by Bill Walker
“So, it’s a wrap?” Brian asked.
“Absolutely, man, you did great. Wouldn’t change a thing. And I really appreciate your reining me in, too.” The manager laughed.
Brian nodded. Just as he’d predicted, the manager had wanted to start over from scratch. That’s when he’d hit them with his financial trump card: starting over now would double their bill. Suddenly, all those great new ideas didn’t seem so great anymore.
“I’ve got a half-inch dub for you guys, so you can show the record company. The three-quarter duplicating master will be ready and waiting for you, once they’ve paid.”
“No problemo, man, no problemo. I know how to get those bloodsuckers to fork over. You’ll get your dough by the end of the week.”
“Great,” Brian said, pulling the VHS copy out of the deck and pasting on the preprinted labels. He handed it to the manager who took it with a surprising amount of reverence.
“This is gonna put you guys on the map, mark my words,” the older man said.
The four band members grinned and stood up, looking eager to go out and hit the clubs. Brian saw them out, locked the front door and returned to the suite to clean up. He glanced at the clock. It was nearly 8:00 PM. Christ, he’d been there for almost twelve hours. God only knew what that would have turned into had he let the band’s manager walk all over him. But the man had turned out to be a reasonable sort, which was a rare commodity in the music business. Brian silently wished The Musical Threats the best of luck and set about cleaning the suite.
For perhaps the zillionth time that day, his thoughts turned to Joanna and the phone number burning a hole in his pocket. Should he call...or not? Even now, she might be at her studio....
Stop it, Weller, cool your jets.
He forced himself to tend to the tasks at hand and fifteen minutes later the tape heads were cleaned, the system was powered down and all the logs were updated, printed and filed. But instead of rushing out the door for his usual six-pack from Bauer’s, he sat down and pulled the business card out of his pocket.
Joanna’s handwriting was a series of precise graceful loops, and while it looked distinctly feminine, it had authority, avoiding the usual clichéd flourishes and curlicues.
Oh, Jesus, now you’re analyzing handwriting? You know you’re going to call her, you putz, so just get it the hell over with!
Before he could change his mind, he grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers. It rang three times.
“Hello?”
“So, how’s my favorite artist?”
“W-what? Who is this...?” she paused. “Brian?”
“Guilty as charged. How are you?”
She laughed. “Oh, my God, you really had me worried there for a second. I didn’t recognize your voice without a hundred and twenty decibels of music behind it.”
“People tell me I sound different on the phone.”
“You do. Like you’re on the radio. It’s kind of sexy.”
Brian’s nerves, already humming, ratcheted up a notch.
“I’ve embarrassed you, haven’t I?” she said after a moment of awkward silence.
“No, no, not at all. I’m just not used to hearing that. I like it.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Anyway, I just wanted to call and tell you how much I enjoyed spending the evening with you last night. I really needed the distraction, believe me.”
“You’re welcome. I had a great time, too. You’re a wonderful dancer.”
“Are you sure you have the right guy?”
“Hmm, I don’t know.... Weren’t you that silly man dancing with his leather jacket?”
“No, that was my evil twin. He’s always trying to make me look bad.”
Joanna laughed. “Oh, God, that was so funny. I couldn’t believe it when you started doing that.”
“I do aim to please,” he replied, cracking a smile.
“You did, you really did.” She giggled. The sound of it caressed his ears. He wanted to hear more of it.
“Listen, I won’t keep you, but I wanted to know if you’d like to meet for coffee or a drink sometime?”
“I’d love to,” she said. “I’m just finishing up at my studio. How about we meet at Charley’s? Is that anywhere near your office?”
“About a block and a half.”
“Great. I’ll see you there in say...half an hour?”
“Looking forward to it.”
They hung up a moment later and Brian pumped his fist into the air. “YES!”
He spent the next twenty minutes puttering around the office, jotting himself a reminder to write the payroll checks the next day, then threw on his black leather jacket, locked the front door and hit the street.
He tried to recall the last time he’d been to Charley’s and realized he hadn’t been near the place since the restaurant had moved from their old location right next door. Charley’s Eating & Drinking Saloon now occupied the entire building on the southwest corner of Gloucester and Newbury, boasting a basement sports bar, fine dining on the parlor level, and private function rooms and offices on the upper floors. Whoever did the interior design had striven to keep the same upscale neighborhood bar atmosphere and had largely succeeded.
The only downside to the place, on this particular evening, was that they had the heat cranked up too high; it made for a stark contrast with the twenty-degree weather outside. At least the reception area was relatively clear of waiting patrons, though the downstairs bar seemed to be hopping. He heard the thump of the sound system and the chatter of the crowd through the floor.
“Good evening, sir, and welcome to Charley’s,” the young hostess said. “How many in your party?”
“Just two of us.” He glanced at his watch. “She should be along in a few minutes.”
“Will you be dining?”
“I don’t think so, but we’d like someplace quiet.”
“I do have a table in the front. Would that be okay?”
Brian nodded.
“Right this way, sir.”
