Looking at the hotel writing desk she smiled at the collection of pictures set up there: a photo of her parents on their wedding day, a picture of them smiling over her as a baby; a snapshot of her as a child standing by her Uncle Oscar, almost lost in the huge sombrero he had brought from Mexico.
Standing up Michelle turned the music down and glanced at the clock; her laundry would not be done for another twenty minutes. Looking around, she wished she had a teapot, or some kind of kettle. She missed tea; she missed a lot of things. Michelle’s eye drifted to the unopened Chinese food on her desk. Smiling, she grasped it and sat down on the floor again; the spicy aroma cheered her up immensely. The egg rolls were especially good. Michelle ate, gladly abandoning the realm of self-pity and want.
Tossing the empty food containers away down the hallway garbage chute, Michelle caught a glimpse of a family checking into a room far down the hall. A small boy and his parents smiled at each other, talking excitedly as they maneuvered their suitcases into the door; they looked happy. The solitary observer felt lighthearted just looking at them until the moment their door shut; the hall suddenly looked barren. Michelle went back into her room quickly. Loneliness had been her only companion for the last four years, but at times she heartily resented its presence.
Lying in bed some hours later, Michelle listened to the slow jangling of a janitor’s cart as it passed her door. In the distance an ambulance siren rang out over the never-ending sounds of moving cars outside.
“I am lonely,” she whispered into the dark; she felt it so acutely it was almost painful. Michelle thought briefly of the 12:06 man, of his cerulean eyes and brilliant smile. “...and, I’m a coward,” she admitted, smiling to herself.
There had to be a way to signal the blue-eyed man she so admired, to let him know she existed; a subtle way… one that did not require heroics. She would give almost anything to see him smile at her. Peering over the edge of her bed, Michelle could just make out the portfolio. Perhaps it was time to let her portrait see the light of day.
“It’s worth a shot,” she murmured; she was tired of being lonely. She was tired of merely existing. Lying back on her pillow Michelle smiled as Sleep danced its slow steps around her room.
TWO
Early the next morning Michelle traveled along her normal route to work. Anticipation gave new energy to her steps, today. She wore her patched coat and a brown, corduroy skirt, with thermals underneath. Her boots were clean but scuffed, her dark red hair all tucked beneath her floppy-brimmed, canvas hat; a gray scarf and mittens rounded out her ensemble.
“If this next week goes well I just may have enough money to shop at the illustrious Goodwill Store… for my ‘winter wardrobe’,” Michelle thought. The notion made her smile.
Walking along at a brisk pace, she arrived at her corner. Panhandlers did not find this location desirable due to the fast pace of the passers-by. The pedestrians did stop for pictures, however, their eyes caught by a cartoon or drawing; even the most stern-faced individuals seemed to want a bit of brevity in their lives. Having set up her display Michelle pulled out a larger, wrapped picture from her bag. She slid the thin package behind the display, out of sight.
Through the morning hours the stream of foot traffic did not lessen. For the first time--since she began selling portraits on the corner--Michelle found herself unable to concentrate on her sketch-pad. She fidgeted and nervously bit her lip. At noon, she could wait no longer. Fetching the mystery package out, Michelle pulled the wrapping from the blue-eyed man’s portrait; she fixed it to the display with care. She placed it at a top corner, where it had the most advantage of being seen.
Scanning the oncoming crowd, Michelle glanced at her watch. 12:05. Michelle wondered if he’d even see the portrait, let alone recognize the picture as himself. It wasn’t much of a flag, but at least she had raised it. 12:06... her mouth went dry. Michelle picked up her water bottle and took a small sip, keeping an eye on the moving crowd. People walked forward--seven or eight deep--each keeping an inch or so of ‘personal space’ around them. Michelle realized her heart was racing.
“Stop,” she silently chided herself. “Calm down. He’s just another person walking to lunch.” Taking a deep breath she watched, waiting.
He was late. Michelle’s hazel eyes searched the crowd at a faster pace. 12:08. She wondered if she’d chosen the one day to bring her portrait that he decided to call in sick. Another two minutes went by. Michelle’s felt her heart sink in disappointment.
