by Bird, Peggy
“It’s hard not to.”
“Maybe I can help you out.” He cocked his head and raised one eyebrow.
“What did you have in mind?” The frown lines between her eyes disappeared as she waited for him to say what she was sure he’d suggest.
Taking her into his arms he said, “How about I spend the night? I’m not scheduled for work tomorrow. We could sleep in. Or something.”
“Hmm. Sleeping in. That sounds like fun.”
“Maybe something more interesting might occur to us. Something even more fun than sleeping.” He kissed her but before the kiss got too involved, he pulled away and stared at something over her shoulder. “But if you don’t get those chicken breasts out of the oven, we’re gonna have the fire department join us in our evening.”
When she disentangled herself from his embrace she saw the smoke pouring out of the oven. “Oh, crap. Maybe we’ll have to get take-out after all.”
• • •
When he woke the next morning, Sam was alone in bed. Chihuly was curled up asleep on the rug next to Amanda’s side, and he could hear the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. Unsure of what it meant that she had disappeared so quickly after waking, he debated whether to dress and go downstairs to start coffee or join her in the shower. The thought of her body wet from the shower, her beautiful breasts with those dusky pink nipples waiting to turn hard and pebbly from his mouth, made up his mind for him and brought him out of bed with an erection hard enough to split a brick.
He knocked on the door to the bathroom but she didn’t answer. He could hear her but wasn’t sure if she was singing or talking or what. It sure as hell didn’t seem like the sounds of a happy woman after a night of hot lovemaking.
Taking a chance, he opened the door. He could feel the cool draft follow him in and knew she would feel it over the top of the shower enclosure, too. “You want some company?” he asked as he knocked on the enclosure door.
“Sure,” she replied. “Come on in. Like they say, the water’s fine.”
He opened the door and stepped in as she turned her back to the shower spray to make room for him. He reached behind her, traded what he had in his hand for what was on the soap dish. When he pulled back he said, as lightly as he could, “You sound awfully sad — or serious — this morning.”
She touched his face lightly. “I was just thinking how special you are, how lucky I am. But how sad it is that all I seem to do is ask you to solve my problems.”
Taking the washcloth she was holding, he soaped it up and then he began to rub the cloth over her breasts and abdomen. “There’s a difference between depending on someone else to take care of you and sharing things that worry you with someone who cares about you.”
“It doesn’t feel like I’m just sharing. More like I’m depending.”
“Am I complaining?”
“No, you’re … oh, God, you’re … ”
He drew her against him and made long, lingering strokes down her back and butt with the washrag.
“You’re changing the subject,” she said.
“Is that bad?” The washcloth was on the floor and his arms were around her waist in less time than it took to draw a breath. The kiss he gave her wasn’t a sweet “good morning” kiss. It was more an “I want you right now” kiss. When he broke from it, he asked, “How about changing the subject to this?” He retrieved the condom he’d put on the soap dish and handed it to her.
“How?”
“I’ll show you. Cover me.” She tore open the packet and rolled the condom over him. Light as she was, he didn’t have any trouble lifting her so she could wrap her legs around his waist. As he pressed her against the wall of the shower, he went back to kissing her, doing to her mouth what he desperately wanted to do to her body — make love with fierce intensity. But he had to be sure she was comfortable with the idea. He drew back far enough to look deep into her eyes, trying to see.
“It’s okay, baby,” he said. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“I know I am. Believe me, I know.”
For the first time he could see in her eyes the beginning of what he wanted to see there — not just passion but trust.
Carefully, his back to the shower so he took the brunt of the spray, he slowly guided her onto the tip of his rock-hard penis, wanting to give her the time she needed to feel comfortable. But he didn’t have to. She was there already.
She ground her hips against him, her nails bit into his shoulder, the passionate moans she was making echoing in the shower. That’s what pushed him over the edge — the sounds. With one thrust he was inside her, driving himself in up to the hilt. In what seemed like only a few moments, they both found release.
When he could feel her breathing return to normal, he lowered her to the floor, still maintaining his hold on her until she was again in control of her rubbery muscles. Even then he didn’t want to let go of her. He kept one arm around her as he rinsed them both off and turned off the water. He pulled a bath sheet off the towel rack and dried first her, then himself off.
They stepped out of the shower and he wrapped a fresh towel around his middle. As he watched her wrap herself up in the bath sheet, he said, “Whatever happens, I want you to know you can rely on me. Not to make it all go away but to be there when you need me.”
“You’ve been there for me since the first time I saw you, Sam. I wish I could say I’d returned the favor.”
• • •
“Amanda, I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you looking so splendid,” Mr. Todd said as he sat across from her at the dining room table in his floating home at a marina on the Columbia River. The sliding glass door, which framed snow-topped Mt. Hood in the distance, was open slightly to let in a breeze. The river was alive with sailboats and wave-runners jockeying for air and space.
