by Julia Kent
“He who?”
“Gerald Wright.”
“Already?”
“Called fifteen minutes ago. Asked for the firm’s help in figuring out how to meet international and domestic law to forfeit the relic to a cultural institution.”
Oh, my.
“Did you know about this?” Phelps’ words came with a scorch mark.
“I suspected.”
“You could have warned me.”
“Why are you so invested, Norm? It’s just an inheritance case.”
“We have a buyer for the relic.”
“We have two, technically. James McCormick has thrown his hat into the ring,” she reminded him.
“The other buyer is determined,” he snapped.
She shrugged. “And you think McCormick isn’t? My client will make his own decisions. I can’t sway him.”
“You can make sure he’s well informed.”
“I’ve already done that.” She frowned at him. “Are you implying otherwise?”
“No. But maybe you haven’t spent enough time with him, going through the ins and outs, giving him a detailed sense of what the benefits of selling might entail.”
“Why would I need to do that? It’s cut and dried. Sell, make fifty to sixty million. Donate to a cultural institution. There isn’t an in-between.”
“He’s just a chauffeur! His income is nothing. Why the hell would the guy choose any option but the wealthy one?” Norm ran a nervous hand through his hair.
“Not everyone is motivated by money.”
“You sound like a second-year law student who’s too earnest for her own good. Not a grizzled partner in a major Boston law firm, Suzanne.”
“What bug crawled up your ass and died, Norm?”
“Harrison Kulli’s client. The guy is well connected and he’s making some shady threats.”
“Like?”
“Let’s just say it would behoove us all if Wright sold it to him.”
“If I tell Gerald that, it’s the fastest way to guarantee he doesn’t sell to Kulli’s client. You realize neither of us can stand Harrison Kulli.”
“I don’t give a shit whether you like the guy or not, Suz. I’m not asking you to be tennis partners. What I want is for this case to go away. And the easiest step is for Wright to sell the damn thing to Kulli’s client.”
“Or James McCormick.”
Norm looked half dazed. “Shit.”
“McCormick made an offer. Fifty million.” She shrugged.
“Will he go higher?”
“I don’t know.”
Norm’s eyes jumped from object to object in the room.
Her phone buzzed.
Ms. Dayton, this is Randita Murgheesi from the MFA. I can meet you at the Hopewell home to examine the item in question.
Surprised, she held up the phone to Norm. “An MFA staffer is offering to meet me regarding the relic.”
Puzzled, he scowled. “Took them long enough. I thought they told you they’d never heard of it.”
“Maybe they changed their minds? Worth a meeting.”
What time? she typed back.
9pm was the reply. Tonight.
“That’s late,” she muttered.
“Probably a freelancer,” Norm said with a sigh. “Can’t hurt to get more information on it. Especially if Wright is just donating it,” he added, sneering.
She texted Randita Murgheesi with a confirmation.
Suzanne then texted Gerald.
MFA called. Meeting at Hopewell place at 9pm with staffer. Kulli’s gunning hard for his client, she typed, texting Gerald. Can’t get together tonight until much later.
Come meet me after class. Playing pool with Declan and Vince, he texted back.
Who is Vince?
Buddy of mine. He’s cool. You’ll like him.
She grinned.
I’m coming, she wrote back. If we’re meeting the friends, this must be serious.
It was serious the second you introduced me to Smoochy, he answered.
It was serious the first time I saw you, she thought.
And then she saw three dots.
...
We’ve been serious since the first time we met, Suz.
Chapter 12
“Is that a love bite on your inner thigh, Declan?” Agnes’ voice carried through the air like Joe Biden admiring a muscle car at a political rally in Lima, Ohio.
Declan looked down and rotated his hip just enough to scrutinize his own groin.
“Mercy mercy mercy,” said a woman in the back row as she grabbed a small device and turned it on. A motorized whir filled the room.
“Jesus, Lindi, did you just turn on your vibrator?” Agnes called out.
“No! I would never bring that here,” Lindi said, scandalized. “It’s just my menopause fan.”
“What’s a menopause fan?” As the words escaped Declan McCormick’s mouth, Gerald could see him wish he could pull them back in.
Too bad mouths didn’t come with backspace keys.
“You’re still young. Just wait. After Shannon pops out a few pups for you and her hormones go crazy in twenty years, you’ll know damn well what a menopause fan is,” Corrine said, then smiled sweetly.
“And lube!” Agnes crowed. “Everything heats up and then it dries out. Maybe all the hormones evaporate all that—” she waved her hands vaguely over her midsection, “—stuff.”
Declan’s face was frozen in a mask of horror, like Chris Christie at a Trump rally.
The door to the classroom opened. Gerald searched the room, taking a fast headcount. No one else should be here. But hey—he’d welcome any intrusion right about now.
“Helllloooooooo!” called out a familiar voice.
Marie Jacoby.
Years ago, Gerald had worked security at a store along the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade path. A float had snagged on a telephone pole and folded in half.
Declan McCormick did a damn fine naked imitation of that float just now.
And then he paused, mid-fold, and opened up, like a flower.
Marie shrieked.
“You really are naked! Agnes told me you were a nude model in this class and I didn’t believe her!”