Then--through the crowd--she glimpsed his face… but it was instantly obscured again by a group of moving pedestrians. Sitting up, Michelle felt a smile creep over her mouth as she waited for the man to come closer; he walked somewhat slower than the other travelers. The crowd parted and the reason for his tardiness suddenly became clear; walking next to Michelle’s mystery man was an elegant older woman, beautifully dressed. She held onto the man’s arm and spoke to him with a smile; he inclined his head to one side as if to hear her over the sounds of the street.
The woman’s face seemed similar--in feature and form—to that of the blue-eyed man. Michelle assumed the lady was his mother. Her artistic eye missed nothing. The older woman was well-dressed, her manner and walk exuded English sophistication from her deep-red suit-dress and black, fur-lined coat, to her button-up boots and tasteful garnet jewelry. She was easily a matron of considerable status.
Looking at her, Michelle felt conscious of every stain and hole in her clothing. Even the scuffs of her shoes seemed to leap out into view like never before. The older woman’s face seemed kind but Michelle just wanted to disappear, feeling every inch the bedraggled street artist. Eying them from under her hat brim, Michelle watched as they walked closer. The man from Michelle’s portrait must have said something humorous as the older woman laughed and then looked around with a smile.
Something next to Michelle caught the lady’s attention; she paused, her face dressed in mild surprise.
“Oh, no,” Michelle thought. She had forgotten all about the portrait. Ducking her head down, Michelle squeezed her eyes shut, the last remnants of bravery draining away; she prayed that the lovely, rich lady and her gorgeous son would just keep walking.
A few seconds ticked by. She opened her eyes again. Two, polished boots stood in front of her mat.
“That picture there William,” said a pleasant voice above her. “It’s you! I am certain of it.” Michelle wanted to hide, or fall into a sidewalk crack... anything but look up.
“Ahem…”
A man cleared his throat somewhere far above Michelle’s head. Inhaling a rather large breath, she peered up from under her hat. She had a long way to look. Blue eyes met her gaze; their color appeared different up close... as inviting as pictures of tropical coastal waters in a travel magazine. The man’s expression reflected momentary surprise, then amusement.
“My mother favors this picture,” he said, pointing at the display. Michelle glanced at the woman next to him. The lady smiled.
“Well, aren’t you a dear,” she murmured in a soft voice, a gloved hand to her chest. Michelle blinked. Under the lady’s kind gaze she felt unduly juvenile. With her hair all tucked away she knew she probably resembled a teenager, more than a woman in her twenties.
“The sign says five dollars,” came the blue-eyed man’s voice again. “It does look uncannily like me, I’ll admit.”
“Five dollars?” his mother repeated, still looking at Michelle. “It’s worth much more than that, my dear. Really well done. How nice it would look on the ballroom wall... I could never get you to sit for a portrait.”
“Dammed waste of time,” the blue-eyed man said, grinning. “That’s what cameras are for.”
“He walks by here, each day at 12:06,” Michelle heard herself saying. “Where the heck did that come from?” she thought. She bit her lip to keep more words from coming out. The blue-eyed man’s eyebrows rose slightly. His mother clapped her hands together.
“I knew it!” the lady said, happil
y. “It is you... a mother knows. Would you be so kind, my boy? I’ve no paper money with me and I don’t suppose she takes checks.” The man chuckled at her enthusiasm and dug in his pocket for money.
“Well, for five dollars I suppose I can purchase it for you,” he stated, counting out the bills.
Though she hadn’t breathed in over a minute, Michelle forced her arms to move; carefully, she unpinned the portrait, wrapped it swiftly and tied the twine. Looking up again at the man she held the package up to him; their eyes met a second time.
William Montgomery had--reluctantly--allowed his mother to guide them over to a street artist. The huddled figure sat against the building next to a simple cardboard display, pen and ink drawings pinned to it. Some of the pictures weren’t bad but his mother pointed to the one in the top corner; his own face looked back at him. The portrait was very good. William looked curiously down at the artist, sitting so small on her mat with her back to the building. The girl’s odd, beautiful eyes struck him as she looked up from under her dingy hat; they shone out from her fair skin like greenish-gold gemstones. He’d never seen their equal.
