrops.”
“Airdrops? Oh, dropping things from planes,” said Zelda, her eyes finally drying.
“Well, not exactly planes,” said Lance. “We mostly use helicopters. Our business model is pretty simple: if you are a wealthy person in Alaska, we will get you things from the continental USA and deliver them to your house for an exorbitant fee. We use a portion of the profits to pay for deliveries of medicines and other basic goods to poorer rural areas of Alaska. The more stuff rich people buy, the bigger a difference we can make in a lot of poor towns.”
“Why did that matter so much to you?” asked Zelda.
“They’re my people,” said Lance. “I’m a shifter, but I’m also an Alaskan, and I have extended family in many of those towns. It’s also just the right thing to do. Yeah, I’m a billionaire...but I feel more at home in an outfit like this than in a suit and tie talking to investors in Seattle.”
“Is that why you wore it today?” asked Zelda.
“It’s half the reason,” said Lance. “The other reason was...I wanted to give you something challenging to draw. I’m pretty sure you’ve never drawn a blue collar boy before.”
“You, blue collar?” asked Zelda.
“Hey, I had to buy these duds at the mall, but trust me, I have worn pairs of jeans and flannels back at my place up in Alaska,” said Lance. “I have to wear them: I do a lot of the mechanical work on the helicopters, and my clothes take a beating.”
“I don’t believe you,” teased Zelda.
“Well, you can check my closet when you visit me,” said Lance. “But until then...you gonna talk, or you gonna draw?”
Zelda looked over the living room. The big pane glass window was covered by drapes when Lorelei wanted privacy, but Zelda usually kept the velvet curtains spread wide open, unlike the covering that covered her glass ceiling, which was set to open at night. The sun was streaming in through the window, so Zelda moved a heavy chair for Lance to sit on. “Here,” said Zelda. “Sit on this.”
“What sort of pose do you want me to do?” asked Lance, turning to face Zelda, his arms over his legs, as he looked Zelda dead in the eyes.
“That’s perfect,” said Zelda, looking over Lance as an object rather than a person, turning him into the shapes she could put down on her paper. “But I have one rule.”
“What is it?” asked Lance.
“No peeking,” said Zelda. “I know you saw my art yesterday...but those were buildings. My pictures of people, I don’t share them, not with anyone, not even the subject.”
“Hey, I know what it’s like to keep a secret,” said Lance, patting his chest, wondering if Zelda would get the reference.
“Stay still,” said Zelda. “Or I’ll have to start over.”
“Sorry,” said Lance, going back to his position, complete with engaged eye contact. Zelda looked down at the paper when she had to but she was making a photograph of Lance in her mind so she would be able to draw him from memory, at least in that pose at any time.
The light hit Lance after it had streamed through the skyscrapers that filled the space between Zelda’s penthouse and the Puget Sound, the bay glistening even from the penthouse. Although poor weather was expected soon, there was a rare moment of only moderate, rather than extreme, cloudiness that allowed the sun’s light to reach the city while also making the light softer. As it was late in the day, the light seemed warmer, in shades of pale yellow, orange, and red, forming a tropical color foreign to Seattle.
The soft light bathed Lance’s hair in a rainbow of colors. Lance’s hair was so pale blonde it was almost white, the sort of platinum blonde wealthy trophy wives paid thousands of dollars to obtain for their billionaire husbands who had such tastes, but Lance’s hair was all natural, as was the layer of scruff on his face, which had been smooth shaven the evening before. His face was craggy and on further examination Zelda was able to spot a few scars, the scar tissue marked by its nakedness, as the scars could not grow any hair. There were small nicks on his beard, which were missing a layer of bristles, scars that he must have obtained at a young age learning to shave. There were nicks that were missing layers of peach fuzz, their stories less easily discerned. Were they from friends or foes, from hard work in the community or hard fights fought to protect it?
Lance’s body gave a shape to the clothes that most men couldn’t. It was obvious Lance had bought his outfit at a specialty shifter retailer. As shifters were a slight minority and the varying species had varying body types, various businesses had popped up to serve the shifter community, a community which, in the old days, had often made their clothes by hand, even knitting or sewing full outfits for adults. Lance’s shirt and pants were from one such shifter store, and the fabric fit his body in ways that human clothes were unable to, as his biceps were too thick for the average shirt, his shoulders far too broad, and his chest too burly. The clothes fit on Lance as if they had been custom made for him, gently hugging the curves of his muscles...including the thick muscles on his thighs that Zelda couldn’t keep her eyes off of.
