by Bill Walker
And even though her heart’s desire was clear to her now, she still felt torn. But that hadn’t stopped her from spending all day Sunday cleaning her studio and arranging some of the new pieces in her display area. She wanted everything perfect for when Brian came over.
The traffic began to move and picked up speed. Joanna gave an inward sigh of relief. She would be on time for her class after all.
By noon, with her morning classes and the Monday staff meeting behind her, she unlocked the door to her office and spent the next hour writing out student evaluations. This was the part of her job she hated, having to tell a student that he or she needed to improve or risk failure. Sometimes her comments bore fruit, other times they fell on deaf ears.
Her phone buzzed.
“This is Joanna.”
“Excuse me, Professor,” the receptionist said, “there’s a delivery here for you.”
“For me?” she said, frowning.
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was a short walk from her tiny cubicle of an office to the reception desk near the front door. The receptionist, a chunky peroxide blonde with multiple piercings in one ear, the latest one in an endless line of front office personnel, and whose name she couldn’t remember, pointed to a large white oblong box leaning against the wall.
Flowers.
Joanna shook her head. “Erik, you shouldn’t have.”
“Fight with your man?” the receptionist asked. “I always love it when me and my old man fight. Buys me a dozen long-stems regular as clockwork.”
“Sounds like we have the same guy.”
“Now, wouldn’t that be a hoot?”
Joanna grinned, picked up the box and took it back to her office. Yes, regular as clockwork. That was Erik and his flower buying habits to a tee. And it was almost as if the young blonde had read her mind, as Erik always bought Joanna a dozen red long-stem roses whenever they had a disagreement. The box felt lighter than it should, though. Could he have gotten her something different? Unlikely.
Placing the box on her desk, she untied the yellow ribbon and pulled off the lid, spreading apart the tissue paper.
Inside was a single white rose, one of the loveliest she’d ever seen. Nestled among its leaves and thorns was the little envelope containing the obligatory card. She tore it open and read it:
For my favorite artist.
A perfect rose for a perfect kiss.
—Brian
She felt a rush of heat to her face, a tightening in her throat. It was such a romantic gesture—so unexpected, so subtle, so...right. She pulled the flower from the box and brought it to her nose and inhaled its heady fragrance. It was a perfect rose. And the kiss....
Joanna trembled, recalling the taste of him. And then Erik’s face blotted out that image, and her eyes flooded with tears. Placing the rose gently back into the box, she covered her face with her hands and let all the pent up emotions well up. The tears came unbidden; tears of joy and of despair, of hope and of desperation.
It took a full ten minutes for her to regain control of herself. Drying her eyes with a handful of Kleenex, she grabbed a vase off her shelf and dumped the bouquet of dried flowers it contained into her trash barrel then took it to the bathroom and filled it with water. Back in her office, she trimmed the stem and placed the rose in it, arranging the vase on the edge of her desk.
It was so noble and pure, so beautiful—and so fragile; she wondered how long it would last in this tight, windowless room, then realized it didn’t matter. The gesture and the precious thought behind it would last forever.
She reached for the phone and punched in 411.
“City and listing, please.”
Joanna cleared her throat. “Yes, can I have the number for Newbury Productions, please? I believe it’s at 342 Newbury.”
“Hold for the listing....”
A synthesized voice took the place of the operator. “The number is area code 617-555-0555.”
Joanna jotted the number down, pressed the hang-up button and chewed her lip, her heart hammering against her ribs. She felt as giddy as a schoolgirl. Before she could change her mind, she punched in the numbers and waited. It was picked up on the second ring.
“Newbury Productions.”
It was that honey-coated voice of his.
“Hello? This is Newbury Productions. Anyone there?”
“So, how’s my favorite writer?” she asked.
His laughter was warm and inviting, immediately dispelling her nervousness.
“I’m well, but you’re the last person I expected to call.”
“Really?” she said, putting a coy edge to her voice. “The very last?”
He laughed again. “Did you like my little care package?”
“Yes, very much,” she said, a lump in her throat. “It was very sweet of you. You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did. But the hardest part was finding the rose that would measure up to that kiss.”
Joanna’s eyes grew moist again.
“Are you okay?” he asked when she didn’t respond right away.
“I’m fine,” she said, grabbing for the box of tissues again. “It’s just you always know the perfect thing to say.”
“It’s easy when you have the perfect inspiration. As an artist, I’m sure you know how fickle the Muses can be.”
“I do, indeed,” she said, regaining control.
“So, how do I get to your studio?”
“Have you ever been to the Channel Club?”
“I practically used to haunt that place, and I have the hearing damage to prove it. Are you near it?”
She spent the next five minutes giving him the directions to her building on Melcher Street. “I’m on the top floor,” she said. “The directions for the elevator are posted, but if you get into any trouble just holler. I’ll hear you. See you at six.”
They hung up a moment later and the butterflies returned to Joanna’s stomach with a vengeance. In her heart, she knew this step was not a mistake, but she also knew in the deepest recesses of her being that there was no turning back.
14
BRIAN SLIPPED HIS SILVER ’82 Celica into a space right behind Joanna’s black 500SL, his front tire nudging the curb. Her directions had been perfect.
