"You are far too interested in my social life. Is your life so bland that you need to bug me to keep entertained?"
"Oh, there is plenty of drama in my life, but your drama is so much more glamorous."
"I'm not aware of any drama in my life. Now, please get back to work."
"What are you going to wear?"
"I haven't given it much thought as I've been far too busy reviewing résumés for my new assistant."
Anne Marie stuck out her tongue and left.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Chapter Eighteen
The last few days had been a mixture of exhilaration and dread. Mitch oscillated between extreme highs as he imagined seeing "The Girl" again and Mariana Trench lows as he imagined how he would feel if she decided not to go with him. He googled bi-polar and, after reading it, came to one conclusion: worrying didn't improve his chances.
The speech at Columbia was a nice diversion. He enjoyed preparing the notes he would likely not consult once he was on stage. He had given a speech three years earlier, and it had gone well. The faculty and students were very kind and seemed to understand the importance of laughing at his jokes even if it was just to be polite. He liked good manners.
The speech was in the morning. A short meet and greet would follow, then he would be off to the airport. Kate had done a magnificent job of making the arrangements. She had bought all the right clothes for both Mitch and "The Girl," picked up appropriate backpacks, and double-checked all of his camera gear. Once done, Kate had gone over everything with Amber-Lee, who agreed they had everything they would need. Mitch bought a big box of Twix bars and added them to the gear.
She didn't know he was back in town, so it would be a surprise. The Facebook page for the gallery clued him in on the time for the grand opening of the new exhibit. All he had left to do was show up, admire a few paintings, and, as it all wound down, sweep her off her feet. At least, that was how he hoped it would go.
#
Anne Marie, though technically not involved in the final preparations, spent most of the afternoon hovering around the office looking for reasons to be stressed out. She left to go home and change around 6 pm. It was now 7:35 pm, and she crept through the door just as the introductions were being finished. Her date had been twenty minutes late to pick her up. She was genuinely worried about what her boss would say.
She saw her boss shaking hands with some of the patrons and decided to drift that way with Chaz in tow. She had met Charlie at a poetry slam four weeks earlier. They had hit it off well enough, so she tolerated him a full week past what she would later describe as his "expiration date." Chaz was boring, but he did know something about art and cleaned up well. It seemed like a good idea to make him her plus one.
"Anne Marie, come over here, I'd like to introduce you to someone."
She and Chaz each grabbed flutes of champagne and glided through the crowd. "It looks like a hit," Anne Marie said, hoping her boss hadn't noticed her late arrival.
"The turnout is great, and two pieces already sold before we even got rolling. This is my assistant, slash right-hand woman, who helped make all of this happen," she said and motioned to her date, "This is my friend, Nigel, who is a great supporter of the arts."
"It is nice to meet you. This is my friend, Charles."
Charles said, "Hey, nice show. Anne Marie said this guy had some painting chops, but I didn't really believe that a graffiti artist would look good...you know...all formal like. He's really good, though."
Nigel said, "Charles, I have to say. I was thinking something quite along those lines. His paintings are beautiful, almost as lovely as our companions for the evening."
Nigel took Anne Marie's hand and gave her a nod. "Thank you. I do love British charm," Anne Marie said, fighting off a blush.
"I need to borrow Anne Marie for a few minutes; do you two think you'll be okay?"
Charles held up his glass of champagne, "I'm doing fine."
Nigel said, "We can always talk sports while you are gone."
Anne Marie almost snorted. Chaz could do a lot of things but talking sports wasn't one of them. She followed her boss who introduced her to a few more patrons. The owners of the gallery had a few nice words to say about the show and Anne Marie's dress.
There was a momentary lull in the mingling. Anne Marie whispered, "I'm sorry I was late, but..."
"Don't worry about it. I just wanted to get a little break from Nigel."
They looked at their dates on the other side of the gallery. They both seemed to be enjoying themselves. Anne Marie said, "So, you're not serious about this guy?"
