by Bill Walker
He decided not to try and join the conversation and began examining the paintings on the other side of the gallery. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a couple entering the front door. They appeared to be in the midst of an argument. He was tall, with dark, almost black hair swept straight back and was dressed in an expensive-looking black and white herringbone blazer and black wool slacks. The woman was—Joanna!
Brian nearly choked on his Danish. Ducking behind one of the partitions, he pretended to look closely at one of the paintings, while keeping the other eye and both ears on Joanna and the man who could only be her fiancé. A flurry of mixed emotions rushed through him. A part of him wanted to stay and another wanted to duck out the back.
He stayed.
“...So, why don’t you just go on to your office, Erik?” Joanna said. “You know that’s where you’d rather be. You don’t have to keep torturing yourself on my account.”
“Fine, then. You want to keep popping into these little holes in the wall all day long, have at it. I’ve had my fill.”
“Fine. Give my regards to Mr. Wrightson,” she snapped.
Joanna’s fiancé glared at her then shook his head. “I’ll call you later.”
Brian watched the man stalk out the door and vanish from sight. Joanna turned and sighed, her eyes downcast. For a moment, it looked as if she might follow her fiancé out the door, but then she straightened her shoulders and stepped up to one of the paintings, her expression intent.
He realized he still had a piece of soggy Danish in his mouth. So absorbed was he in watching Joanna that he’d forgotten to swallow it. He took a sip of his coffee and watched her move closer to the spot where he stood.
She was even more adorable in the daylight. As before, she was dressed all in black, her hair a fiery halo around her head. She moved to the next painting, her brow knitting in concentration.
Brian drained his coffee, threw the empty cup and the remainder of the Danish into a trash basket and moved toward her, a smile forming on his lips.
“We’re going to have to stop meeting like this.”
She turned, her initial shock transforming into delight. “Brian! Oh, my God, what are you doing here?” she asked.
“I read about this exhibition in the paper, I thought I’d check it out.”
Joanna squeezed his arm. “I’m so glad you did. I could use some cheering up.”
“Well, then, you’ve come to the right guy.”
She smiled up at him. “I know.”
Brian felt as if he might float off the floor. Swallowing, he nodded toward one of the paintings. “So, what do you think of our friend’s work?”
“His technique is excellent, but there’s nothing of him in it.”
Brian frowned and looked toward the painting. It showed a prostitute leaning against a brick wall a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth, the only lighting the red glow of a neon sign. The woman’s expression was tired and forlorn.
“Look at the woman,” Brian said, “look at her face. She looks as if she has no hope left in the world. Pretty powerful, wouldn’t you say?”
Joanna peered closer, scrutinizing the face of the prostitute, which was only a small part of the picture, yet spoke volumes.
She turned to him with a new respect in her eyes. “You’re right. I didn’t see that.”
“Every one of this artist’s paintings has an element like that, something in it that’s the real message. It reminds me of a painting I saw one day, years ago, as I passed the window of a gallery on Boylston. It was a landscape depicting this dark foreboding Victorian-style house atop a hill covered in wild grass and dotted with twisted Black Ash trees. Very dramatic. The title of the piece was ‘Redwing.’ For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why it was called that, until I looked closer. There, in the bottom right-hand corner, right above the artist’s signature was a little red-winged blackbird perched on a stalk of wild grass. I’ve never forgotten it. It taught me always to look closer to find the truth of things and never be content with the obvious.”
“What a wonderful story,” she said.
Brian grinned. “Would you like to get some lunch?” he asked, after a moment. “All I’ve had since breakfast is half a lousy Danish, and I’m famished.”
“I’d love to. How about the Indian place next door?”
Brian looked dubious.
“Come on, I hear they make a mean Tandoori.”
After thanking the gallery owner and taking a couple of brochures, Brian and Joanna went next door to The Raj and sat at one of the tiny tables overlooking the street. As Joanna suggested, Brian ordered the Chicken Tandoori with rice, Nan bread and ice water. Joanna rattled off a list of dishes, whose names meant nothing to Brian. When the food came a few minutes later, he was surprised to see that none of the dishes Joanna ordered contained meat.
“No Tandoori for you? I thought you liked it.”
“Erik loves it. I’m a vegetarian.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’m a Buddhist. Buddhists by tradition and teaching are vegetarian. We don’t believe in killing anything that contains a soul.”
“A Buddhist from Long Island? Not too many of those, I would imagine.”
“Now, you’re making fun of me,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. But I suspect your upbringing was slightly different.”
“Jewish-American Princess through and through.”
Brian laughed. “Somehow, I can’t imagine you as a typical example of that breed. You’re too—”
“I’m too...what?” she asked, raising a ginger eyebrow and stifling a grin.
“You’re too grounded, and far too intelligent to be concerned about what color to paint your nails and how many parties you’ve been invited to. You make those women look like the caricatures they are.”
Joanna reached across the table and grasped his hand, her thumb caressing his knuckles. “I can’t believe no one’s snatched you up, Mr. Weller.” Her eyes locked onto his. “But I’m glad they haven’t.”
