I glanced up just as a tear fell down Wes’s cheek. Shifting my weight, I tossed a leg over his body, straddled his waist, leaned over, and cupped his cheeks so I could sip his tears. I kissed them away, took them into my body in the hopes that I could help carry this monumental burden.
“You want my vote?” I asked. One thing a guy like Wes didn’t need was unsolicited advice. If he wanted it, I’d give it, but I wouldn’t lay it on him like another burden.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
“Finish the movie if you can. Donate the proceeds, including yours, to either the families or set up a charitable foundation that helps people. I think part of the problem is that you don’t want to benefit from what contributed to them losing their lives, right?”
Wes closed his eyes. More tears fell from the corners of his eyes. He nodded quickly.
“Okay, so make their deaths mean something.”
His breath became labored, chest rising and falling rapidly. I could see he was having a hard time. Yet the fact that he didn’t push me away, fuck me hard and fast to blow off some steam, but instead chose to move through the pain and emotions was a good sign. It meant that he was further along on the road to recovery.
“I like that idea. Setting up a foundation or donating the money to charity, something meaningful for each life lost. I’m going to talk to the director and backers. See what they think. Everyone has been waiting for me to say boo, and frankly, I didn’t even know how to approach it.”
I grinned and stroked his lips with my fingertips. “Hiding out so you can deal is not wrong. Hiding forever, not cherishing what was lost, is. I think you know what you have to do.”
Wes nodded and cupped my cheek. “You’re my light in a very dark experience. You know that, right?”
I put my hand over his that covered my cheek. “I’ll shine the way, any day, every day.”
“That light leads back to you, Mia.” His voice was soft and telling.
“It always will. Now tell me this. What are you going to do after you deal with this movie? Are you going to go back?”
He shook his head quickly. “No. At least not right away. I’m going to go back to what I know, what feels good.”
“The writing?” I smiled, hope coating my tone.
His eyes sparkled bright green in the new morning light. “The writing. I have some ideas. Completely away from war and strife.”
I lay back down and tucked my head under his chin. “Yeah? Like what?”
“The story is about a girl.” He hugged me close, planting his hands at the curve in my lower back.
“What kind of girl?”
“A beautiful one. Body that men dream of. Heart of gold.”
“Hmmm…and?” I asked.
Wes’s fingers traced up and down my spine lightly as if he were painting something. “She takes a job as an escort.”
I grinned. “Oh, and what happens next?”
“She dates a bunch of men,” he said harshly, clearly not liking this part of his story.
I laughed against his neck. “Dates?”
“Mm-hmm. But there’s only one that she falls for. You see, it was love at first sight.”
“Was it? With an escort, I’d guess lust at first sight,” I suggested, but he wasn’t buying it.
He grabbed my bum and squeezed. I could feel him hardening underneath me. “Nope. You see, this woman was special. Not only was she beautiful with a smokin’ hot bod and a golden heart, but she had a gift.”
“What kind of gift?” I asked, curious now.
“Well, the gift is not a physical thing, per se. It’s the gift of her love. If one of the men she dates is given this gift, he’ll be happy for the rest of his days.”
Lifting my head so I could kiss his jaw, I placed a wet one there before asking, “And who does she give this gift to?”
“Haven’t you figured it out?”
Since he’d turned the tables on me, I was feeling a bit confused. “I thought I had.”
Wes laughed and kissed my temple before finishing. “She gives a small amount of her gift to everyone she cares for, and they all fall a little in love with her.”
I snorted into his chin. “But what about her one true love? How can she love at first sight if she gives away bits of herself to everyone?”
“Because there is only one man who gives her the gift of his love completely. He’s willing to settle for most of her, when the little bits she’s given everyone else are being cared for. Ultimately, it makes the world around them better because these individuals have a piece of her with them. They spread that love and joy, making the world a better place.”
His concept sounded very final and a little sad. I might love a lot of people, definitely more than I did when I started this journey almost a year ago, but I definitely would not agree that the gift of that love replaced the gift to another.
“It’s a beautiful story,” I commented, a hint of discomfort in my tone.
“What? You don’t think it’s true?”
I shook my head. “To an extent, I do. The concept that all of us have a finite amount of love to dole out is an intriguing one, but I don’t think it works that way. I believe love grows and continues to do so with each person you give it to. Like planting a seed. The more you water it and feed it, the more likely it will turn into a beautiful tree. From that tree, branches will extend and leaves will fall, but when the seasons change, new leaves and more branches will grow. Just like love.”
“Then perhaps I shall call the story The Tree of Love.”
I grinned and used my hand to turn his face level with mine so I could kiss him. “Now that is a story I can get behind.”
Chapter Four
Wes pulled up to a curb in front of a brown two-story brick building. A set of steps led up to Aspen Grove Fine Arts gallery. Kathy, Wes, and I exited the car. The camera crew parked next to us in the rental van and started to unload what they’d need.
“This is our first of four stops. I confirmed a meeting with a local sculptor along with the manager of the gallery. They were thrilled to do the interview here,” Kathy confirmed as we made our way up the steps.