"No, not even a little."
"Then why won't you ever talk about Mitch?"
"Mitch and I go back a long ways. He isn't someone I want to have girl talk about."
"But why?" she said with her best pleading voice and added, "It is so much fun. You won't even tell me what he looks like."
"Well, let me...," she pointed to a guy who had just walked in and was wearing an Armani suit. "Do you see that guy who just walked in?"
"The one who is looking around, sort of lost?"
"Yes, that's the one."
"He looks like...oh, busted, he saw me checking him out. He's coming this way." Anne Marie looked away and whispered, "I didn't get a good look at him, but his suit is nice." When she looked back, her boss was gone.
#
It took but one sweeping glance of the gallery to find her. She always stood out. He made his way through the tiny clusters of people. He could feel his heart racing. The voice in his head kept telling him to calm down. The other voice in his head said, "Shut the fuck up. You're making it worse."
"Well, hello, sir, welcome to the show. See anything you like?"
"I've just arrived, but I'm sure there is something here I'd like to take home."
She looped an arm through his and said, "Let me show you the collection." She leaned in and said in a soft voice, "You've been missed."
Mitch had been preparing for her witty remarks and light digs. He hadn't developed a plan for tenderness. One of the voices in his head was screaming something about Mitch being "The Man" while the other was saying he needed to say something back. Mitch tuned them out and gave her hand a firm squeeze. Her smile said "right answer."
"This first piece," she said, stopping in front of a canvas of blue, green, and red with the letters "WAR" across the center, "is called Failure to Listen."
Mitch stood and looked at it for a moment. He ran his eyes all around the canvas, then sort of tilted his head to the side. "Is there an image behind it?"
"Yes, he covered the canvas in old, faded maps from an atlas published in 1917. Most people don't notice it. You can make out the date if you look in the bottom, right-hand corner. There, just under his signature."
It was small, but Mitch could see it. "So, not to sound pretentious, but it says to me that the artist is making a social commentary about the world's refusal to hear the propaganda coming from the Kaiser in the years leading up to the war."
A kid in a tee-shirt and ripped designer jeans said, "It only sounds pretentious when someone is off the mark."
"Let me introduce you, Mitch. This is the artist."
Mitch shook his hand. "This is the first piece I've looked at, and, I have to say, you have great depth in your work even if it goes unnoticed."
"Thanks," he said, "but I was pretty much a rich punk painting bullshit on buildings before she found me. I guess she made me want to find inspiration."
"She has that effect on people."
"Not all the pieces are so deep, though. There is one of a hedge hog that sort of happened by mistake. I was going for...well...it doesn't matter. When I was done, it looked like a hedgehog, so I called it Bernie."
"Why Bernie?"
He shrugged, "No idea; it was the first thing that popped into my head. I didn't want to include it, but she said it was adorable. What could I do?"
"I think doing what she says is always a
good policy."
"Such smart boys," she said, grabbing them both by the arms and leading them to the next piece, "Bernie was the first one sold, ironically to a gentleman named Bernie."
Mitch asked, "Does he resemble a hedgehog?"
She looked around and whispered so that they both could hear, "His wife did a little."
After two more paintings the owners whisked the artist away. Mitch asked, "Are they pleased with the show?"
"I'd say they are thrilled."
A young man stopped and handed her a piece of paper. She read it and showed it to Mitch. It read, "Three more have sold: 6, 8, and 13."
"Which number is Failure to Listen?"
"It is number one."
"How much is it?"
"Twelve thousand, eight hundred. Do you think it will impress me if you buy one?"
It felt like a trick question or a test. He had that sick feeling he got in high school when there was a pop quiz. He decided to just be honest. "It made me feel good that I got it. I think I'd be upset if someone else, who didn't understand the painting, took it and hung it in their home. I would like to impress you, and I've got plans to give it my best go, but, really, I think I'd just like to buy number one."
