“Fine, what is it?” she asks, her arms still crossed, like armor in front of her chest.
“I love you, Kate. I’ve never stopped. I love you and I want to be with you,” I say, placing my damaged heart right on my sleeve for the world to see.
“But, can you trust me? Can you have faith in me, despite what I may or may not have done before I met you?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply quickly, careful not to hesitate.
“Show me,” she says matter-of-factly.
“What do you mean?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Convince me. If I’ve learned anything at all from our relationship, it’s that words are not nearly as important as actions. Show me and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“Really?” I ask, hoping she isn’t just blowing smoke up my ass.
“Yes,” she says, a hint of her signature smile peeking through. I can tell she’s doing her best not to, but it’s there. The smile I adore.
“All right,” I nod, “I’ll show you.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she says with her signature attitude, before walking away. I’m feeling hope for the first time in two very long years.
Chapter 28
Kate
December 18, 2012
Lately, ‘bittersweet’ seems to be the theme of my life. The show was a big success. Several business cards were given out, as potential agents and journalists were interested in my work. I’ve spoken to my mother once since the show and am planning to join my parents for Christmas dinner. It’s the first time in a long time that I’m actually looking forward to spending time with them. I don’t ever expect us to be a warm and fuzzy family. I don’t expect my mother and I to have life-changing talks by the fire. But, I am hoping we can get some sort of fresh start.
Evan showing up really threw me for a loop. Of course, I knew that he had the flier and that he’d agreed to come, but I never dreamed he’d show up after what happened at Molly’s. He seemed so done with me that night. It felt like he slept with me one last time just to get us out of his system once and for all. So, when I saw him at the gallery, staring at the canvas in awe, butterflies swarmed inside my stomach and my heart let him in again. Now I have no idea what to think. When I told him to convince me, I didn’t know what the hell I was saying. Part of me thought he’d just throw up his hands and walk away. But, he didn’t. Instead, he seemed to accept the challenge.
Laying in my bed on a lazy Tuesday morning, I jerk awake when the phone rings. Who would be calling me so early? Could it be him?
“Hello?” I say tentatively into the receiver, wishing I had Caller ID on my phone.
“Hello, my name is Deb Stuercke from Shutterbug Magazine. Is this Kate Armour?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, my heart leaping into my throat.
“Kate, I was hoping that you would come into my office downtown. I’d like to discuss some opportunities with you and it’d be best to do it in person.”
“Absolutely,” I say, sitting straight up in my bed, a huge grin plastered across my face. Opportunities.
“Do you have any free time this afternoon? I had a cancellation in my schedule.”
“Yes, yes, I have the day off. I can be there any time.” I sound completely overeager but I just don’t care. I’m ecstatic and hopeful and I can’t wait for this meeting.
“All right, then, we’ll see you at 3 P.M. at our offices downtown. Do you have a pen?” I quickly grab a ballpoint pen and scribble down the address Deb gives me. I hang up the phone with her and literally start to count down the minutes. I crank my music and dance all around the room, so happy that I finally took a chance on myself.
***
I’m not sure that any day of my life has dragged the way this one has. Finally it’s 2:45 and I’m walking up to the reception desk at Shutterbug. A young woman behind the large desk greets me warmly and tells me to take a seat. Sitting in a surprisingly comfortable navy blue chair, I sift through the pages of Shutterbug’s latest issue. The idea of being in this magazine makes adrenaline course through my veins. Deep breaths, Kate.
After just a few minutes of pretending to read the articles of Shutterbug, a familiar face comes down the hall. Her smile is wide as she greets me warmly.
“Kate, thank you for coming. Please, come to my office.” I follow Deb to a gorgeous office that’s covered in stunning photos. It’s not surprising, but it mesmerizes me just the same. Deb seems pleased that I’m so taken with her decor.
“The sign of a true photographer. We always notice, don’t we?”
“You’re a photographer, Ms. Stuercke?” I ask, surprised.
“Of course. I’ve been taking pictures for almost 25 years. I took every single shot on these walls. Several different cameras, of course.” She chuckles. “Have a seat and please call me Deb.” I quickly take a seat, trying to hide my shaking hands in my lap. Luckily, Deb doesn’t seem to notice.
“Okay, so I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.” I nod and smile. “Your piece at the exhibition was fascinating. You took something that is so simple in theory, and turned it into something flawless, something unique and eye-catching. I think you have a tremendous eye.”
“Thank you,” I muster, blown away by her compliments.
“We’d like to do a feature story on you.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, in shock.
“It would be a four-page spread, nothing huge. However, it would be tremendous exposure for your career.” She pauses before continuing, “Do you have an agent yet?”
“No, I don’t,” I reply.
“Well, I suggest that you wait until the article is released before signing with anyone. I guarantee you will have plenty to choose from.”
“Wow,” I say, staring at her like a deer in headlights.
“So, here’s what I need from you. I need about 10-15 samples of your work. We will obviously feature a photo of your show piece, as well.”
“Okay, I can do that.” I beam. Already, my brain is racing with ideas of which samples to use.
