Derek laughed at her impatience and said, “No, none of that. Sometimes I think of myself as a boy from a small town who’s still ignorant about the ways of the world. Davii is completely opposite. It surprises me that someone like him is interested in someone like me.”
“Someone like him? Someone like you?” Vienna parroted. “Please, the boy is from Muncie, Indiana. That ain’t so glamorous, baby. Besides, you’re both human beings. That’s all that matters. Everyone’s different, and nobody is better than anybody else.”
“I know all that,” Derek said.
“Davii likes you. It’s that simple. Don’t make it any more complicated than it has to be,” Vienna advised.
“Easy for you to say,” Derek said. “What about Hunter?”
“What about Hunter?” Vienna asked.
“Forget it,” Derek said, waving away the thought. “Too complicated.”
“Fine,” Vienna said as she signed the charge receipt. “We’ve got to get back to work. What should I say to Davii? If you want, I could pretend like I never told you.”
Derek stood in thought for a moment and finally said, “No. Tell him I’m interested, too.”
11
Heels Over Head
Christian hadn’t really been interested in giving a mini lesson in yoga, but Trudy Wyler had sounded so stressed when she called that he’d relented. He slowly raised his left leg behind him, focusing all his energy on holding his leg straight while he lowered his upper body until it was parallel to the floor. His right leg trembled a little as it strained to support the weight of his body. He stayed focused and stared straight ahead at Trudy as she mirrored his movements.
“That’s it, Trudy,” Christian encouraged softly. “You’re doing it. Reach forward with your arms as you come down. It will help maintain your balance.”
“I feel like Supergirl,” Trudy said. “Do I look like I’m flying?”
“Yes,” Christian said, trying to be patient with his client. She wasn’t focusing and kept cracking jokes, which he found annoying. Why was he bothering with this session if she wasn’t going to take anything seriously? “Now we’ll move into the Warrior Pose. Slowly bring yourself back to a standing position. Yes. Now take a step forward with your left foot. Good. Lean into it with your arms outstretched. Great. Inhale and feel your chest expand. Air is very important in yoga. Oxygen is important to the body and spirit. Fallen leaves don’t move on their own. The wind moves them.”
“Christian, you are the wind beneath my wings,” Trudy quipped.
“That’s wonderful,” Christian said dryly.
With Trudy still mirroring his movements, Christian sat on a mat with his limbs twisted and extended in directions that would have made him a hit at the circus. Or maybe at an orgy. He fixed his eyes on a point on the wall directly in front of him and tried to clear his mind of big tops and sex parties.
Trudy giggled loudly as she attempted to fold her legs over each other. Her foot kept slipping off her thigh no matter how hard she struggled to keep it there. She finally threw up her hands in a gesture of defeat and said, “I know this is supposed to help me relax, but it’s stressing me out so much that I can’t do it.”
“You don’t seem stressed out to me,” Christian said. “When you got here, you were ready to quit your job at the factory. Now you’re giggling like a ten-year-old at recess. Which do you prefer?”
Trudy lay back on her mat and stared at the ceiling as she said, “You’re right, as usual. I’m just tired of the same thing over and over. Go to work. Manage my team. Take the heat from my bosses when we don’t make our quotas. Go home. Manage my home. Take the heat from my husband when dinner’s late and the kids haven’t done their homework.”
“You need to delegate at home as much as you do at work,” Christian said carefully.
Trudy quickly sat up and said, “Oh, no. Fred helps out all the time. He’s great. Sometimes I just think about the choices I made and wonder if I did the right thing. Does that make any sense? Do you do that?”
Of course not! Christian wanted to say, but it would have been a lie. Whenever he allowed himself to slow down, he questioned his decision to remain in Indiana. He’d been so tired of moving with his mother to whatever place appealed to her artistic sensibilities. She’d been enamored with the sparse and flat expanses of the Midwestern landscape, which was how they’d ended up in Terre Haute. But after drawing her inspiration from that environment for a few years, she’d begun to miss the buzz and crackle of big city living as she’d experienced it in New York, Boston, and London. About the same time that she’d succumbed to her desire to return to urban life, Christian had decided to stop living at the mercy of his mother’s whims.