She put a hand on his chest, then reached in and removed the pen from his suit pocket. She wrote #1 and his name on the piece of paper and made a motion for the young man to return. He had remained nearby in case she wanted anything. "Please find a sold sign for number one. Thank you."
Mitch, who had brought his checkbook just in case, took the pen out and said, "To whom do I make it out to?"
"The gallery will be fine, but we can do that later. I know you're good for it."
Mitch had way too much on his mind to add worry about the painting to it. "Let's make it official." He wrote the check out, handed it to her, and smiled. "I am really quite pleased with myself."
She took the check, handed it to another assistant who was near, and whispered, "You said something about impressing me."
"I have a plane waiting on the tarmac."
"Well, then we best go and pack."
"I've taken care of it."
Mitch expected some sort of question asking him to explain exactly what that meant, but she just took him by the hand and led him to Nigel. "Nigel, this is Mitch."
Nigel stuck out his hand, and Mitch had to let go of hers to shake it. It was an uncomfortable moment between them, but only for a second.
"I just wanted to thank you for joining me tonight, Nigel. I've got to duck out a little early; apparently we've a plane to catch."
Nigel was gracious and said, "The pleasure was mine. I'll probably pick up a couple of these paintings and send them back home. It was nice to meet you, Mitch."
Mitch was sure he said something polite back, but the voices in his head were going nuts. He went from surprised to hearing she was there with a date to feeling rather pleased about how she dismissed Nigel so casually.
They walked out together, holding hands. The music and small talk of the gallery faded.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Chapter Nineteen
Paul climbed out of his BMW X5. It had taken a couple of days longer to purchase the property than he had wanted because his lawyer couldn't understand why he wasn't interested in negotiating. When the deal was done, his team of tech people came up and installed a computer system the Borg would have been proud to assimilate.
The mountains, snowcapped, standing guard and keeping watch, were strangely interesting to Paul. He had never been interested in nature, but knowing the view was his made him feel powerful. He pulled the three Walther PPQs out of the back of the car along with half a dozen boxes of .40 caliber rounds and a gun-cleaning kit. He also had bought a book about handgun safety and maintenance that he tucked under his arm. With his free hand he grabbed the bag of empty soda cans that were to be recycled as targets.
The inside of the house looked just like the pictures he saw online. It was modern and comfortable without any rustic touches or animal heads that might have put him in a bad mood. He didn't like rustic.
Three more trips to the car and he had everything unloaded. Paul was eager to start practicing, but he had to check on Mitch. It was troubling how he had seemed to vanish. There hadn't been a single credit card transaction since Austria. He must be using cash and staying at home. It wouldn't last, and Paul knew it, but he wanted to start planning. Not knowing where Mitch was made it hard.
He fired up the computer. All the monitors sprang to life, and hard drives whirred. Soon he was logging onto the satellite connection. The credit cards remained silent.
"Fuck you, Mitch, fuck you and your pretty little lunch whore." He grabbed the bag of cans, one of the Walthers, and a box of rounds. The early afternoon was warm, and there wasn't much breeze. It was beautiful but not such that he noticed. Whenever he thought about Mitch, thought really hard and pictured his face, the face that mocked him so many years ago, he was filled with a crippling rage.
He walked for a few hundred yards, stopped, looked around, and walked a ways further. He didn't know what to do. He needed a log or something to set the cans on. He walked some more until he found a fallen tree.
Paul pulled five cans out and set them on the tree. Three Coke, a Diet Coke, and a Pepsi can waited to die. A stump fifteen yards away made for a good table. He set the two boxes of rounds down and released the clip. "Son of a bitch."
He had made a rule: never load bullets into the clip without gloves. He was just practicing, and he was on his own land, not breaking any laws, so a few fingerprints wouldn't matter, but routine did. He stood by the stump and stared at the box of bullets. "Fuck," he screamed. He started back to the house to grab the gloves.