As Sam had suggested, she’d called Mr. Todd’s office the Monday after their dinner, to discover he’d retired from his law practice but his former secretary gave her his home phone number saying Mr. Todd would be happy to talk to her. With a bribe of dinner, she’d gotten an appointment with him that evening.
“And the food you brought was delicious.” The white-haired, eighty-ish attorney had finished up a plate of grilled shrimp, sesame noodles, and tossed salad, and his blue eyes were wandering to the plate of brownies on the table in front of him. “I hope my legal advice is up to this standard.”
“I was surprised when I was told you’d retired,” Amanda said. “I thought you were going to be there until they carried you out on a gurney.”
“When I realized I enjoyed sitting here watching the river as much as I enjoyed the view from the twenty-first floor, I knew it was time to leave a full-time law practice. But I made a list of a handful of clients I’d be willing to see at home. You were at the head of the list. So, tell me your problem.”
Amanda summarized her run-in with Eubie Kane and ended by saying, “So, what should I do? Is this even an area of your expertise?”
“It’s not one I’m familiar with, no. Art law is a specialized field particularly when it comes to issues like copyright.”
“I’ve never filed a copyright for any of my work.”
“Even if you haven’t registered it, for both the visual and literary arts, the creator holds the copyright from the moment of creation. There may be subtle differences between literary arts and fine arts and crafts, I don’t know. But I can find out for you.” He took two brownies from the plate, nibbled at one and started to speak again. “And I can also … ” The doorbell interrupted.
A woman was at the door. “Hi, neighbor,” she said. “I’ve got the olive ciabatta rolls you asked me to pick up for you. And I added an éclair because I know how much you like them.” She handed him a bag, a small white box and a handful of change.
“Thank you for bot
h, although my doctor wouldn’t approve of the addition.”
“I’ll never tell, if you won’t.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you have a minute? I’d like you to meet someone.”
“I have nothing but time for you.” The woman followed him to the dining room.
With a sweep of first one hand then the other, he introduced the two women. “Margo Keyes, meet Amanda St. Claire. She’s a glass artist and a client of mine.”
“For heaven’s sake. I’ve always wanted to meet you, Amanda,” Margo said, “I have a piece of your work — Serenity, it’s called — from LOCAL 14 about four, maybe five, years ago. It’s my favorite piece of art.”
“Good,” Mr. Todd said. “You’re a fan. Amanda has a problem and you might be able to help me help her.” He turned to Amanda. “Margo is not only my neighbor but she’s a deputy district attorney.”
Amanda had smiled at Margo’s praise. Now the smile froze into an expression of distrust. “A DA?” Thanks to her recent experience with the criminal justice system, the DA’s office was almost as high on her shit list as the Portland Police Bureau.
“Yeah,” Margo said. “Me and the boys and girls in blue get the bad guys off the street.”
“Not always … ” Amanda began.
“Oh, God, how insensitive.” Margo reddened with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why don’t we get to the reason Amanda’s here,” Mr. Todd said.
“While you do that,” Margo said, “I’ll work on getting my foot out of my mouth.”
He gave his neighbor a thumbnail of Kane’s threat and asked if she had any advice, other than finding an attorney who specialized in art law.
“Not sure I have any advice, but I can tell you there’s been litigation around copyright involving glass artists that might give you comfort, Amanda. The first was a case about jellyfish and the other was Dale Chihuly suing over his designs.”
“I remember the Chihuly case,” Amanda said. “It settled out of court, I think, and the terms weren’t made public. But I believe the guy Chihuly sued still had a career when it was over and that says something. What’s the jellyfish one?”
“Guy sued another artist for doing glass representations of jellyfish like the ones he did. The case was decided for the defendant because natural forms aren’t subject to copyright. More importantly for you, the court ruled the technique the second artist employed was in common use and wasn’t subject to copyright either.”
“Based on that precedent,” Mr. Todd said, “if Amanda can show she’s using commonly practiced techniques, there’s not much to Mr. Kane’s claim, is there?”
“Probably not, but if he’s lawyered up, you need to be, too, Amanda,” Margo said. “Can you give her a couple names, Mr. Todd?”
“I plan to. Anything else you’d recommend?” he asked.
“Dating your work earlier than the time he claims you saw his might help.”
Amanda said, “Your piece is part of the series he accused me of basing on his ideas. Maybe the organizers of the LOCAL 14 show have records of what was exhibited that year.”
“In my insurance file I have the receipt from the piece I own. There must be a date of sale on it,” Margo said. “I’ll make a copy and get it to you. And please take this seriously. Even if he’s got no case, Kane can make your life difficult with bad publicity.”
“Wonderful. Bad reviews and pickets for my next show. No gallery owner will want to represent me.” Amanda closed her eyes for a few seconds, sighed and opened them.
“Thank you both for your help. This thing has made me very uncomfortable. I wish I knew what set him off.” Amanda realized she had been chewing on her thumbnail and stopped.
“What set him off is less important than getting him shut down,” Margo said.
