Christian grimaced. He loved Courtney. She was adorable, and he appreciated that she trusted him more than her wedding planner and her strict mother. Maybe he could delay her.
“Courtney, I’m helping another client right now. Why don’t you and your mother grab an appetizer in Drayden’s café on the fourth floor? I’ll meet you there later, and we can—”
“Christian, please,” Courtney begged, sounding tearful. “I’m standing here in this white undergarment that looks like my grandma’s nightgown, and I’ve been through more dress changes than Stevie Nicks. I had to lock myself in the fitting room with the phone just to call you.”
“I’ll be right there,” Christian promised. “But I’ve only got minutes. I’m really pressed for time.”
“Thank you,” Courtney said with a sob.
He switched the phone to vibrate and took the UP escalator, looking down at Women’s Shoes. There was no sign of Derek, but he saw Natasha circling the department, which appeared busy. With any luck, Derek had already begun their mission involving Natasha’s secret lair of Dolly madness.
He found Courtney blowing her nose in the middle of a group of chattering women, none of whom were listening to each other or saying anything helpful that he could discern. She gave a relieved yelp when she saw him and rushed over to throw her arms around him. He felt a pang of regret that he’d encouraged her relationship with her fiancé, Barry. She looked delectable in the white cotton sheath.
“Gaynell,” he said sternly to the most forbidding member of the group of women, “your daughter is a size five. She has exactly the kind of body the current styles were designed for.” When Gaynell’s expression remained unmoved, Christian played his trump card. “I remember when Barry told me he fell in love with Courtney’s tiny waist. He said that everyone would know she was getting married for love and not because she had to.”
Gaynell, a staunch pillar of her church, blanched and said, “No one would dare—”
“That’s exactly what they’ll say if they see a high waist,” Christian warned.
“I love you,” Courtney murmured as Gaynell began directing the saleswomen to bring a different style of dress. “She said the sleeker dresses plunge too low in the back.”
“Remind her that the veil will cover your back,” Christian said. “I really have to go, hon. If she picks a veil you don’t like, just remember how fragile they are. An accident on the morning of your wedding, and you can rip the whole thing off and use just the headpiece.”
“I’m naming my first child Christian,” Courtney vowed.
“Your mother will approve,” Christian said with a grin, then hurried toward the DOWN escalator.
Christian rarely made use of the game functions on his PalmPilot, but today was a good opportunity to finally learn Desdemona. He selected it as he wandered around Natasha’s department, pretending to take note of new arrivals for his clients as he manipulated the game on the screen. Enjoying the mild excitement of his mall espionage, he was prepared to intercept Natasha if she seemed likely to return to her office.
Natasha, armed with a clipboard, bar code scanner, and commands for the stockroom staff, hovered over cartons of shoeboxes. She tucked the clipboard under her arm and scanned the boxes, then tore the top sheet of paper from the clipboard and officiously handed it to Erik. When she turned to stride away, Christian slid around a column to follow her but was overrun by masses of green, yellow, pink, and purple gingham.
He clutched a table as the quiet of mid-afternoon Drayden’s was suddenly broken by the whoops, hollers, and yeehaws of nearly fifty women dressed for a hoedown. As a woman with brown hair swept into a beehive flew by him, he caught a glimpse of white paper pinned to the back of her dress. Apparently, she was contestant 23 in the Midwest Square Dancing Competition. Behind the group of women, an equal number of men dressed in cowboy boots and bolo ties swaggered onto the floor.
With the sudden influx of customers, Christian figured that Natasha wouldn’t be returning to her office any time soon. He wandered to Cosmetics, where he could still keep an eye on her. He’d return to Women’s Shoes if the ruckus subsided, signaling that Natasha might escape the herd of flared skirts and puffy sleeves.