She’d seen big, thick shifter arms before, but most shifter’s thighs weren’t that huge, as most of the shifters she had met were city shifters, shifters who went to the gym rather than earning their muscles through hard labor, and thus, those shifters would
lift weights at the gym, trying to get big biceps, rather than work on their legs and the rest of their body...muscle groups that were practically required for the hard mating shifters longed for.
Zelda didn’t just focus on Lance’s face and body. While Lance’s chiseled cheekbones, covered with a five-o-clock shadow that was extra thick given his polar bear shift, his outfit choice had been spot-on, as the varying textures of the outfit added to the complexity of the piece.
Lance’s shirt was made of flannel, thick, warm, and fuzzy, but his jeans were made of denim, and the weave of the two fabrics were very different, especially contrasted with the silk pouf that Lance was sitting on, which was a challenge to shade without it looking cartoony. Lance’s leather belt was thick but worn, and the wrinkles in the leather were the only sign that any of the clothes had been worn, aside from the patina the silver buckle had gained from years of hard wear. The work boots weren’t worn, but the laces and grommets proved a challenge to draw as well, as the shoes were made of many subtly different small rounded shapes which could look overly cartoonish if drawn amateurishly.
The biggest contrast was between Lance and his scenery. Although Lance was a billionaire, in those clothes, he didn’t look it. He could’ve passed for any shifter lumberman in the tri-state area, only people with a keen visual eye able to tell that he wasn’t exactly your average bear. The background, of a glistening city, a chandelier above Lance, and velvets, silks, and cashmere throws over the tufted couches and armchairs, were the backdrop of a boudoir, not of a place meant for any man to idle in...which made the picture look like a story.
Who was Lance? Before the previous day, Zelda had no idea who Lance was, but now, it was as if he was the center not only of her composition, but of her every thought...and where was he? Was the scenery just scenery, or was there something more to it? Was it just a luxury penthouse in Seattle, or was it something more? Was it something filled with both passion and secrets, or was the tower just a tower?
Zelda put the finishing touches on her drawing. The time had flown by and Lance had held the pose, barely blinking, not needing to get up to use the bathroom, not giggling or smiling or joking or laughing. He’d been the perfect model, and Zelda could totally believe he’d done some modeling in his past for art classes, given how he’d been so stoic and professional.
Lance didn’t speak until Zelda closed her notebook and put away her pencils. Lance cleared his throat. “The sun’s setting,” said Lance, looking out the window. “What did you have for lunch?”
“I wasn’t hungry, so I skipped it,” admitted Zelda, not admitting that waiting for Lance was what had made her lose her appetite, because there had been so many butterflies in her stomach.
“You shouldn’t skip meals,” said Lance, getting up from his seat and heading to the kitchen. Zelda put down her sketchbook, which was still on her lap, and followed after. “You’re lucky I brought enough to make a big dinner.”
Chapter Four
“What are you gonna make?” asked Zelda.
“Pasta salad with salmon, sound good to you?” asked Lance.
“Sounds great,” said Zelda. “I haven’t had pasta in a while.”
“Then you can be in charge of that dish,” said Lance. “I’ll cut up the vegetables.” Lance passed the box of twisted pasta to Zelda.
Zelda found a brand new pot in one of the cabinets. It was years old, but it had never been used. Zelda opened the pasta box and dumped the pasta in the pot and put the pot on the stove.
“You get the pasta started?” asked Lance, chopping up cauliflower for the pasta salad.
“I think so,” said Zelda.
“You think so?” asked Lance, putting the knife down. He walked over. There was literally just pasta in a pot sitting on one of the burners...and the burner wasn’t even on. “Is...is this a joke?”
“No,” said Zelda, turning beet red.
“You’ve never made pasta before?” asked Lance, raising a brow.
“No,” admitted Zelda, crossing her arms behind her back nervously. “I’ve never done my own cooking.”
“Really?” asked Lance. “Okay...well, first thing, add water to an empty pot.” Lance carried the pot over to a counter top and poured the pasta back into a bowl. He then put the pot in the sink and filled it up, eyeballing the amount he’d need. Lance carried the pot back to the burner and put it on a back burner before turning on the flame.
“Now, we just turn the burner on, and the water will start to boil,” said Lance.
“How...do I tell if it’s boiling?” asked Zelda.
“You’ve never boiled water?” asked Lance.
“Well, no, I have an electric kettle,” said Zelda. “I use it for tea.”
“When the pot starts to boil, there’s going to be bubbles and steam,” said Lance. “You’ll know it when you see it. Until then, you can help me with the spices.”