He still remembered the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach on the day he waved goodbye when her cab pulled away from the old farmhouse they’d shared for three years. Only a few hours later, the moving van had followed in her wake. By the end of that week, a new family was in the farmhouse, and Christian was settling into his apartment in the Galaxy Building.
He’d been determined to make a life and a name for himself. Nothing had turned out the way he’d envisioned it on that day, but as he always told his clients, “You can’t control everything, but you can adapt and benefit from what the world has to offer.”
Trudy jerked him back to the present when she hopped up and said, “Look at the time. I’ve got to pick up my youngest from practice in fifteen minutes. How much am I paying you?”
Christian told her the amount and followed her into the dining room, where she’d left her purse. He dropped two beginning yoga tapes into her bag and urged her to find some quiet time alone to practice the poses. “I promise you it’ll help you relax. Better yet, make it a family activity some weekend. This is something you could all do together for fun.”
“That’s a nice theory. You obviously don’t have teenagers,” Trudy said wryly as she handed Christian a check. “Besides, I’m in the middle of redecorating the family room. Nobody’s going to relax until I’m done with that project.” She glanced around. “I wish I’d asked you to help me. I love the colors in here. And this table is great.”
It was a beautiful room, decorated to perfection with deep-wine-colored walls, a small crystal chandelier, and tasteful prints. But he’d never used it for entertaining. The mahogany dining table had become the place where he spread out calendars, plans, workshop syllabi, and even fabric swatches and catalogs for his clients.
Trudy continued to gush about how much she loved his sense of style and color as they walked back through the apartment. He looked around and tried to see it objectively. His living room was spacious, with high ceilings and large windows that provided a view of the distant airfield. It had been the view that made him choose the apartment. He loved watching planes land and take off, sometimes wishing he was on one headed somewhere.
Trudy babbled on, asking where he’d gotten the Eames chair and the large, intricately woven wire sculpture. He explained that it was from an artist who was a family friend. Trudy stopped at a large painting on one of the walls. She stared at it for a moment before saying, “This is incredible. Did you do this?”
“No,” Christian answered. Although it was his personal favorite of his mother’s work, it was also a constant reminder that he was in her artistic shadow. A red barn and white farmhouse were set in an expansive wheat field. In the center of the field, a skyscraper towered over an adjoining parking lot. The sky was the color of peach flesh.
It was a painting that he’d been part of from beginning to end. He’d played apprentice to his mother, fetching paint and linseed oil, cleaning her brushes, and offering suggestions. She’d taken the time to explain her technique, how she replicated the light at sunset on the side of the skyscraper or thinned paints to let the base coats show through. He’d witnessed the whole process, and when she put the paintbrush down after the final stroke, he was in complete awe. His mother had watched him as he regarded the piece,
finally saying, “This one is for you.” She was quick to add, “After the exhibit is over.”
Once Trudy had left, Christian wished that it was as easy to peel off his memories as his yoga attire, or that disappointments could swirl down the drain with the lather he rinsed from his hair. He laughed ruefully at the realization that he needed to attend one of his own “Don’t Look Back” seminars. Funny how much easier it was to dole out advice to other people.
While he shaved, he checked out his abs as the towel slowly inched its way down from his waist. Even when yoga failed to discipline his mind, at least it kept his body toned. He tried to remember the last time he’d been on a date, or at least the last time he’d had sex, and frowned. It wasn’t possible that his schedule was that busy, but he drew a blank. Had it been two months? Four? It was pathetic that nothing came to mind. Yoga notwithstanding, maybe it was time to get out of focus. Or at least out of his apartment for a reason other than work.