“Why wouldn’t you believe me?” Agnes burst out.
“Says the woman who sold me a dime bag of oregano passed off as marijuana!” Marie shouted.
Tortured gasps filled the classroom, followed by hushed whispers.
Corrine frowned. “Hey. Wait a minute.” She glared at Agnes. “That bud you sold me wasn’t really bud?”
If Gerald didn’t do something, the class was about to descend into uncontrollable chaos.
“Now Marie, I told you my grandson’s in trouble for that,” Agnes said in a contrite voice.
“For the weed being oregano, or for selling pot at all?”
“Both. But mostly for it being oregano. He said he had no idea.”
“Marie,” Gerald said gruffly, moving between her and the rest of the class to act as a barrier. “How can I help you? You’re interrupting my class.”
“’Marie,’ is it? So I’ve gone from ‘Mrs. Jacoby’ to ‘Marie.’ That’s awfully familiar of you, Gerald, considering I’m your boss’s mother-in-law.” The woman clearly needed to preserve some dignity. Behind him, Gerald heard the distinct shuffling sound of Declan putting on a robe.
The groans of protest from the class were a hint, too.
“No, ma’am. Declan’s not my boss any longer. And we’re not in James McCormick’s home right now.” He paused for emphasis, planting his hands on his hips in a gesture of dominance. “You’re on my turf.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “That’s right.” She gave him a bright smile. “Marie it is!” Her eyes crawled over him appreciatively, with a cold inventory that would make a less hardened man squirm. “Do you do yoga? Want some free passes to my class?”
Was she checking out his butt?
“I train at a gym, Marie. My workouts are all very basic. It’s all abo
ut lifting.”
She blinked, eyes on his arms. “I’ll bet it is, but yoga can help with core strength and stretching. Balance is paramount for good lift technique, you know.”
“I do.”
“At your gym, are there more men...like you?”
“More chauffeurs?”
She tittered. “More, you know—big guys who could use a little downward dog.”
Every sentence out of this woman’s mouth sounded porny.
“I can ask around.”
“You do that.”
“Why are you here, Marie?”
“Agnes has been avoiding my class ever since she sold me that oregano. It’s time for a throw down.”
He looked at Agnes.
Looked at Marie.
“The woman is ninety and looks like an artifact from the MFA’s Mayan Civilization exhibit, Marie. You’re going to fight her?”
“She cheated me! And she’s ninety-two. She really has no excuse. You live that long, you’re supposed to be filled with wisdom. Not bullshit.”
“It was an honest mistake!” Agnes shouted, moving behind Corrine.
“No, no you don’t,” Corrine protested. “You don’t get to use me as a human shield again, Agnes. I lost some of my weave the last time.”
The last time?
“Look, this is a community-based art class and you’re interrupting, Marie.”
“But my son-in-law is in here! And Agnes needs to be taught a lesson.”
“The only lessons being taught in here are by me.” Gerald had learned years ago how to use his body as a weapon without touching the target. Guiding her through nonverbal cues, he made Marie Jacoby take one step backwards.
One was all he needed. Once you open that door, you can shoo an annoying fly out.
“But I—”
“Enrollment is closed. We don’t have any space in the class.” Blocking unruly people was an art, too.
She took another step back.
“I don’t want to be a student! Even I draw the line at ogling my naked son-in-law!”
“Glad to know you have a line, Marie,” Declan called out.
“Can’t I just stay and finish my business with Agnes?”
“You’re welcome to a chair in the hall.”
She moved slowly, but Gerald wasn’t worried. Inertia set in when you glared at someone, puffed out your shoulders, planted your hands on your hips, and most important—
Didn’t back down.
“This isn’t fair!” she finally squeaked as Gerald reached for the door, her body halfway in, halfway out of the room.”
“My classroom. My rules.”
“Then you’re a dictator!” she said in outrage.
“The Clay Dictator.” He grinned. “I like the sound of that.” Her face flashed through the small mesh-glass window, screwed up in furious confusion.
Click.
Declan McCormick did a slow clap.
So did Agnes.
“You!” Gerald said, jabbing a finger in Agnes’ direction. “Deal with her after class.”
“You can’t get away with this, Agnes!” Marie’s muffled voice came through the door. “I will hunt you down and I will find you and I will...” Her voice trailed off.
“Over oregano?” Declan shook his head slowly. “She sounds like Liam Neeson in the movie Taken over oregano?”
Gerald and Declan shared a shrug.
Declan dropped the robe.
As Gerald walked from student to student, admiring technique, correcting proportions, using his voice and hands to guide, he studied his former boss—and now, friend. Inviting him to be a model had been natural. A few years ago, he’d been asked what he did in his free time, and when he’d mentioned sculpting, the conversation had ventured into issues of finding people comfortable enough to pose.
Declan McCormick, of all people, had offered.
Gerald had accepted.
And here they were, on their fifth course together.
The guy’s body was fabulous as a subject, but to Gerald, all bodies were fabulous. Short, tall, lean, plump, old, young—the endless fascination with all the variations and permutations of the human form didn’t stop just because a body didn’t meet society’s standards of beauty.