“Someone from the magazine will also be emailing you some interview questions for the article. The focus will be on your choice to use film. We also think readers will be fascinated to see that you have your own darkroom.” She pauses again. “That reminds me, we’ll be sending someone to your apartment to get some pictures of you developing your photos.” I nod in agreement.
“This all sounds wonderful, Deb. Thank you so much for this opportunity. I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, you just focus on finding the samples, and I’ll be in touch after the holidays.”
We shake hands and I take the train back to my apartment, a perma-grin affixed to my face. I cannot stop smiling at everyone I come in contact with. The only thing that gives me pause is the realization that the one person I want to share this news with the most is the one person I refuse to call.
Chapter 29
Evan
December 19, 2012
Show me.
Convince me.
Those words are all I hear inside my head. I try to turn my brain off, but I can’t. Show me. Convince me. I have been wracking my brain for days. How on earth am I going to show her that I trust her, show her how I’m desperately in love with her? I thought my words would be enough, but I was wrong. She wants to see it with her eyes.
Patrick is no help. He just got back from his honeymoon and he’s still recovering from their Hawaiian vacation. He knows Kate means a lot to me, but he’s so burned out from planning his wedding that he’s not exactly someone who’s ready to brainstorm with me. Looks like I might have to pull this off on my own. But, how?
Whenever Kate was in a foul mood or had something that she couldn’t get off her mind, she’d sit and listen to Tori Amos. She’d listen to so much Tori Amos it was ridiculous. I’ve never been a fan — frankly, I think that woman’s a little nuts. But, she helped to soothe my girlfriend in a way that I couldn’t. So, today, I try something new.
I start listening to “From the Choirgirl Hotel” and I sit on my couch listening to every single song. It doesn’t help. Not a bit. I don’t want to think about Kate being upset. I don’t want to think of her listening to Tori for years while I was out meeting other girls, dating other girls, sleeping with other girls. It makes me sick to even think about it. Instead, I think of the music that makes my love happy. Dino.
Digging through my pile of dusty CDs, I find it. The Dean Martin CD that I’ve had for years. I pop it into my CD player, and listen as his voice croons through my apartment. Instantly, I feel at peace as memories start to roll through my brain. So many memories of us when we were happy. And right now, I know in my gut that we can get back there. We can be happy again. But, how do I prove it to her?
Memories continue to flood my brain and instead of fighting against them so that I can figure out how to prove my love to Kate, I submit to them, bask in them, and enjoy them so much that I’m smiling from ear to ear. I have faith. We’re going to be okay. I just need to convince her of that. And I think I finally know how to do it. But, I can’t do it alone. Reaching for my phone, I start to put my plan into motion.
Chapter 30
Kate
December 24, 2012
Christmas has been depressing these last couple of years. No Evan, no family, no traditions or special breakfasts to be found. But, this year, one of those things has changed. This year, I’ll be spending Christmas day with my parents. We’re starting slow, not rushing into too much ‘family togetherness’ just yet. But, one meal on one of the most special days of the year seems like a nice way to start. I haven’t heard from Evan since the exhibition, and I’m not sure how to feel about it. He seemed so determined to win me over that night, but ten days have passed without so much as an email. Maybe he had a change of heart. Just the thought of that makes my heart sink, so I push it far from my mind. He’s probably in Green Bay with his family. I tell myself that there’s always a chance we’ll reconnect in the New Year. Stranger things have happened.
I was really excited when Tosha from Blue Door invited me to a party at the gallery for this evening. I didn’t have any Christmas Eve plans and wasn’t looking forward to spending the evening pouting over cartons of Chinese take-out. It was kinda odd that Tosha invited me so last minute. I almost wonder if she was in contact with Deb at Shutterbug and decided to add me to the obviously exclusive guest list.
I’m allowed to bring a ‘plus one’. I was actually thinking of asking Jason, but Bree begged me to bring her. I guess she really enjoyed the exhibition and wants to “go to more cultural events.” Whatever. Bree and I are assuming that this will be a fancy party, so we used that as an excuse to go shopping and buy some new clothes that will be acceptable for a holiday party such as this.
I’m feeling confident as I look myself over in the mirror. I’m wearing a new red wool cowl neck sweater with a black pencil skirt and knee-high leather boots that Bree convinced me to buy. Bree and I walk to the gallery once again, although this time I’m not nearly as nervous as the last. I see lights on at the gallery, but not the crowd I was expecting. The sidewalk outside is completely vacant.
“Did I get the time wrong?” I ask Bree.
“No, I think we’re right on time.” She smiles. Something about that smile makes me suspicious. “Follow me.”
We walk through the doors and I’m consumed by the smell of pine in the air. White twinkle lights fill the gallery, wrapping around the ceiling in a beautiful chain. A small cocktail table sits close to the front door. There is one dirty martini sitting on a napkin. An envelope that simply says, “Bree” sits next to it. Peculiar.
Bree looks giddy as she tears open the envelope. She smiles to herself and kisses me on the cheek as she walks back towards the door.
“Wait, what is that? Who is it from?”
“It’s just a thank-you note. Don’t worry about it.”