After rounding a display of face creams claiming to benefit laugh and worry lines even better than Botox, he watched for a second as Natasha assisted a woman with unusually full blond hair. Her resemblance to Dolly Parton explained the look on Natasha’s face. She seemed genuinely amicable and willing to aid the customer in finding the right fit for her feet, which were clad in chunky fuchsia clogs.
As Christian moved deeper into Cosmetics, he felt his phone vibrate at his side. He lifted it in front of his eyes, but a flash of red caught his peripheral vision. When he turned to obtain a full view, he felt his heart lurch. Behind the Lillith Allure counter, Bianca stood directly beneath a halogen spot lamp intended to highlight the latest products. Instead, it cast a glow on the long tresses of her head. Her pale skin seemed to radiate from within.
Christian stared as if seeing her for the first time. He’d never really talked to her after a brief introduction by Vienna several weeks before. His mind had been on something else at the time, and beyond noting to himself that she was attractive, he hadn’t given her much thought. Today, her appearance made him mentally grope for some image.
One of Botticelli’s three Graces, he thought.
He stashed his phone back in its holder without looking at the caller ID and dashed toward the counter. As she saw his intense expression, Bianca looked startled and backed up, causing a few bottles on the display shelves to teeter.
“You have to leave,” he said.
“Huh?” Bianca asked with a stricken look. “Did I do something wrong?”
“You have to leave now. I need you.”
“For one of your clients?” she asked, glancing around as if to see who might be with him.
“For me,” he said. “I’ve got a…uh…situation. I need your help. You need to leave the store.”
“I still have two hours on the clock,” she protested.
“Please, Bianca, for everyone’s sake, go,” Meg said, appearing suddenly from around the other side of the counter. She looked with great interest at Christian’s choice of T-shirt.
Christian reached in his pocket and took out a business card, saying, “This is my apartment. I’ll meet you there. Please don’t make me wait two hours.”
“I can’t just walk out of here,” Bianca said with a gasp.
“Thirty minutes,” Christian begged.
“I told you those cream-filled donuts were weapons of mass destruction,” Meg said. “Now you’ve gotten food poisoning. You’ll have to clock out early.” She looked at Christian and swore, “She’ll be there. Thirty minutes.”
Christian nodded and practically flew back up the escalator to the third floor. Fortunately, Courtney and Gaynell were busy in a fitting room, and he grabbed the arm of one of the sales associates.
“That thing Courtney was wearing a while ago.”
“Mr. Mercer, even if you don’t like them all, our gowns are not ‘things’—”
“No, the camisole, or whatever you call it. I need to buy one. Now. Where can I get it?”
“We don’t sell them. We just provide them for our brides between fittings.”
“I have to have one,” Christian said, starting to feel frantic.
The woman looked at him and said, “Oh, all right. Heaven knows, you’ve brought enough business—” she broke off with a wicked smile. “We’ll just add it to the cost of Courtney’s dress. The least that dreadful mother can do—”
“Anything; I don’t care,” Christian exhorted. “Hurry.”
Half an hour later, he arrived at his apartment just ahead of Bianca. When he opened the door, she still looked confused and uncertain, and he ushered her inside. “Mr. Mercer—”
“Christian,” he said.
“I don’t understand—”
“I ne
ed you to sit for me,” he said.
Her eyes darted around, and she said, “You have a child?”
He thrust the bag at her and said, “Can you change into this?”
Bianca pulled the garment from the bag and gave him an incredulous stare. “I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am, but—”
“Oh, God, no,” Christian said with remorse. “I want to paint you. Wearing this.”
“Paint me?”
“I’m an artist,” he said. He paused, hearing his own words, then he smiled and repeated, “I’m an artist. Seeing you a while ago…I knew I had to paint you. Haven’t you heard that all artists are slightly mad? Indulge me. Please.”
She looked into his eyes, as if assessing whether he was trustworthy, and after a minute said, “Where can I change?”
“Anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be in the first room on the right when you’re ready.”