We were greeted by a man in a suit who introduced himself as Brice. He showed us around the gallery, explaining different pieces done by the local talent until a woman bustled in. She was tall and thin with fiery red hair that protruded in fat, round curls from her forest green beret. Her eyes were as bright and blue as a cloudless California day. She wore a thick cream-colored cable-knit sweater, a chunky multicolored scarf, paisley leggings, and funky boots that came up to her knees.
When she held out her hand to shake mine, the fifty or so bangle bracelets tinkled prettily against her pale wrist with her movement. “Hi, I’m Esmeralda McKinney, the sculptor. Thank you so much for coming today.” Her corresponding smile was wide and beautiful. Everything about this woman could light up a dull, dark day.
“Happy to be here. How about we start with you showing us your artwork? I’ll get my guys rolling, and I’ll ask you questions. Does that work for you?” I said.
Esmeralda’s face lit up in a way that could make anyone believe the sun was shining directly on her. “Of course!”
She led me over to a clear pedestal stand. On top was a female bust made entirely out of tiny strips of metal. It was as unique as it was interesting.
“This is one of mine. It’s called Blown Away.” Esmeralda touched the very tips of the strands of metal that fanned out as if wind were blowing the subject’s hair back.
The cameras were rolling, but it was hard not to get sucked into the piece. The lines of the eyes, lips, and nose were startlingly accurate for simple molded strips of metal. “It’s incredibly intricate. How do you start something like this?” I asked.
“I take flat sheets of metal, cut them into smaller unmeasured pieces. Part of the fun is taking seemingly random snippets of metal and bringing them together into something whole. As I heat and maneuver the pieces
, they start to take shape.”
I touched the edge of the pedestal, not daring to touch the art itself. “You mean when you start a project, you don’t know what it’s going to be?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I guess, like a writer who sits in front of an empty page waiting for the story to come, I just let the pieces tell me what to create. As I slip new metal strips into place, a form presents itself, and I go with flow.” She clasped her hands in front of her chest. “It’s as if it’s meant to be whatever it will be. Like life. You can’t plan everything beautiful. Sometimes beauty takes form right in front of you.”
Esmeralda had a profound point. Lately, I’d definitely learned that beauty presented itself in ways I couldn’t begin to imagine until it happened.
* * *
The next location was the Baldwin Gallery. This one was owned and operated by Jonalyn Baldwin, a local photographer. Inside, the gallery was a long white rectangle set into another brick building. This one was off the beaten path.
There were photographs of varying sizes hung throughout the open space. In the center were free standing walls that patrons could walk around and see pictures on each side.
A petite Asian woman with long black, silky hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and onyx-colored eyes met us at the front of the gallery.
“Hello, you must be Mia Saunders. I’m Jonalyn Baldwin. Welcome to my gallery.”
Overall, her skin tone was a lovely toasted brown, a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks the only deviation from a flawless complexion. Her lips were painted a pale pink, which, coupled with the warm tone she wore, gave her a rosy glow. From top to bottom she was clothed in a burgundy tunic and matching leggings. A thick gold chain hung from her neck that caught the track lighting above. Simple and chic.
“Thank you for having us, Jonalyn. We’re eager to see your art.”
“Then please, come this way.”
Jonalyn led us over to an enormous photograph. The image was of half a woman’s face, her hands cupping her cheeks. Only there was a distortion, as if the picture had been taken through cracked glass.
“Can you tell me about this piece?” I asked, swept away once again by the details of the image.
Jonalyn pointed to a section of the photograph. “You see these lines here. That is where I focused the lens.”
I narrowed my gaze and focused on the cracks in the image.
“On the other side of this glass was a beautiful woman dressed to impress. I had her lean over a counter and look through a display case. Then I shifted a piece of rippled glass over the lens and captured her beauty in an altered perception. As you can clearly see, the woman behind the distorted view is quite stunning, though we don’t know who she is or what her story is. Perhaps the beauty you see is a mask.” Jonalyn had interpreted what she saw and why she’d chosen to capture that image so perfectly, it gave me pause.
I focused on the image, trying to see her perception. I tilted my head and looked at the photograph from a different angle. To the naked eye, when I focused, I could see the woman had perfect red lips, matching painted nails, and lovely skin. Through the shattered glass, however, I could see imperfections that I might not otherwise have seen.
“I call this Beauty Uncovered,” Jonalyn said, clearly proud of her work.
Fascinated, I followed Jonalyn through her gallery. The way she captured images and changed them into something else was pure genius. One set of photographs really hit home with me. I had the cameraman focus on the two images hanging beside each other. One was of a homeless woman leaning against a building. One foot was bent at the knee, propped against the wall behind her. A white garbage bag sat next to her, likely the whole of her belongings. Her long dark hair was dirty and scraggly. It probably hadn’t been washed in ages. The woman was looking off to the side. Her face bore hard lines, and a sadness that couldn’t be erased shone in her eyes. She was clearly destitute and perhaps hopeless as well.
The next picture was taken through a warped, bubbled piece of glass. In it, the same woman stood, the image completely altered. The features were softened, the hair no longer looked dirty but was dark and curly. The bag next to her, a glowing ball of white light, appeared to illuminate her form, giving her a healthy radiance.