Lance taught Zelda how to make the pasta. Even though Lance was bossy and a bit gruff, Zelda found herself smiling and having more fun than she’d had in years.
Zelda set the table while Lance put the finishing touches on the food. She made another pot of tea for them, as the old pot had gone cold, and this time, she chose a plain Earl Grey. Once the meal was ready, Zelda helped plate it before carrying everything out to the dining table.
Lance served the salmon fillets. He gave Zelda a piece as large as his own, a choicer cut which was fattier, the fat still sizzling from the pan, and Zelda dug in. She hadn’t had food this hot in a while, as she usually didn’t bother to reheat the takeout her mother sent, and she accidentally burned her tongue, although Lance was able to eat the hot food with ease.
The gemelli pasta was melded with pieces of cauliflower encrusted in garlic. Although on its own, the cauliflower could be soggy and tasteless, the garlic brought out a taste in the cauliflower that was nutty and actually somewhat sweet. There were bits of fresh parsley from the farmer’s market in the dish as well, which didn’t contain any tomatoes or heavy sauces, making it the perfect summertime potluck dish, even though it was being served in the winter. The pasta was served in a white bowl with blue scrollwork designs, the only kinds of bowls that were available in the penthouse, which contrasted against the pale pasta nicely. The pasta was ivory, the color of pine nuts and of old wedding photos, and the old family recipe was the perfect dish to serve on a hot night, and although it was freezing outside, the apartment was set to eighty degrees Fahrenheit, far too warm for Lance’s liking. The pasta was bouncy, but not al dente, and surprisingly light in the stomach, leaving more than enough room for dessert.
They hadn’t had time to bake, but Lance had brought pastries from a local bakery. There was a pair of honey buns, his favorite pastry, one for Lance and one for Zelda. The honey buns were shaped like little cartoon bear faces, almost too cute to eat.
The meal was the first meal she’d had from a non-Michelin starred restaurant in years...and it was amazing. There weren’t any fancy ingredients, just good old fashioned elbow grease which made the meal taste amazing, and the good company didn’t hurt either.
“You’re not eating...what’s wrong?” asked Lance, looking at Zelda, who was looking at the table and hadn’t touched her plate.
“This is really nice,” said Zelda, looking up at lance. “I haven’t had a meal with another person in a long time.”
“Lorelei doesn’t eat with you?” asked Lance.
“No, she usually gets a smoothie on the way here, some green juice stuff, and she’ll sit on the couch while I eat,” said Zelda. “But usually, she schedules her visits for the times between meals, because she thinks it’s more...efficient.”
“Meals are meant for sharing,” said Lance. “That’s why so many cultures have rituals about breaking bread, why food is important to so many people out there...If you like big meals, and are okay with having food like this, you should com to a bear shifter meal.”
“Really? I could go?” asked Zelda.
; “Well, sure,” said Lance. “We can be pretty gruff and grizzly, even the polar shifters, who have a reputation for iciness...but I’m sure you can melt us with your winning smile.”
“Oh, stop,” said Zelda, looking away from Lance as she started in on her food. The pasta was perfect, even chilly, and the white sauce was filled with garlic, which she loved. “I’m sure you say that to every girl you meet in Seattle.”
“Trust me, I don’t,” said Lance. “The only times I come down here are for business or for family.”
“Are you close with your family in the PNW?” asked Zelda.
“Sort of,” said Lance. “We’re all bears...but grizzlies and polars can be really different. Grizzlies can be really gruff and not let people in, whereas polars can be pretty icy and take a lot of warming up before they’re anywhere close to civilized. We barely get along with the humans...mixing species, well, that’s a-whole-nother ballgame.”
“Wow, I had no idea it was so complicated,” said Zelda, trying the salmon. The salmon was flaky, and basically broke off on her fork, as the fat between the flakes had melted, becoming oil that lubricated the fish and made it not only tender, but more delicious. “This is amazing, Lance, how did you learn to cook?”
“I was raised by my grandmother,” said Lance. “And my grandfather...and they live way out in the boonies.”
“Why did you live with them?” asked Zelda.
“My parents died when I was very, very young,” explained Lance, bluntly, but without getting mad at Zelda at all. His eyes flashed as he was experiencing a strong emotion he had to hold back, nostalgia and sorrow all at the same time. “And...well, I had no idea who they were until I turned eighteen, and a lawyer came to our town and went over paperwork with me. I had no idea my parents had left so much money for me. It turned out my grandparents had received a small allowance from the estate, which had helped to pay for everything growing up. It was enough to get by, but not enough to spoil me.”
“I’m so sorry, Lance...I had no idea that your parents had passed,” said Zelda.