She was a young woman, far too young to be out here peddling drawings--in William’s opinion. He felt instantly glad she had the sense to dress so plainly, lest she attract the wrong kind of attention. She’d caught his notice, however and he was drawn right in. Questions hovered on the tip of his tongue as he counted out the money. Why was she out here? Where was her family? When she lifted her eyes again to his--holding out the wrapped portrait--William decided to get a better look at her. Instead of taking the picture, he clasped her wrist and gently pulled her up to stand.
Michelle felt like she was in some kind of dream. The man just reached out, took her hand and made her stand up, and she didn’t say even one word in reprimand. Up close the man was even better looking, if that were possible. Unlike most of the 'british' men she’d seen on TV he was tall and broad-shouldered. He seemed to be scrutinizing her just as closely.
Giving the young woman an encouraging smile William pressed the money into her slender hand. The young woman's gloves were stained and worn. He felt a strange urge to cover her hands with his own and keep them warm. His mother spoke up.
“You’re very talented, my dear,” she said softly. Glancing at the woman Michelle felt comforted by the kind look in her eyes. The woman possessed blue eyes like her son's, though a little paler in hue.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” she managed to say, resisting the temptation to bite her lip.
The woman lifted a gloved hand and touched Michelle lightly on the side of her face; the gesture was natural and concerned, but it caught Michelle off guard.
“So young,” the lady said, smiling sadly. Michelle blinked; she struggled not to cry… not in front of them.
“We should go, Mother,” William, said, sobering. He saw the young woman stiffen at his mother’s touch; he knew his mum meant it kindly, but there were times he’d seen homeless people flip out. This girl was pretty and shy but she could easily be mentally ill. His mother looked up at him and nodded.
“Please take care of yourself, my dear,” she said, looking back at the young woman. Michelle just nodded, stupidly; her tongue seemed frozen. William and his mother began to walk away, Michelle left staring after them; she saw William bend down a little towards his mother.
“You have to be careful; the homeless here are very touchy about their lifestyle.” His words, though quietly spoken, drifted back to Michelle’s ears. Wound up already, her emotions brimmed over and something in her snapped.
“I am NOT homeless!” she yelled after the retreating pair.
They stopped walking at once, looking back at her in surprise. Michelle felt her face flame, but the embarrassment merely fueled her outburst. “I live in a nice hotel!” she continued. A few pedestrians stopped and stared, too. “I just can’t find work! I’m a CPA! I went to Stanford! And I... take care of myself just fine!”
Tears welled up, blurring Michelle’s vision; William's surprised expression, however, stood out with startling clarity. Shame hit Michelle like a slap in the face;. Flinging the dollar bills over the heads of the crowd, she turned around, seeking an escape. Grabbing her things in one swift movement, Michelle darted headlong into the throng of moving people, weaving among them in the opposite direction as William and his mother. Though no one followed her, she did not stop running until she reached the Waldorf’s back alley. Samuel was not on duty, and Michelle was glad of it; she knew she appeared distraught and didn’t feel like explaining herself at the moment.
It was not until she’d reached the sanctuary of her room that Michelle fully realized what had taken place. Collapsing on the floor, she caught her breath and began sobbing. Her behavior stuck out as appalling; making a scene was not in her nature, let alone running away like a spoiled child. Michelle felt mortified, in the ultimate sense of the word. Not only did she yell and throw money at the man she’d been hoping to impress, but his mother was there to witness her unhinged behavior. Well, she knew that if William was wondering whether or not she was mental, he knew what to think now.
Hanging her head, Michelle allowed her tears to flow unchecked.