He finished styling his hair, wishing he could make it look like Davii did, then went into his bedroom to dress. He chose a green turtleneck sweater, noting the striking way it contrasted with his auburn hair. After he finished dressing, he did a final mirror check, happy with the brown boots he’d recently bought at Drayden’s and with his weathered jeans. He looked good enough for a night out in the mall.
Just before he left, he surveyed his bedroom. Unlike the rest of the apartment, it was a horror show of disorganization and clutter. The far wall was stacked halfway to the ceiling with shoeboxes. Shirts and pants were strewn across the floor as if they should have chalk outlines around them, and socks were flung over the arms of the overstuffed chair in the corner. The only positive thing about the room was that the bed was made.
“If I were my own client,” he said aloud, “I’d point out how this bedroom clearly indicates that I don’t plan to bring home a date any time in the near future.”
A few minutes later, he slid onto a stool at the Jupiter Lounge and smiled at the bartender, whom he didn’t recognize. She flicked her long brown hair behind her shoulder, affording him a bold view of her plunging neckline, then leaned across the bar and said, “What can I get for you tonight?”
“Something sweet?” he suggested.
“Daiquiri? Bellini?”
“Sex on the Beach?” he asked.
“Too bad we’re landlocked,” she said, rolling her eyes to let him know that she’d heard his line many times before.
Suitably admonished, he said, “Dirty martini, please.” He reclined on his bar stool as he surveyed the room. Anyone he found even mildly attractive was engaged in conversation with someone equally attractive. They all looked like matched sets, and they all seemed years younger than he was. Even though he was barely twenty-five, his most serious relationship, which had lasted only a year, had been over for a long time.
The bartender actually reminded him of Aline, a French woman who’d worked as a paralegal for one of Christian’s first clients. He still had canvases he’d painted of Aline tucked away in the closet of his extra bedroom: Aline sitting naked on the bed in his apartment; draped with a silk sheet in the garden of the vacation house they’d rented by Lake Michigan; smoking her Gauloise cigarettes. When he wasn’t painting his lover, Christian had worked on a series of paintings that mixed abstraction with realism. He’d been proud of them but was disappointed by the reaction they elicited from Aline.
“Christian,” she’d said, drawing out the n with her accent, “I can see so much of your mother in these.” Christian realized later that it was meant to be a compliment, but at the time it had bruised his ego. It was the beginning of the end of their relationship.
“He’s dressed as if he’s on the prowl, but he can’t get his job off his mind. He thought maybe a drink would help, but he’s barely touched it.”
Christian spun around, glad that his thoughts had been interrupted, and said, “Derek! Good to see you.”
“You, too,” Derek said with a big smile. “Which desperate client are you scheming to save now?”
“I’m having a client-free night,” Christian vowed. He became aware of a commotion in the mall outside the bar and said, “What’s going on out there?”
“It’s Miss Indiana,” Derek said. “She’s posing for a twenty-dollar donation.”
“For a photograph?” Christian asked.
“No. For twenty dollars, you get to sketch her. The donation goes to breast cancer research. At some point, the drawings are going to be auctioned to raise more money.”
“That must be the group Emily-Anne Barrister is chairing,” Christian said. “I’m actually helping her organize that event, although I don’t know all the details yet.”
“You want to check it out?”
“Sure,” Christian said, finishing his martini and following Derek outside the Jupiter Lounge. He smiled, looking around at all the people seated at easels who stared intently at the wholesomely stunning Miss Indiana while they tried to draw her. It reminded him of a trip he’d taken to New Orleans and the artists in Jackson Square. “Let’s do it.”
“Forget it,” Derek said. “I can’t draw.”
“Anybody can draw,” Christian argued. “Besides, who cares what it looks like? It’s for a good cause.”
With a shrug of resignation, Derek reached into his pocket, and within minutes they were seated at easels on opposite sides of Miss Indiana. Christian began with the intention of doing only a quick sketch, but he became absorbed by the woman’s beautiful face as she smiled a little shyly at the would-be artists around her. He’d completely lost track of time when he heard Derek’s voice behind him.