The young woman led him through an archway into the dining room that looked out over Newbury Street, seating him at a table for two near the bay window. Still feeling the heat, Brian stripped off his leather jacket and hung it from the back of his chair.
A waiter dressed in a starched green apron embroidered with the Charley’s logo approached. He handed Brian a menu. “Can I get you anything from the bar, sir?”
“I’m waiting for someone.”
“Very good, sir, I’ll check back shortly.”
He was about to call the waiter back, having decided to get something after all, when Joanna appeared in the archway. She scanned the room, spotted him and smiled. Brian rose when she approached. She was dressed all in black with the exception of a pair of fuzzy gray earmuffs that gave her an appealing childlike appearance. On anyone else they would have looked silly.
Brian held out the chair for her.
“Thank you,” she said, sitting down. “Such a gentleman.”
“My mother taught me well.”
“I agree.” She removed her earmuffs, pulled off her leather gloves, and slid her coat off her shoulders and onto the chair behind her. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and her lips a ruby red from freshly applied lipstick. “So, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Had a really long day, though.”
Joanna rolled her eyes. “Me, too.... I had all these student meetings, taught three classes, and then I worked all afternoon on a piece at my studio. I’m bushed.”
“Well, you certainly don’t look it. In fact, I think you look terrific.”
Her smile widened and her face flushed even more. “I could say the same for you.”
Brian returned her smile, and was about to offer a cheeky reply when the waiter reappeared.
“Hi, I’m Aaron, and I’ll be your waiter. Can I get you something from the bar?”
Brian gestured to Joanna. She frowned in thought then said: “I’ll have an Irish Coffee made with Bu
shmills.”
“You know, that actually sounds pretty good,” Brian said. “Make it two.”
The waiter departed and Joanna leaned forward. “I don’t normally drink things like that, but it’s so cold out, I thought it would be a nice change of pace.”
“Like being here with you.”
She gave him a shy smile and fiddled with her gloves. Her hands were even more beautiful than he’d remembered from the night before. Not a vein or a blemish in sight.
A few moments later the waiter reappeared with two tall glasses topped with whipped cream and two straws apiece. He placed them in front of Joanna and Brian.
“Will you be dining with us tonight?”
“No, thank you,” Joanna said.
Brian shook his head.
“Very good. Please let me know, if you change your minds.”
The waiter moved to another table and began taking an order.
“I’m curious about something,” Joanna said. “How do you know Nick?”
“He did some work for my production company. My day job. We became friendly.”
Joanna nodded. “So, you do your writing at night?”
“Often until the wee hours of the morning, but only if I don’t have an edit session the next day. It’s tough because once I get going it’s hard to stop. And when I do, I’m wired for half the night.”
“I know what you mean.” She sipped her Irish coffee. “Ooh, that’s good.”
Brian took a sip of his own, surprised to find the taste appealing. He’d never liked whiskey, but it blended well with the coffee and the whipped cream, making for a wonderfully warming drink.
“I think I owe you an apology,” she said.
“Oh? What for?”
“When you told me about your book, last night, I think I was overly harsh with you about it.”
“No, you weren’t. Nothing you said was anything that I hadn’t mulled over myself. Truth is you have a valid point. I think a new direction is something I need to consider. Not sure what that is, though.”
“Tell me about your other books.”
“You sure you want to know?”
“Absolutely,” she said, smiling.
For the next twenty minutes, Brian gave Joanna the cook’s tour of his four other manuscripts, trying to keep the descriptions of the plots succinct and to the point. As she had the night before, she listened attentively. When he finished, she remained silent for a moment, then said: “I think you have a remarkable imagination.”
“I’m glad you think so, though sometimes I feel like I’m beating my head against the wall to get some of that stuff out.”
“Silly question?”
“No such thing,” he said.
“Where do you get your ideas from?”
“Oops, I take that back. That was a silly question.”
“What!” she said, laughing.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he said, chuckling. “You had such a priceless look on your face just now. Forgive me?”
“You’re forgiven.... But I really want to know.”
“Not going to let me off the hook, are you?”
Joanna’s grin turned sly. “Nope.”
“Okay.... Well, the obvious and disingenuous answer is that they come from me, but that’s not entirely true. Sometimes, I’ll read something in the paper or hear something on the news that’ll spark an idea. Other times, I’ll come up with just a title and the ideas will flow from that. In the rarest instances, and this is the spooky thing, I’ll have a dream and get an entire story ‘beamed’ to me from my subconscious. When I get one of those it’s a race against time to get it written down before I forget the fine details.”
Joanna’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God, I get that, too, with my art.”
“So I’m not losing my mind?”
She took another sip of her drink, licking a dollop of whipped cream from her upper lip with an endearing flick of her tongue. “No, you’re at least as sane as I am.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Absolutely. You’re hopeless.”
They both laughed.
“I think this coffee is going to my head a bit,” she said, taking another sip. “Seriously, though, you understand what it means to create and the dedication it takes. What’s it like for you when you know you’ve finished something? Do you miss your characters?”
Brian started to take another sip of his drink then stopped himself. What a great question. He’d never given it much thought, but she had a point.