Alighting from the car, he scanned the neighborhood with a wary eye. The Fort Point Channel area was typical outmoded industrial: blocks of seedy multi-story warehouses awaiting gentrification or the wrecking ball, fronted desolate streets laid bare by the unremitting glare of peach-colored crime lights. The air was damp and colder here; and the wind, reeking of rotting garbage and the diesel fumes from nearby I-93, blew tattered sections of that day’s Boston Globe past his feet. The already yellowed pages skittered away like frightened rats.
Across the way, jutting partway over the channel sat the Channel Club, its gargantuan parking lot nearly empty. Unusual for a Friday night. Either the bands on the bill were lousy that evening or the rumors he’d heard about the club being on its last legs were true.
He locked the Celica and walked into the building, a six-story pile of brick and limestone occupying half the block. It had a tired, shopworn appearance.
Inside was a long, narrow vestibule that smelled of mildew. His shoes echoed against cracked marble flooring coated with decades of grime, and he passed a wall full of tarnished mailboxes, some of them overstuffed with throw-aways and flyers, others empty and missing their doors. A bare sixty-watt bulb, hanging from the ceiling by a frayed cord, provided the only illumination. The elevator occupied the back wall. It was not what he’d expected. No sliding metal doors or articulated metal grate and no floor indicators. Just a single black Bakelite call button set into an ornate brass plate and a slatted wooden gate one needed to raise manually with a chain. Right now, it barred the way to a dark, empty shaft.
True to Joanna’s word, he discovered the elevator instructions typed on a sheet of desiccated onionskin thumbtacked to a battered bulletin board; the faded letters
were barely visible in the jaundiced light. Squinting, he took a moment to read them over.
Apparently, the elevator was so old the call button that brought the car to each floor was the only automated component of the system. The rest would be up to him, if this contraption were anything like the ones he’d seen as a kid.
Shrugging, he reached out and jabbed the call button. Somewhere, up on the roof, an electric motor kicked on, its deep whirring reverberating down the shaft. He saw the cables moving and a moment later the cast-iron counterweights shot past. Seconds later the inside of the elevator came into view, slowing as it braked to a stop level with the floor. Now came the tricky part. Inside the car there were no buttons, just a lever. Pulling it one way made the elevator ascend, pushing it the other way made it descend. What made it tricky was in knowing how far to push or pull it, as that governed the speed, as well.
Reaching for the loop of chain at the side of the elevator, he yanked it down, surprised by how little force it took to open what had to be a heavy gate. He stepped inside reached up and pulled it closed then grasped the brass lever. It felt cool, and silken smooth from years of anonymous hands operating it.
All right, Weller, don’t kill yourself.
He gently pulled the lever toward him and was rewarded by the sound of the motor engaging with a loud clunk, followed by the whine of the rotors. The car began edging upward. Gaining confidence, he pulled back a little more and the car picked up speed.
That’s it, just right.
He passed the second floor, seeing that it was a vast open space, interrupted only by the thick concrete support pillars spaced every thirty feet. Dusty windows at the far end let in anemic moonlight mixed with the garish peach glow of the crime lights.
Next came the third floor, then the fourth.
More grimy emptiness.
A part of him began to wonder if he’d get all the way to the top only to find more smudged windows and deserted rooms. Other than cheap rent, he couldn’t fathom the attraction of a place like this.
He began to ease the lever back toward its neutral position when he approached the fifth floor. The car slowed, affording Brian a longer look. This level was not empty. Indeed, it seemed to hold all the furniture from all the other floors: oak desks and chairs, metal file cabinets and tables, all piled helter-skelter, no rhyme or reason, casting shadows that resembled deep-sea leviathans lying dead on a deserted beach.
He slowed the elevator further and gazed upward, seeing light from an interior source for the first time. Ah, he was in the right place. He brought the car to a stop level with the floor on the first try and raised the wooden gate. He gaped, amazed at what he saw.
From his vantage point, Joanna’s studio appeared to encompass the entire floor. The same support pillars divided up the space, but instead of bare concrete they were painted varying shades of earth tones that contrasted and complemented the varnished oak flooring stretching from wall to wall. Stainless steel halogen track lighting overhead created pools of white light separated by oases of shadow. It was dramatic, and it all served to draw the eyes to the most important aspect of the room: the art.
Brian eased into the studio, his eyes trying to take in everything they saw, his brain racing to make sense of it. Bright white partitions were set up at right angles on which hung sculptures made from some kind of diaphanous rainbow-colored material; they appeared to move, as if alive, resembling giant fabric jellyfish.
Another piece hung suspended from the ceiling: a large metallic sphere sprouting fiber-optic wires in precise swirling patterns. It was lit from within, each strand glowing with a different color. And the light pulsed in time to the hammer blows of his heart.
Moving further into the space he came upon another series of partitions supporting various diameters of ribbed ductwork and PVC piping, all painted a glossy black. The piece appeared both machinelike and organic. It was nothing less than a tour de force.
There were dozens more pieces of varying sizes and themes, and Brian felt as if he’d stumbled into a secret museum.