Christian went into his studio and stared at the sketch pads, pencils, and pastels with a frown. Then he crossed the room to the closet and dug through the chaos on the floor, tossing items back out over his shoulder, until he found what he was looking for. He removed a large wooden box from the darkest recess of the closet, carried it to his easel, and blew dust from the top just as Bianca walked in. The cloud billowed in front of her, causing her to sneeze.
“Bless you.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He cleared training materials from an antique tapestry love seat that he’d salvaged from one of his mother’s moves. He’d often wondered why he kept it, but now he was grateful, especially after Bianca settled herself there and waited patiently while he dragged in different lamps until he got the lighting he wanted. He tossed his phone and headset to his desk and left the room to change into an old white T-shirt and a pair of faded, ripped jeans. When he returned, Bianca was yawning.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need anything?”
“I’m just sleepy,” she said. “What do I have to do?”
“Whatever you want,” he said. “Be comfortable. If you want to lie down, I’ll get you a pillow.”
He darted to his bedroom and came back with a pillow. He settled it under her head, then fanned her lush red hair around her, dying to get a paintbrush in his hands. When his cell phone began to vibrate against his desk, he ignored it.
Bianca yawned again and closed her eyes while Christian cleared his easel and set a large canvas on it. He arranged his paints as he’d done many years before, falling back into step as if the last time he’d painted was a week ago instead of years. Then finally, wonderfully, he was painting, looking from Bianca to his canvas. He was dimly aware that the phone continued to vibrate occasionally, but he didn’t care. Nothing was as important as drowsy Bianca and the vision of her that began to appear in his imagination, where it would be transported through his muscle, bone, and nerves to the canvas.
“May I use your bathroom?”
Bianca’s question brought Christian out of his fog. He hadn’t even realized she was awake. He nodded, turned his attention back to his canvas, then looked at the clock. When Bianca came back, he said, “I had no idea we’d been like this for nearly two hours. If you need to leave, I’ll understand.”
“I’m fine,” Bianca said and stretched. “I had a good nap.” She settled on the love seat again. “Is it okay if I talk?”
“Of course.”
“I have to admit, I don’t have a very high opinion of artists.”
“Really? Why not?” Christian asked, using his palette knife to blend pigments.
“Even though I’m not that great at it, I really love my job at Drayden’s. I like the store and my manager, and the benefits are fantastic.”
“Uh-huh,” Christian said, wondering how she’d gone from artists to Drayden’s and whether she was about to ask him for career advice.
“And redheads usually get along with other redheads,” Bianca mused.
“I’ve generally found that to be true.”
Bianca frowned and said, “Your hair is more brown than red.”
“It’s auburn,” Christian said.
Bianca stared at his hair for a few seconds, then said, “Sydney was definitely a redhead, like me.”
Christian decided that either he needed a break, or he was spoiled by Derek’s ability to tell a story, because Bianca left him mystified. He put down the palette and knife, cleaned off a chair so he could sit down, and said, “Go on.”
“I’d only been working at Drayden’s about a month when they did this exhibit. Of paintings.”
“On that wall outside the café? On the fourth floor?”
“Yes,” Bianca said. “Rumor had it that the artist was related to some important person in the Drayden’s organization, and everyone was excited about it. Supposedly she was famous. The artist, I mean.”
“Sydney the redhead,” Christian guessed.
“Yes. Anyway, I looked at the paintings and, while I know nothing about art, I wasn’t impressed. It was just a lot of color with stuff sticking out of it.”
“Stuff?”
“Uh-huh. Like broken glass, pieces of mirrors, cosmetics brushes gunked with paint. Pretty much everything I work with every day, stuck on a canvas with a bunch of paint.”
“I see,” Christian said, glad that he didn’t. “So you felt like maybe this Sydney person was attacking a career that you love?”
“Well, honestly, no. I didn’t get that. I just thought it was crap.”
“Okay,” Christian said, starting to enjoy Bianca’s way of telling a story.