“Me, too,” he said, suddenly thirsty.
For the rest of their meal, they talked about art and afterwards, they decided to visit more of the galleries along the street. It was growing dark by the time they left the last one.
“I should get going,” she said. “Erik’s meeting will be over soon.”
“I had a wonderful time. I also learned a lot; you’re a great teacher.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “It’s easy when you have such a willing pupil. Will you walk me to my car?”
“My pleasure.”
They began walking west on Newbury. The air had turned colder and the dense clouds overhead promised snowfall sometime during the coming night. As if reacting to the cold, Joanna slipped her arm through his and leaned against him. It made Brian feel ten feet tall, until he remembered that she was going home—to him.
When they came abreast of the Bookstore Café, Joanna stopped him. “Do you mind if I go inside for a moment?” she asked.
“Feeling literary?”
“In a way.” She gave him a coy smile. “I’ll be right out. I promise.”
“I shall await my lady with bated breath,” Brian said, giving her a mock bow. She laughed, gave him a peck on the cheek and disappeared into the store. She returned moments later carrying a plastic bag.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
Brian gave her a look.
“I won’t give it to you, if you don’t.”
“Give me what?”
“It’s a surprise, silly.”
Brian closed his eyes and felt Joanna slip something on his head.
“Okay, open up.”
Brian opened his eyes and stared at himself in the store window. He was now wearing a black baseball cap with the word: WRITER embroidered in white Courier typeface.
He turned to Joanna, who had an expectant smile on her face. “Do you like it?” she asked.
; Brian’s heart swelled. “I love it.”
Joanna came into his arms. “I saw it here yesterday when I was having lunch, and I thought of you. I couldn’t resist getting it for you just now. You really like it?”
Brian nodded. “It’s the sweetest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time.”
“A sweet hat for a sweet writer.”
Brian laughed and they resumed their walk.
Joanna’s Mercedes was parked near the corner of Exeter and Newbury. She opened the door and was about to get in, when she turned and kissed him. It was as soft and as urgent as the first one, and it left him breathless.
“I’d like for you to see my art, Brian. Your opinion would mean so much to me. Would you come by my studio Monday night?”
“I’d love to,” he said.
“Great. Call me around six and I’ll give you the directions.” She reached into her handbag and took out a pen and another of her fiancé’s cards. “This is my car phone,” she said, scrawling the number on the back of the card, “in case you don’t reach me at the studio. Just means I’m on my way. I hope you like my work.”
“I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t.”
She smiled, gave the bill of his new cap a playful tug then kissed the tip of his nose and climbed into the Mercedes. A moment later, she waved, pulled out into the street and sped away. He walked home and spent the rest of the evening in a pleasant daze.
12
ERIK RUBY STOOD AT the wet bar in the corner of his office and refilled his crystal tumbler with the dark, smoky Macallan single malt whiskey, allowing himself a congratulatory moment.
You pulled it off you son-of-a-bitch, you really pulled it off.
The meeting with Old Man Wrightson had lasted two hours longer than planned, but it had all been worth it. The old coot was in the bag, literally and figuratively. Since the last disastrous meeting, Ruby had done some digging and found out the older man had a weakness for the rare highland-made Scotch. Having the bottle of Macallan 1926 on-hand had helped to break the ice and smooth over the rough spots in the deal. It had also helped that all the revisions to the design had been reproduced in the models and artists’ renderings, wowing the old man and his sycophantic entourage. Now, with the right palms greased down in Government Center, the construction on Wrightson Plaza would go forward, and Ruby & Associates would pocket a cool ten million in profits.
He turned from the bar and approached his desk, swaying in front of the enlarged photo of Joanna hanging on the wall, the same one he’d wanted to put into her mailer. How beautiful she looked in that picture. Why couldn’t she understand how much it moved him—how much she moved him? What the hell was wrong with wanting to show her off, anyway? She was as much a work of art as anything she created.
Ruby shook his head, and lifted the tumbler of Scotch in a mock salute. “For you, Joanna.... All for you....”
He knocked back half of the fiery liquor in one gulp, grimacing.
His father would have understood. Ruby sneered and swallowed another mouthful of the Scotch, barely noticing the burn this time. Oh, yeah, the old bastard would have understood, all right. He would have tried to steal Joanna away from him, as he’d done with Carolyn.
The haze caused by the alcohol did nothing to dim the memory of the time he’d paid a surprise visit to his father’s Fifth Avenue apartment, wanting to show off his acceptance into Yale, the old man’s alma mater. Ruby had known something was amiss from the moment he’d let himself in the front door with his key. It was too quiet. Yet it wasn’t. The farther he moved into the vast two-story penthouse, the more the alarm bells rang in his head and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He climbed the plush carpeted stairway to the second floor, two steps at a time, stopping at the landing to listen. It was far less quiet up here. Moans, both male and female, emanated from the master bedroom at the end of the short hallway.