He rounded another corner and stopped short. Joanna, dressed in only a black bodysuit, sat cross-legged on a large white pillow in the middle of the floor in one of the pools of light, her auburn curls a flaming nimbus. Her arms rested on her knees palms up, middle fingers touching her thumbs. She appeared to be asleep, her breathing deep and regular. Somewhere in the back of his mind Brian knew this to be the Lotus position, a position used for meditation.
He studied her face, cataloging the features he found so enchanting, yet discovering new unseen nuances: the strong chin at odds with the soft contours of her face, the slightly off-center nose, the soft, moist lips that were neither thin nor overly full. All Brian could think about was this woman was as dazzling as her art.
He stared at her for what must have been a full five minutes before a tickle in his throat forced him to clear it. Joanna opened her eyes and smiled.
“Hi. I see you made it up the elevator in one piece,” she said, her grin widening.
“Yes, but I was beginning to believe I was living in a Twilight Zone episode.”
“Welcome to the dimension of imagination.”
She laughed, rose to her feet in one fluid motion and came to him, taking him in her arms. Brian returned her embrace, willing time to stop.
“I missed you,” she said.
“I missed you, too.”
They moved apart and Joanna held onto his hand.
“So, what do you think of my studio, so far?”
“It’s amazing, like a private museum. But the rest of the building’s more like a tomb.”
“You can blame Erik for that,” she said, her smile disappearing. “He owns it.”
She let go of Brian’s hand and walked toward a chair, where she picked up an embroidered green silk kimono and wrapped it around herself. Brian couldn’t help noticing her every sinuous curve and the way her hips swayed in that adorably provocative way. He’d been right about that cocktail dress she’d worn at the party; it had hidden every luscious contour of her body.
“He must do well for himself, if he can let a building like this lie fallow.”
He watched Joanna tie off the kimono and move closer to him, his nose filling with the same heady perfume he’d come to associate indelibly with her. She was close enough that he could see the topaz flecks in the irises of her eyes.
“So, how about a tour?” she said, retaking his hand and squeezing it. “If this is the Twilight Zone, the show’s just beginning.”
For the next ten minutes Joanna walked him through the rest of her studio. Aside from the area where she displayed her finished pieces, there was also a partitioned space housing a fully equipped workshop that would have been the envy of any serious weekend hobbyist and not a few professionals. He recognized many of the brand names of the power tools as the same ones his father sold in his hardware store, and all of which hung from specialized hooks. Aside from these, there was a freestanding Craftsman hand tool cabinet on casters, a Dayton drill press bolted to the floor, a Makita table-saw, a Craftsman Mini-lathe, and a tank of Acetylene gas for welding.
“You know how to use all these?” Brian asked.
“Every one.”
“I’m impressed. Rosie the Riveter’s got nothing on you.”
“Chauvinist,” she said, mock-punching him on the shoulder. He overreacted, drawing a laugh from her.
Beyond the workshop lay the living quarters. This was also partitioned, but these walls rose higher, nearly reaching the ceiling fifteen feet above their heads. Inside, were a spotless kitchen with stainless steel appliances and granite counters adjoining a living room containing a glass-fronted entertainment center surrounded by a leather couch and two leather armchairs.
From there, she led him through an archway into the bedroom, where a thick futon rested on a low platform covered by a down comforter and various throw pillows of Indian origin. An authentic Persian rug lay on the floor beneath the p
latform and a small jade statue of a seated Buddha occupied an ebony plinth against the wall opposite the futon. The track lighting here was softer, more indirect, adding to the tranquil atmosphere. Through a door at the far end he spotted an immaculate bathroom, the walls, floor and glassed-in multi-headed shower stall sheathed in the same charcoal-gray granite as the counters in the kitchen.
“So, what do you think, now?” she said, the pride evident in her voice. He also detected a hint of apprehension, as if his opinion really mattered to her. The thought of that pleased him.
“I’m speechless, Joanna. It’s wonderful.... It’s like—” He stopped himself, hunting for the right word. “It’s like a sanctuary....”
“You do understand,” she said, her voice a near whisper.
“Yes.”
She reached up and caressed his face, a questioning look in her eyes. He took her hand and kissed her palm. Her eyes closed and she inhaled sharply.
“You’re trembling again,” Brian said.
“You, too.”
He kissed her then, feeling her melt against him. She moaned low in her throat and kissed him harder, her fingers raking down his back. She broke the kiss suddenly and rested her head against his chest.
“Just hold me,” she said, breathless.
He encircled her with his arms, placing his chin on the top of her head. He breathed in the smell of her hair, recognizing the odor of lilacs. It felt so right like this, as if she’d always been a part of him.
“Are you okay?”
“No....”
“Do you want me to leave?” Brian asked.
Her arms tightened around him.
“No....”
He let out the breath he’d been holding and lifted her head by her chin. A lone tear traced a jagged course down her cheek.
“What is it, then? What’s wrong?” he murmured.
“I don’t know if I can do this, but I....” her lips quivered. “I don’t want to lose you....”
“And I don’t want to lose you, either. But I also don’t want to be the cause of anything.”
She shook her head. “You’re not.... Please stay.”