“I guess it is a bit like the ‘empty nest syndrome.’ I live with them for so long that I really feel as if I know them, as people. So, yeah, I do miss them when it’s done. The only saving grace is that I can always pick up my book and read it and visit them all over again. The thing is I love the process. So many people want to have written a book, but they hate having to write it. I’ve never understood people like that. Anything I hated to do I always found a way to stop doing it. Is it like that for you?”
“Definitely. Every piece for me is like giving birth. When it’s done, I have something I’m proud of, but I find I miss the act of creation, the hours of sweat and frustration and the final, ‘Aha!’ when it all falls together. There’s nothing like it. Afterwards, I’m usually sad for a few days.”
“But at least you have the finished art to look at and appreciate—unless you sell it, of course.”
Joanna shook her head.
“You’ve never sold anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, that really makes us comrades in arms, doesn’t it?” He said, raising his coffee. “Here’s to success.”
Joanna clinked her nearly empty glass against his, her eyes shining. “Success,” she echoed.
“You want another coffee?”
“I’d better not. What time is it?”
Brian looked at his watch. “Nine-thirty.”
“Oh, God, I’ve got to go. I told Erik I’d be home by ten.”
“No problem,” Brian said, masking his disappointment. The time had gone too damned fast. He signaled the waiter, making the universal motion for the check. It arrived moments later.
“How much do I owe you?” Joanna asked.
“Nothing. It’s my treat. You can pay the next time, if you’d like.”
“Okay, next time, it is.”
Brian left cash on the table and the two of them put on their coats and headed for the door. Outside, the frigid air hit them like a slap in the face.
“My car’s just around the corner. Can I give you a ride?”
Even though it was a relatively short walk, he didn’t want the evening to end, not yet.
“Thanks. It’s not too far. Straight down Fairfield to Beacon.”
On Newbury, Joanna approached a sleek black late model Mercedes 500SL. The license plate read: ARTEEST. She clicked the keyless remote and the car chirped once, all the lights flashing. Brian held the door for her and then went around to the passenger side and got in. The interior, also black, had that rich smell of leather he loved. And it was spotless, not even a fleck of lint on the carpeting.
Joanna sensed his wonderment. “This was Erik’s idea. I wanted a Volvo wagon.”
“Nothing wrong with having a nice car,” Brian replied, trying to ease her discomfort. “And it certainly goes nicely with what you’re wearing.”
Joanna grinned and shook her head. “I need to keep you around. You really know how to make me feel better.”
“I do?”
She gazed at him tenderly. “Yes, you do.”
As if recalling the lateness of the hour, Joanna inserted the key and started the engine. It growled with suppressed power, as only a big motor could. Brian had to admit he was just a tiny bit jealous, even if a Mercedes was not his style.
“So, where on Beacon do you live?”
“Three thirty-four on the Storrow Drive side.”
Joanna glanced in the rearview, pulled the car out of the space, and sped toward Mass
Avenue.
In the brief silence that followed, Brian wondered if he should ask the question uppermost in his mind. Would she consider it prying? And did he really want to know the answer? He decided he did.
“How did you meet your fiancé?”
Joanna seemed to measure her words before speaking. “I was a sophomore at Mass Art and Erik was called in to bid on some expansion plans they were considering at the time. I was on work-study and the administration selected me to show him around. He asked me out the next day.”
“And the rest is history?”
Joanna nodded, negotiating the turn onto Fairfield. “You could say that. We’ve been engaged for about six months.”
Brian tried to hide his reaction. Christ! Too late by a lousy six months. Up ahead, he spotted his building, suddenly regretting the turn in the conversation. Feeling like a prize fool, he stared out the windshield while she double-parked the Mercedes in front of 334 and turned on the hazard lights.
She turned to him, her expression a mixture of emotions.
“It’s a lovely building,” she said. “It suits you.”
Brian nodded. “Of all the places I’ve lived since moving here, it’s my favorite.”
He turned to her then, their eyes locking. His heart thudded in his chest and his mouth turned to sand.
“It seems I can’t help having a wonderful time with you.”
“Me, too,” she replied, her voice a near whisper.
She leaned toward him, ever so slightly, her eyes searing into his soul. Without knowing quite what compelled him to such reckless abandon, Brian kissed her. A soft moan issued from her throat, and she brought her left hand up, cupping the back of his head. The other caressed his cheek. Her lips were so gentle, so soft, yet they blazed with an intensity that dwarfed the memory of his first furtive kisses with Laurie McCurry when he was twelve, and the thousands of kisses that had come after them, burning into his mind and heart with a quiet ferocity that belied its tenderness.
All too soon, it broke; and Brian pulled away, not wanting it to end, his mind and heart aflame with so many emotions he couldn’t sort them out. Joanna’s deep green eyes reflected these same feelings, yet in those vibrant emerald depths they grew crystal clear: joy, longing, lust, hope, and something else.... Was it fear? For Brian, it was the fear of another heartbreak, and the fear of never seeing this incredible woman again. He reached for her hand, feeling those long graceful fingers lace through his.