A part of him was embarrassed to have intruded upon his father’s privacy. Another part of him resented his father for having a girlfriend so soon after what he’d done to his wife—Ruby’s mother—in the divorce, yet the old man was someone he still loved and admired. Ruby turned to go; he had no business being there now.
“Oh, Lucius, fuck me! Fuck me, harder!”
His feet had frozen mid-step, a chill running up his spine.
That voice.... He knew that voice.
He crept nearer to the half-closed door and peered inside. There on the bed was his old man, Lucius Fulton Ruby III, eyes closed in ecstasy, razor-cut salt and pepper hair askew, grunting like a pig as his droopy old butt slammed the salami into Carolyn Duprée, Erik Ruby’s curvy seventeen-year-old girlfriend. Her graceful tanned legs were wrapped around his father, her crimson-taloned fingers raking down his back, and she screamed his name over and over again with every brutal thrust. Her moans of pleasure and breathless endearments to his father were like knives in Ruby’s heart. He wanted to kill them both. Instead, with tears flowing down his face, he left the apartment and went home to the smaller, less elegant one he shared with his mother. He said nothing to her; went to his room and brooded. It was bad enough seeing them together like that, but what really cut him to the quick was that he and Carolyn had gone out only the night before, and ended up in a make-out session on her living room couch. She’d pushed him away when he’d tried to go further, telling him that she wanted to wait for a “special moment” before they had sex the first time. The little bitch wanted to wait!
Sighing, he went back to the bar and poured himself more of the Macallan then walked back to his desk, picked up the phone and dialed. It was picked up on the second ring.
“Wunderkind Graphics.”
“Burning the midnight oil, I see,” Ruby said.
“Erik, is that you?” Nick asked.
“Of course it’s me. Who the hell else would be calling you this late?”
“Are you all right? You sound like you’re wasted.”
“I am wasted. Sealed the deal with Wrightson. The old duffer is happy as a lark.”
“You don’t sound so happy,” Nick said, his voice edged with concern.
“Why shouldn’t I be? Closed a fifty million dollar deal with a good chunk of it destined for my pocket, I’m engaged to a beautiful woman who adores me, and I see your friend Weller everywhere I go.”
“What? Wait a minute. What are you talking about? You’re seeing Brian?”
Ruby took another sip of his drink and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his cashmere jacket. “I don’t know, maybe I’m losing my marbles, like my old man finally did, drooling away the rest of his days with a twenty-four hour nurse. I could’ve sworn I saw the guy in this gallery where I left Joanna today, hiding behind a partition. Crazy, huh?”
Nick’s sigh sounded wheezy through the phone. “Listen. I’m sure it wasn’t him. You’ve been sweating this deal for months. That kind of pressure’s likely to do things to your head.”
“Yeah, I can understand that, but why him?”
“Who knows? It doesn’t matter.”
“What if it was him, Nick, what am I supposed to think?”
“Coincidence, Erik. Just a fluke.”
“There are no coincidences, old friend, just greater patterns yet to be divined.”
“Well, last time I looked I wasn’t Einstein, and neither were you. I think you’d better cork that bottle and go home to that beautiful fiancée. What do you say?”
Ruby shook his head and laughed. For once, Nick was talking sense. “When you’re right, you’re right.”
“For once.” Nick laughed then coughed.
“You don’t sound so good yourself.”
“Same old story, workin’ my fingers to the bone.”
“Oh, before I forget, those people from the Paragon Group call you?”
“Yeah, thanks for the referral. Looks like I’ll be doing their annual reports.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Anyway, Erik, just go home and relax. I’m sure every
thing’s fine.”
“Thanks, talk to you soon.”
Ruby dropped the phone back onto the cradle and turned his gaze back to Joanna’s photo, her smoldering eyes burning into his soul.
With a wordless cry, he hurled his tumbler against the wall, shattering it right below the picture frame. Rivulets of the expensive whiskey rolled down the wall, staining the Berber carpet.
“All for you....”
13
THE DRIVE INTO BOSTON from Newton was a slow, agonizing crawl. And while the plows had cleared the four inches of snow that had fallen the night before, her fellow drivers this morning seemed to want to take things slow and easy. Joanna glanced at the dashboard clock and frowned.
7:35.
Damn. If things didn’t get moving soon, she’d be late for her eight o’clock class, not that her students couldn’t handle things in her absence, but it galled her nonetheless, as if the latter part of her weekend hadn’t been bad enough.
Erik had come home Saturday evening smelling of liquor and high on his deal with Wrightson. She’d tried to be happy for him, but the way he kept looking at her with those dark, hungry eyes of his had unsettled her. She knew what was coming. And a part of her wanted it, as she’d wanted his lovemaking in the past, so heated and passionate.
But something felt different this time. His passion seemed desperate, his caresses possessing an urgency that alarmed her. It took all her efforts to pretend that nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
All during the act her thoughts had strayed to Brian. His soft lips, the firmness of his touch when he’d held her—God, she was turning into a romance novel cliché! And yet, it was true. She’d let herself fantasize that it wasn’t Erik, but Brian making love to her. She felt a guilty rush of heat even now sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Mass Pike. What was she going to do?