He rejected those standards. They were false, based on commercial and corporate ideals.
His next model was a seventy-eight-year-old great-grandmother who had scars down one thigh from being dragged for a quarter mile during civil rights protests in the 1960s.
Beauty came in all forms.
His criteria for modeling in his class were simple: Twenty-five bucks an hour, ninety minutes of holding still, no silly giggling over being nude.
Declan waived the fee.
By the end of class, Gerald was uncharacteristically wiped. Normally, teaching refueled him.
Reconnecting with Suzanne, plus the burden of the inheritance, led to an emotional gravity he struggled to manage.
Earlier that day, he’d made his decision: donate the relic. Have Suzanne’s firm figure out the international law intricacies. He wanted it to go to the right cultural institution so it could be preserved, studied, honored and used to understand old civilizations.
But the weight of that decision hadn’t lifted the burden.
A night of shooting pool with Vince and Declan should be just the ticket. He looked forward to watching Dec and Vince spar.
As students filed out of the room, he felt a strong hand clutch his arm. Turning around, he found dead air.
He had to look way down.
“Gerald, I want to tell you how much I enjoy this class.” Agnes’ voice trembled slightly, though it always did. This time, the tone made him pause, his soles pressing into the ground, his body relaxing into being more present.
“Thank you.”
“You make it fun. An old woman like me needs more fun in her life.” Were her eyes filling with actual tears?
“Of course you do,” he said with compassion.
“So please, please don’t have Louise Johnson as your nude model for the next class. She may be young and have a tighter body than mine, but she’s no Declan McCormick.”
Sigh. “How do you know her name?” He was about to mention that Louise wasn’t young, but to a ninety-two-year-old woman, a seventy-eight year old must seem “young.”
“We’re both docents at the same museum. She farts a lot.”
“Agnes,” he said in a low warning voice.
“I’m just saying. We’ll need to wear charcoal face masks if you have that woman in here,” she continued. “Her doctor told her to cut out dairy, but nooooooo. Louise knows better!”
“I’m not having this conversation.”
“She’s so selfish,” Agnes grumbled. “Always thinking about herself.”
He saw Corrine pause at the doorway and look back.
“Are you lying about Louise again?” Corrine called out. “You’re just jealous Gerald didn’t ask you.”
“I’m not taking off my clothes to let a bunch of people have fantasies about my body.”
“Fantasies!” Corrine hooted. “More like nightmares. When people our age are naked, we look like human being candles all melted down.”
“It’s all beautiful, ladies,” he assured them.
They eyed him like predators. “When it’s tight and young and works well and balances out, it sure is, Gerald. But wait. Just wait.”
“I’m enjoying the journey just like you. One day at a time.”
“I’ll be a nude model!” Corrine piped up. “What’s it pay?”
“Twenty-five an hour. Plus you get a free class here at the arts center.”
“That’s it? Playboy models make tens of thousands!” Agnes grumbled.
“I’m not Hugh Hefner,” Gerald joked.
Fifty million dollars, a voice inside him whispered.
Huh. Maybe he was closer than he thought.
“Quit stalling. Marie’s still out here, just waiting for you.
” Corrine caught Gerald’s eye. “I love a good catfight.”
“You’re my second, Corrine,” Agnes said as she caught up to her, grumbling. “If I need you to fight in my place, go for her eyes. She wears contacts. One good jab and...”
Gerald shut the door.
With relief.
Bzzz.
A text from Suzanne.
“Hey!” Declan called out from the dressing room. “We’re still shooting pool with your friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” Declan strode out into the classroom. Tonight, he’d shown up in casual clothes from the start.
Gerald looked at his phone.
Be there around ten. Maybe sooner. See you soon.
He grinned.
“I take it Suzanne’s coming, too?” Declan asked.
“How’d you guess?”
“The stupid lovesick grin on your face.”
“That’s how you looked the day you came out of that bagel shop when you met Shannon.” Gerald almost said sir again.
“Did I?” Declan assumed his stone face. “I thought I looked like this.”
“Not that day.”
They shared a smile.
Ten minutes later, they waited for a free pool table, drinking beers and riling each other up about who would beat whom.
Vince appeared.
Vince didn’t just walk into bars. Vince parted the Red Sea when he entered any establishment. Enormous, covered in tattoos and scars, and with the air of a convict who lords over all the prisoners and guards in a maximum security joint, Vince was invincible.
His parents got his name right.
“Hey,” Vince shouted. “G!”
Declan’s eyes flew wide open and he looked up.
Way up.
“Hold on. This is Vince? My brother’s personal trainer Vince?”
Vince reached for Declan’s hand and shook him like a rag doll. “Another McCormick bitch! Good to meet you, man. Boy, I see who has all the muscle in your family.” He eyed Declan and let out a low whistle.
Declan looked pleased.
“Not you,” Vince clarified. “Andrew’s a wuss, but he is bulking up.”
“First half of that is right,” Declan shot back. He puffed up like a peacock-cobra hybrid.
Vince held out his palms. “No offense, man. Just calling it like I see it.”
Considering Vince’s arms were the size of most men’s thighs, he really did walk the walk.