“Yes, absolutely.” Mr. Todd nodded his agreement. “But once you have a lawyer retained, you’ll be prepared for whatever Mr. Kane’s next move might be.”
Chapter Five
Monday was the day Amanda worked on studio accounts and pulled phone duty. She didn’t mind doing the bills but the phone calls, she swore, were never for her. She was wrong this week. The first call was from her alarm company. The sensor on her back basement door had gone off. Again. Just like it had for her house sitter while she was gone.
When she went home and inspected the basement, the door was still open. She couldn’t tell whether someone had gotten in and gone through the boxes she’d not yet unpacked or whether it was a mess because she’d left it that way. She decided to take care of it later and returned to her studio.
Where she got two more calls.
The first was from Cynthia Blaine in Seattle, asking if she could stay with Amanda in a couple of weeks when she came to Portland to deliver some new work to The Fairchild Gallery. Amanda was happy to return her old friend’s hospitality.
That was followed by a call from one of the tenants in a commercial building she owned.
“Amanda, Drake Vos. I’d like to talk to you about the lease for the restaurant. Are you available for lunch today?”
“Sure. What time?”
“How about right now? I’m parked outside your studio.”
She walked from the office past the glory holes to find Drake Vos on the sidewalk outside the overhead door, leaning against the front fender of his black Lexus. At forty-eight he was almost old enough to be her father, but somehow she never thought of him that way. Maybe it had something to do with his tall, dark, and yummy good looks or perhaps the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. He’d been hired by Tom Webster to run his restaurant in the building Amanda owned when Webster opened his club. After Webster’s death, Drake had been a godsend keeping the restaurant running in the face of terrible publicity and had been doing a great job building the business back up.
She laughed at the “gotcha” look on his face, shut down the phone, and motioned him into the building.
Opening the trunk of his car, he extracted two large carry-bags. “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain … ” He kissed her on the cheek. “ … we bring the mountain to you.”
“I know. I should have come in to see you but I’ve been slammed with work. Thanks for making the effort to come here.”
She led him back to her part of the studio where he swung the larger of the two bags onto an empty worktable.
Waving him off, she indicated the office. “No, not that table. There’ll be glass all over it. Go on into the office.” She followed him and quickly cleared the top of the desk.
Vos pulled a tablecloth out of one bag, snapped it open, and let it settle onto the desktop. “I thought you’d enjoy what our chef’s been experimenting with for now and the fall.”
He pulled out two sets of flatware, dishes and wine glasses, a Thermos, and two square plastic containers. From the Thermos he poured a delicious smelling light-brown soup with wisps of foam on top. “Chef Jon calls this wild mushroom cappuccino,” he explained as he handed a cup to her. “It’ll be on the menu this fall when the mushrooms are available at a better price.”
Amanda took a taste. “Oh, Drake, that’s to die for.”
Next he plated a spinach and sautéed scallop salad, which he explained was on the menu now. He added crisp rolls and placed the plates on the desk before positioning a folding chair across the desk from her. Last he brought out a bottle of pinot gris from the bag, removed the cork, and began to pour the wine.
“I don’t drink at lunch,” she protested as she put her hand over the top of her wine glass.
He pushed her fingers away with the neck of the bottle and poured a small amount for her. “Make an exception. This is a fabulous wine, nice body, tastes of apples and pears. You’ll love it.” He picked up his glass and toasted her. “Here’s to our relationship.”
“Mmm, it is good,” she said after she sipped. She took a forkful of the salad. “So, you want to talk about the lease?”
“Lunch first, business second. We can talk about it after dessert.”
“Dessert, too? I’ll have to go home and take a nap.”
He regaled her with bits of local restaurant gossip while they finished the salad and soup, after which he brought out a container of perfectly frosted, miniature chocolate cupcakes. “Cupcakes are becoming trite, I know, but I love them as a little bite of chocolate after a meal.”
“Nothing made of chocolate will ever go out of style with me,” she said as she took one from the container and ate it in two bites.
“I brought enough for you to share with your studio mates.”
“If they’re lucky.” She picked up the last few crumbs of cake with her forefinger, which she licked clean. “Yum. Okay, now — business. What do you want to talk about?”
He poured the last of the wine into his glass and sat back in the chair. “The extension you gave me of Tom Webster’s lease is about up and I was wondering what you plan to do about it.”
“What I want is for us to reach an agreement so you can continue to run your restaurant. What do you need to make that happen?” She took a second cupcake from the container and nibbled at the edges.
“A good deal. I was wondering if we could extend the current lease for six months. After that, you can up the rent at regular intervals by whatever it takes to reach market rate over a three-year lease.”
“That doesn’t sound unreasonable. Let me review the old lease and talk to my accountant. I know things are tough for restaurants right now. I don’t want to make it hard for you.”
“Do you have the old lease here? We could look … ”
“It’s at home.”
“Oh, you have a safe there, too?”
“No, why would you think I have a safe?”
“There are two safes at the restaurant. I figured anyone who’d have two in a commercial property she owned would have one at home.”