“Okay, my sketch must be burned immediately and never spoken of again,” Derek said. Christian turned around to see Derek’s eyes fixed on his drawing. “You told me that your mother is an artist. You never said you are,” Derek griped.
Christian blushed and said, “I’m not. This is just—”
“Humiliating beyond all belief,” Derek said, holding up his sketch for Christian’s perusal.
After a minute, Christian gently said, “You are definitely a better shoe salesman than an artist.”
“That’s the lamest attempt at a compliment I’ve ever heard,” Derek complained. When he saw Christian’s abashed expression, he burst out laughing and said, “There’s no way I’m signing this.”
“Oh, you have to,” Christian insisted. “Remember, it’s for—”
“A good cause, I know,” Derek said, rolling his eyes. He grabbed Christian’s sketch pencil and signed the sketch “Derek ‘Picasso’ Anderson” with a huge flourish. Christian cracked up when Derek added, beneath his name in block letters, “AGE THREE.”
After Christian signed and turned in his own sketch, he said, “It’s not that late. Do you feel like going back to my place? I can throw a pizza in the oven or something.”
“Sure,” Derek said. He maintained a running commentary on the people around them as they walked toward the Galaxy Building, stopping only once to stare at a suit in the window of Mercury Man. “Help me before I charge again,” he moaned.
Christian grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the store, saying, “You don’t need another suit. Although I must admit, your taste in clothes is impeccable.”
“Thanks. I had some guidance picking out my suits, though. Had I known you before, I might have hired you to help me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t, because I usually don’t consider my clients for any relationship beyond business,” Christian said. They were quiet in the elevator. Then, as Christian ushered Derek into his apartment, he asked, “Would you like the grand tour?”
“Absolutely,” Derek said. “This is the biggest apartment I’ve seen in this building.”
“The ones on the lower floors were too small for me. Rumor has it that the penthouse is spectacular. I have no idea who lives there, though.”
Christian led Derek through the apartment. Derek seemed to like the view as much as he did, and
his eyes grew wide when he turned to face the paintings on the opposite wall.
“Wow, that’s a huge print,” Derek said, pointing to the painting of the skyscraper in the field. “I think I saw the original at the Whitney Museum in New York.”
“Probably. I loaned it to them for their Patricia Mercer exhibit,” Christian said.
After a pause, Derek said, “It’s official. I have absolutely no cultural credibility at all. I can’t draw, and I can’t tell a painting from a print. Nor did I connect that painting to your mother. Does that window open? Can I hurl myself through it?”
“No,” Christian said. “I mean, it opens, but I can’t eat a whole pizza by myself, so you’ll have to stay alive long enough to help me.”
“What about that one?” Derek asked, pointing at a small abstract portrait of a naked man. “Is that your mother’s, too?”
“No,” Christian said and turned Derek toward the back of the apartment.
“It’s yours, isn’t it?” Derek demanded, looking over his shoulder. “It’s excellent.”
“Actually, I do have a work in progress,” Christian said, pushing him down the hall to the room that doubled as his office and his studio. Derek waited while he moved some training materials out of the way and uncovered a pastel he’d been working on.
“That white dog is kind of scary,” Derek said with a semi-horrified look on his face.
“Who, Perky? That’s Emily-Anne’s dog. The eyes do look slightly alien. The other dog is Jitters. I’ve only met them once, but she dotes on them like they’re children. I thought giving her a drawing of them would be a nice way to cement our new relationship.” Christian paused, then said, “I guess that leaves the kitchen.”
“What about the bedroom?” Derek asked, then he blushed, biting his lip. “I mean, you haven’t shown me your bedroom.”
“If you think that dog is scary, you’ll be terrified by my bedroom.”
“I doubt it,” Derek said.
With a resigned sigh, Christian led Derek to the bedroom and opened the door. Derek stumbled over a stray shoe but caught himself on the edge of the bed and sat down to survey the room. He looked up at Christian, who remained standing by the door.
Someone Like You Page 11