“Bree, where the hell are you going? What’s going on?” None of this is making any sense. There’s no party here at all, just a lone martini and a room full of Christmas lights.
“Take your drink, Kate. And wait here.”
“Okay?” I say, realizing it comes out like a question even though I don’t mean it to. This has to be the most bizarre moment of my life.
“Hello, Kate,” a voice says from behind the small wall where my piece was hung for the show.
Evan.
“Oh my—” I say, putting my hand over my mouth.
“Hey,” he says softly, walking towards me cautiously. Probably waiting to see if I’ll run away. But, I won’t. I’m intrigued. I want to know what he has up his sleeve.
“Evan,” I say dispassionately.
He leads me to the small wall where his photos hung ten days ago and takes both of my hands into his. “The last time we spoke, you gave me a challenge. To show you, convince you.”
“Yes,” I nod.
“Well, I’m ready to do that. Are you ready to be convinced?” His smile is already starting to charm me. Damn him.
Evan walks back to the table, grabs the martini and places it in my hands.
“Dirty Martini, your favorite,” he says confidently.
“Well, that’s an easy one. I hope you plan on impressing me with more than this,” I say, gesturing towards the glass.
“Sweets, take a few sips and follow me, all right?”
“Okay,” I say, shrugging my shoulders before following him around the small wall.
“Your exhibition inspired me. I was so impressed with your talent and how you were able to communicate through your art.”
“Thank you,” I say simply.
“This is an exhibition about you. I want to show you just how much I love you. I want to show you that you’ve never left my mind or my heart during these last two years.”
When we round the corner, I see a turntable perched on another cocktail table. Evan carefully places the needle on the record and I hear one of my favorite sounds in the world. The crackle of a record. And then, the familiar sounds of Dean Martin singing White Christmas fill the air. I feel my resolve crumbling as Dean croons in the background. An official looking placard, custom made by the gallery, sits next to the record player. It simply reads, “Dino.”
“People in their twenties don’t tend to love Dean Martin. But, you do. You adore him and I love that about you. It’s a connection that you built with your Nana, and it’s a connection that you built with me. I hope to listen to his music with you for years and years to come.”
Next, Evan walks me to a simple framed poster perched on the wall. I stare at the Breakfast Club movie poster and can’t help but laugh. Next to the poster is another placard. This one simply reads, “Sweets.” I bite the side of my mouth to keep my eyes from welling with tears. I’ve missed that word. I’ve missed him saying it.
“Do you remember why I started calling you that?” he asks and I nod.
“I couldn’t ignore you if I tried,” I recall, my eyes growing wet despite my efforts.
“That’s right. Your sharp sense of humor is one of my favorite things about you, sweets. I’d like to ask your permission to call you that again.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tease. But, in all honesty, it’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard in two years.
“Come with me,” he smiles, taking my hand and leading me to another ‘piece’ in this crazy exhibit.
A collage of coasters from Molly’s hangs on the wall, adhered to a large canvas. I can’t help but laugh, looking at him with surprise. He chuckles in return. The placard reads, “Our Beginnings”
“Like I said, I was inspired by your piece the other night. I wanted to make a collage of my own. And this one is all about how we first met. At Molly’s. These coasters make me think of you, of us, and of all we’ve been through in that place.” I nod, listening to him as I look at the coasters. Some of them look old and worn, others brand new.
“Have you been collecting these?” I ask, surprise
d.
“Well, I had a few of them. But, I had a little help in getting enough to make my work of art. Do you like it?”
“It’s, um, creative,” I offer.
“That’s good enough for me. Come on, there’s more,” he says, taking my hand once again.
“I can hardly wait,” I tease, squeezing his fingers with my own.
“Now, all kidding aside, this next one is very special,” he says as we round the corner to head down the long east wall of the gallery. I can see several framed photographs. The first photo is of me smiling. I remember when Evan took this photo. It was the night he first surprised me with my Canon. I had him pose as my subject for quite a while. But, then he turned the tables on me, taking pictures of me while I cracked up laughing. We were so in love.
The placard reads, “The Faces of My Love.”
I turn to him, my eyes continuing to water. Evan says nothing, but gestures for me to keep walking towards the other photos. And so I do. The next photo is of me taking pictures at the park. I’m crouched down, taking a shot of a moth perched on the bark of a very old tree. I had no idea he was photographing me.
“Now, I have to confess that this one is digital. But, when you’re taking pictures, Kate, it’s art in itself. You’re pensive and focused; I could watch you for hours as you hone your craft.”
“Is that why you pushed me so much?” I ask.
“It’s one of the many reasons, yes,” he says. He looks relieved that I’m starting to understand his motives.
We continue to walk down the long wall of photos. They’re all of me. In one, I’m sleeping on the couch, passed out in my work clothes. In another, I’m developing pictures in my darkroom. And finally, there’s a photo of me putting an ornament on the Christmas tree. Next to that final picture stands a full sized Christmas fir with white twinkle lights and an ornament that looks almost identical to the one in the photo. I’m floored. How did he do that?
Champagne Toast Page 21