“When you smudge out the harshness of reality, what you find underneath is…special.” Jonalyn crossed her arms over her small form as she admired her work. It was worthy of admiration.
I raised my hand to the image, compelled to get closer. “It’s incredible, the way you see things.”
She smiled softly. “It’s the way we should all see things. A beautiful woman can seem perfect, but when you look through new eyes, there are flaws. Everyone has imperfections. Then here”—she pointed at the sad woman—“you can take a woman clearly homeless, dirty, and hardened by life, yet still find the soft uncovered side. Life and our experiences change the way we look outside, but never the whole of who we are on the inside.”
I spent far longer talking to Jonalyn than I should have. Wes came up behind us as we chatted in a seating area off to the side. He put his hands on my shoulders and rubbed them before leaning forward.
“Mia, if you want to finish all four galleries today, we need to get a move on. It’s starting to snow.”
I glanced up at Wes and smiled. He kissed my forehead. The distinct click of a shutter broke the moment. Jonalyn’s cheeks pinked when she moved the camera away from her face and down. I knew it had been sitting on the table in front of us, but I didn’t think she’d be using it.
“Sorry, it’s second nature when I see something that needs to be captured.”
I grinned, not at all disturbed by her actions. “But you don’t have any distorted glass.”
The artist smirked. “It wasn’t needed. Any way I could have captured that moment would have been honest. I’ll email you the image so you can see for yourself.”
Wes took my hand and helped me to stand. “I’d like that very much. It’s been really wonderful chatting with you, seeing your art and how you view it. I promise to show it well in the segment.”
“I have no doubt you will do me a great honor. Thank you, Mia.” She held my hands in a two-handed clasp.
Pure class.
* * *
Instead of hitting the next gallery, Wes took us to the historic Red Onion for lunch. “The place was established in 1892 and makes the best French onion soup and crab hushpuppies,” Wes exclaimed, almost jumping out of his snow boots as he ushered me through the door.
The restaurant was hopping with people. The walls were a deep crimson that provided a warm cocoon-like experience that gave the diner the impression he should come, hang out, and stay awhile. I felt instantly at home. Warm air flowed through large vents, making my chilled nose tingle and defrost.
Wes had called ahead and ensured seating for six. A lighting, sound, and camera crew of three was a skeleton crew, but I’d worked with them in New York. The work we’d done was solid and well received by Century Production executives. One thing I needed to address was a permanent assistant, and I wanted Kathy.
Once we got settled and ordered our crab hushpuppies, heated spinach-artichoke dip served with grilled pita bread, and our entrees, I got up the nerve to broach the subject with my current assistant.
“So Kathy, how do you think everything is going?” I asked cryptically, playing with the straw in my drink.
Kathy pressed her Woody Allen glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Really well. It was obvious that you were animated about Ms. Baldwin’s art back there. That will read well on screen. Your enthusiasm, that is.” She glanced down and her cheeks turned rosy.
I nodded. “I agree. Her art was unique and showed an important side to beauty in a way that I believe will resonate with our broader audience, but Jonalyn’s art is not what I was referring to when I asked how you thought things were going.”
Kathy’s eyebrows crept closer together, and she frowned. “I’m not sure
I’m following, Ms. Saunders.”
“Soon to be Channing in two weeks!” Wes interrupted, wrapping his arm around my chair and grasping my shoulder possessively.
This time Kathy smiled wide, and the apples of her cheeks seemed to glow. “You’re getting married?”
I nodded happily. “Yep. When we get back, we’re tying the knot in Malibu. On New Year’s Day.”
She clapped her hands together at her heart and sighed. “That’s wonderful. You two do look perfect together,” she gushed.
Wes ate her compliment up. His arm tightened on my shoulder, and he nuzzled my chin. “Couldn’t agree with you more, Kathy,” he agreed, sloppily kissing my cheek, ear, and neck.
I giggled and pushed his head away, wanting to get back to the point I was trying to make before he clomped his size eleven booted feet all over it.
“Kathy, I’m just going to spit it out because I have to, and you have very little time to make a decision.”
A look of worry and concern instantly swept across her face. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“I want you to be my assistant,” I blurted.
She looked off to the side and then back. “I thought I was.”
Sighing, I lifted my iced tea and took a large gulp while I nodded. “You are. But I meant from now on.” I could tell the second the light bulb lit. Her entire face grew brighter and a small smile crept across her lips. “Meaning, for good. As long as I’m with the Dr. Hoffman show, I want you to be my production assistant. Help out with the segments, plan them with me, and so forth. You know all the ins and outs, whereas I primarily know just what I want to do and how to express it in front of the camera. I need someone I trust helping me make the most out of these segments, ensuring that we’re telling the audience the right story.”
Kathy was nodding her head before I even finished explaining. “Oh, my, such an amazing opportunity.” Her brow furrowed. “But I live in New York.”
“Yes, I realize that. At first, we can do some of the work virtually, like we are now, but not for long. The show would provide you with a moving stipend. You could come out in early January and find a place, but by the end of January, I’d need you in California.”
Calendar Girl 12 - December Page 4