“Then the artist—maybe she is famous. Sydney Kepler?”
“Never heard of her,” Christian said.
“She did an in-store appearance. Someone from the paper came to interview her, all these big shots were there, and she gave a little talk. Whatever; I didn’t go. But I saw her later, walking with the reporter and a group of people. She was a beautiful woman, and in spite of the fact that I wasn’t crazy about her paintings, her hair caught my eye, and I started to feel nicer toward her.”
“As a fellow redhead,” Christian said.
“Yes. When she walked by my counter, I gave her a big smile and said hello, and she stopped with her entourage. She sort of swept her arms out, like she was on a game show presenting a prize of Lillith Allure products, and said, ‘This is exactly what my art protests. The cosmetics industry plays on women’s fears of inadequacy and aging.’ All those people were hanging on every word, and as Meg said later, they looked at me like I was personally responsible for the glass ceiling, domestic violence, and the failure of the Equal Rights Amendment.”
“That’s awful,” Christian said.
“No, what’s awful is that I blurted out, ‘Your paintings play on my fears of bad dreams and acid reflux.’ The reporter laughed so hard that I thought he was going to wet his pants, sort of like you’re doing now.”
“Sorry,” Christian said, composing himself.
“Less than a half hour later, my manager was asked to escort me upstairs. Melanie’s really cool, and all the way there, she kept saying she wished I hadn’t done it, because she liked me and didn’t want to lose me. That maybe if I apologized to Sydney and the store manager, I’d just get a reprimand, and she’d do everything she could to help me keep my job.”
“No wonder you like your manager,” Christian said.
“We went into this little conference room, and Hershel, the store manager, came in. His face was all grim, and he shut the door, looked at me, then started laughing, too. Apparently, Sydney’s father owns the building that’s used by Drayden’s in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. The Lvandsson family was doing him a favor by showing her work; she wasn’t nearly as important as she thought. Plus, she gave Hershel all kinds of headaches about her exhibit. I didn’t get in trouble at all. Hershel wanted to see me to make sure I wasn’t upset. That’s why I love Drayden’s.”
“And why you don’t love redheaded artists,” Christian said. “Although I
think it’s important for you to know that I in no way hold you responsible for the failure of the Equal Rights Amendment.”
“Thank you,” Bianca said. “In return, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and won’t blame you for Sydney. I didn’t mean to distract you.”
“I needed a break. I’m also hungry. Are you?”
Bianca nodded and followed him to the kitchen. She made sandwiches while he made tea. Their conversation ranged from Emily-Anne’s dogs to Bianca’s family. She was the youngest of three girls. Not only were both her parents doctors, but both her sisters were in medical school.
“I’m the dumb one,” Bianca said.
“You’re not dumb,” Christian protested.
“Trust me, in my family, I’m the dumb one. But they all love me and spoil me, so it’s okay. Plus I give my sisters all my free samples. Med school isn’t cheap.”
Christian’s customary need to validate people asserted itself, and he said, “You shouldn’t put yourself down because of your job. All that matters is loving what you do and doing your best. There’s nothing worse than having a compulsion to do one thing and being forced by circumstances or a lack of confidence to do something else.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, looking like he’d given her something to think about.
When they finished eating, she expressed her willingness to continue sitting for him. He had no trouble getting right back into his work, and Bianca dozed again.
The ringing of his phone jarred the room’s tranquility, and Bianca’s eyes fluttered open. Christian ignored it, just as he had his cell phone, and suddenly his mother’s voice pierced the silence from his answering machine.
“Listen, young man, I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ve left five messages on your cell phone. I want you to return my call at once. I’m at the Rania Gallery overseeing my new installation. Betsy Pelham stopped in after a trip that took her through Terre Haute. Apparently—”
The machine cut off, and Bianca’s eyes met his, then moved to his paintbrush, which was poised midair. Christian turned toward the phone, then looked back at the canvas and started painting again.
Someone Like You Page 27