“Oh... my... stars. I’m such an idiot,” she said, pressing her fists against her forehead. William wouldn’t want anything to do with her now, she was sure of it, and she’d only just found out his name. Sighing, Michelle wiped her eyes on the corner of her coat. Staring at the edge of the worn garment, she decided to take off her things; she carefully put them away and started the water going in the shower. She got out a towel automatically and stepped into the bathroom. Letting hot water pour over her Michelle was assailed by sobering thoughts.
She knew she couldn’t go back there; sitting at the same corner would be unwise. Thanks to her brave effort at being seen he blue-eyed man was aware of her presence. If she went back he might yell at her for scaring his mother, or something. Even if he said, or did, nothing, Michelle knew she wouldn’t be able to bear him passing by each day knowing she’d so royally screwed up her chance at making a good first impression.
“Ah well,” she thought, her eyes shut. “It’s not like he would’ve asked me out anyway. I’ll find another corner.” Enshrined in melancholy, Michelle sank down to the floor. “Hopefully, he’ll forget all about me.”
She sat in the shower for a long time.
BEHIND HIS mahogany desk William Montgomery stared out the windows of his office. He did not really see the splendid view outside. A pensive look marred his features; his blue eyes appeared troubled. Neat piles of papers sat on his desk, unnoticed. The altercation with the pretty street artist at lunch bothered him and he couldn’t escape the urge to do something.
Like most people would have been he was startled by the girl’s outburst, but her look of embarrassment struck him like an arrow. For the entire lunch hour following his mother had done nothing but say she hoped the young woman was alright, where was her family, etc; she was mortified that they might have inadvertently caused the “poor girl” additional suffering. She wondered if the girl really had gone to Stanford and if so, what was she doing selling drawings on the street. After seeing his mother to a cab, William returned to the corner; the girl was nowhere to be found.
Standing, William walked over to a window and stood, his hands clasped behind his back. Grimly, he pondered why he’d assumed the young woman was homeless. The idea apparently insulted her. To be sure she was sitting on the street, but she wasn’t panhandling; her clothes were worn but they were clean and she did look as though she took care of herself. Perhaps it was her jobless condition; once she admitted she’d seen him each day, it was easy to draw the conclusion that the girl was otherwise unemployed. Maybe it was just her stained, drooping hat.
William smiled, recalling the girl’s lovely eyes looking up from under the brim of it. The sky might as well have opened, and poured a single ray of sunlight down on her face. Though slight, the young woman possessed a
haunting beauty that William could not shake from his mind; not that he tried. He appreciated a bona fide distraction the same as any man, let alone a lovely mystery-girl; one whom might need rescuing. Perhaps she would return to her corner; it was also probable that she may never come back.
“Perhaps she wants to be found,” William murmured, looking down; his window went all the way to the floor, offering a substantial view of the streets, far below. As he stared as the moving cars, he wondered about the girl. Why was she out there? The young woman certainly didn’t like her unemployed situation and was clearly mortified at being called ‘homeless’.
The heated words she shouted earlier came floating back to him; William returned to his desk. When angered, people usually give out far more information than they intend to.
“A nice hotel... CPA... Stanford,” he said, as if reciting notes in a meeting. In his profession, remembering all the minute details meant the difference between losing a client and making the deal of the century. Picking up the phone, William decided that if the mystery-girl could draw an exact portrait of him without even meeting him, he could find her with just a bit of effort.
Taking out his cell, he dialed his mother’s number.
“It’s William. Fine. Is there a name on the back of that portrait you got today? Yes, I’ll wait.” He tapped his foot on the wood flooring, impatient to put a name to the face in his mind. “Yes? Got it…” William wrote something on a nearby notepad. “Thank you. No, no… I’ll be working late. Alfred will drive you to the station. You as well. Get plenty of rest. Good bye.”
Hanging up, William read the name he’d hastily scrawled, a boyish look of satisfaction crossing his eyes. “Michelle Gregory,” he said, to himself. The name fit her; she looked like a Michelle. Ambling absent-mindedly to the window again, William fingered the paper awhile before folding it and putting it into his pocket. Looking down at the streets, he smiled to himself. He had no idea what he’d say to her if he ever saw her again.
Draw Me A Picture Page 2