They were on the table next to the ear protection. He grabbed them both and a bottle of water. Paul was soon back at the stump loading rounds. He slid the clip in. It made that metallic sound he had heard a million times playing FPS on the X-Box. He liked it.
Paul raised the gun and growled, "Mother fucker!" All the cans had blown off the tree while he was gone. He set them back up, walked back to the stump, turned, took a wide stance, and thought about what he had read. It was important to squeeze not pull. He looked down the site and squeezed. Nothing happened.
It confused him until he saw the safety. He raised the gun, prepared for the kick, and pulled the trigger. He missed. "Damn. Squeeze don't pull." He tried again with little improvement.
With each shot he adjusted. On the sixth, the first Coke can flew off the log. It took a lot of practice, that was obvious, and, after the first box of 50 rounds, only the Pepsi can remained. Paul walked up to the tree and picked up the sole, surviving can. Leaving the bag of cans, he took the remaining box of rounds back to the house.
Paul set the gun and rounds on the table and walked to the fireplace mantle. "Here you go, my brave little soldier. You keep an eye on the place while I take a nap. You get to live." He set the Pepsi can down and turned the logo outward.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Chapter Twenty
She had not been impressed by the plane, but the clothes and rugged foot gear won the day. Mitch had planned to try to keep their adventure a secret for a while, but, after showing resolve to hold out, she kissed him so hard that he caved.
S. loved the idea of Alaska. As he lay in bed, trying to remember every moment from the night before, it bothered Mitch that he hadn't written down her exact words. It went something like, "I've always wanted to breathe in mother earth's healing whispers when I get up in the morning...and then ride a horse."
It was a little after 1 pm. He didn't want to wake her because there wasn't a rush. The helicopter would leave when they were ready. Mitch reached for the new Moleskin he had picked up a few days before. He wrote Day One on the first page. The quote wasn't exactly what she had said, but it was pretty close. The description of her eyes when she had said "...and then ride a horse" had been a mix of youth and unexpected lightning flash. That par
t he nailed. He kept writing as much as he could remember.
Alaska Adventure:
I told the pilot to avoid making announcements unless it was necessary, and he stuck his head out and gave me a thumbs up. I said that I had caved and told S. where we were going. She looked adorably smug as she poured me a glass of champagne.
We were drinking toasts to everything we could think of: home, youth, life, sea otters. A look of concern suddenly furrowed her brow. I asked, "What's wrong?"
"I've forgotten my camera. I should have asked you to swing by my place."
"You forgot your old camera," I said, trying to act cool. I'm pretty sure I failed in that regard because I hopped up and quickly pulled out several cases I had stowed in the back. "Do you like presents?"
"I do."
"I know you are partial to Canon, but I have Nikkor lenses. I thought we could share."
"I'm good at sharing," she said and set down her glass of champagne. The camera bag was heavier than she expected, which she knew meant there was more than just a body inside. She was about to open it and look, but she stopped. Without letting sound disturb the moment, she mouthed, "Thank you."
A moment later she screamed, "Oh my god, the D3X! Thank you, I love it." Then she noticed the lenses. "Are these all straight lenses?"
"There is one 80-200mm 2.8, but the rest are straight."
She pulled out the 35mm 1.4 and twisted it onto the D3X body. "Wow, that is a sexy sound."
Over the next hour I showed her how to shoot manual: change the ASA, shutter speed, and control the white balance. Pure joy makes me smile and she captured it brilliantly. I had been worried that I might have overdone it, but S. clearly liked her present. When she finally put everything back in the bag, she said, "Okay, I'm going to get out of this dress."
She got up and pulled out a pair of shorts and a tee shirt from one of the bags. "Would you unzip me?"
"It would be my pleasure in ways you can't even imagine."
"You'll find I have an extraordinary imagination...I believe I can...no peaking.'
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