by Shawna Seed
“That’s OK. They’re not... Oh. You’re supposed to look through them, aren’t you?” She put the boxes down and opened them.
“Sorry about this,” he said, poking quickly through them. “Memo from the boss.”
When he was done, Genevieve handed him her badge and electronic access card.
Bill took them, but instead of ushering her out, he nodded toward the door that led to the galleries. “Would you like a walk-through? I don’t think anyone would mind – the doors open in a few minutes anyway. I’ll watch your things.”
The Hilliard was rarely mobbed, but Genevieve loved being alone in the galleries. It reminded her of afternoons as a little girl spent paging through art books with her mother.
She wound her way past all of her favorites – the Kandinsky that she and Thomas debated endlessly, the Van Gogh that reminded her of the Texas plains where she’d grown up.
Her last stop was a drawing called Study for Tristan and Iseult, by Théodore Lazare.
It wasn’t the most famous thing in the museum. In fact, it wasn’t even always on display. It was just a sketch, something the artist did to work out ideas.
Lazare had died young, leaving fewer than 20 finished works. He’d attained a bit of success near the end of his life with paintings inspired by a trip to Morocco, pieces now considered second-rate. The drawing was part of his earlier output, which featured themes from literature and was influenced by the romanticism of Delacroix.
The drawing showed Iseult in profile, her hair obscuring her face. Genevieve had always been moved by the way Lazare conveyed so much emotion with so few strokes. She could imagine the torment of a woman about to be ripped away from her true love.
There was another reason Genevieve liked the drawing: It had a mystery attached to it. The finished painting Tristan and Iseult had disappeared during World War II. There weren’t even photos of it. The drawing was all that remained.
Voices floated toward her, alerting her that the museum had opened. She took one last look at poor, doomed Iseult and headed for the exit.
Genevieve budgeted two hours for wallowing in self-pity.
Hunkered down on her sofa in a pair of yoga pants and a Texas Tech sweatshirt, she flipped through the TV channels, but home improvement shows could keep her anxiety at bay for only so long.
She decided a dose of Texas can-do optimism was required. She muted the TV and scrolled through her cell phone for the contact that said, simply, D.
D Jones was Genevieve’s former roommate and still her best friend. On move-in day their freshman year, Genevieve made the mistake of using D’s given name, which was in the letter Genevieve had received from the dorm. She’d learned right then that D might as well stand for Don’t-ever-call-me-anything-else.
“What do you recommend to counteract the effects of unemployment?” Genevieve asked when D answered.
“Aw, Gen,” D said in her Dallas twang. “You caught me at airport security. Are you cratering or can I call you back in five?”
Five turned out to be 15.
“Sorry about that,” D said when she called back. “I was tussling with TSA. I told them all I had on under my jacket was a cami and I wasn’t parading around in my frickin’ underwear. I think that guy just wanted a free look. Not that there’s much to see.” She paused to take a breath. “OK. So, you’re canned from that job that made you miserable. Tell me everything.”
Genevieve gave her a short recap. “So, those are the highlights. Or lowlights,” she said. “So, the question is, what do I do now?”
D was ready with an answer. “Get your butt out to Vegas and meet me at this stupid sales meeting! Even unemployed, you’ll be way more fun than anybody else there.”
Genevieve laughed, for the first time in days. It was just like D to come up with something outrageous. “I don’t think I should spend my severance in Vegas,” she said.
“You can share my room. Free!” D said. “I have miles and can book you a ticket. Free! Drinks in the casino are, say it with me: Free!”
“D, that’s really generous of you, but …”
D would not be derailed.
“I’m eating on the expense account, so we’ll order lots of courses and share – you don’t eat much anyway. Now, you will have to pay cab fare from the airport, though I guess if you really wanted to economize you could take a bus or, I don’t know, walk.”
She paused for breath, finally, and Genevieve seized the opening.
“I really was just hoping you could help me brainstorm my next move.”
D was ready for that one. “You know I strategize better over cocktails.”
Genevieve had to admit this was true. Parties, crowds, noise – they all seemed to make D sharper. She fed off other people’s energy.
Genevieve began to waver. She hadn’t seen D in months, and that was at her grandmother’s funeral – hardly a fun occasion.
But her conscience reasserted itself. “That just sounds like running away from reality.”
D laughed. “No, you are running to reality! The reality where you and I dream up your next career move and have drinks and maybe even meet some hot guys!”
And this was why D was in sales. She could make the most outrageous idea seem perfectly reasonable, even smart.
Genevieve knew when she was defeated. “OK, Viva Las Vegas,” she said. “But it’s only a couple hundred miles. I’ll drive.”
“Yesss!” D whooped. “I am liking that answer.”
“I feel so much better knowing I’ve made the responsible decision.”
“Gen, this is going to do you a world of good,” D said. “How are you doing, anyway? Still having the panic attacks?”
“One in the car this morning on the way to work.”
“Are you sleeping OK? Did you talk to the doc about getting something for anxiety and insomnia?”
D sold pharmaceuticals and thought her sample case held the solution to any problem. It surprised Genevieve how much she honestly believed in her wares.
“He gave me the sleeping pill you told me to ask for.”
“Any side effects? Because…” D was suddenly drowned out by a boarding announcement.
“Gen? Gotta go. That’s my flight and I need to pee. See you there! Oh, and Gen? Pack fun clothes.”
D hung up before Genevieve could respond.
Talking to D energized Genevieve. She emailed several contacts, asking them to keep an eye out for job openings. She did laundry and tidied her place. It didn’t take long – she lived in a converted garage that had less than 400 square feet.
She balanced her checkbook and paid bills and tried not to think about money.
Thomas called to check up on her. He promised to have leads by Monday. “I’m networking like a fiend – gay grapevine, black grapevine, every damn grapevine I have,” he said. “I am a one-man rainbow coalition working for you.”
She told him about the Vegas trip, dreading his reaction. But he surprised her.
“You should go and have fun,” he said. “It’s not costing you anything.” He even offered to feed Mona, her cat.
At 5 p.m., 7 back in Texas, she called her father. She knew he’d be in his recliner, digesting his dinner (supper, he called it), watching TV.
He was concerned, as she knew he would be. He offered money, which she declined. He asked several times how she was “handling all this.” She told him she was “handling it just fine.”
She wished they didn’t have to speak in code.
Are you losing it, like your mother?
No, Dad, you aren’t going to have to institutionalize me.
But they were too careful to speak that way to one another. More than 25 years later, her mother remained a topic that they talked around, not about.
CHAPTER THREE
Genevieve had never been to Venice; she knew it from Canaletto’s paintings. As she pulled up to the Venetian hotel in Las Vegas, she laughed out loud at the ersatz Rialto and St. Mark’s Square. She sup
posed her artistic sensibilities should be offended, but the sheer audacity of the fakery seemed fun, like an outrageous Halloween costume.
After parking and dropping her bag at the bell desk, she wandered around the casino and the shopping area, trying to kill time until D was free. For once, she’d overestimated LA traffic.
Genevieve didn’t know how to gamble and couldn’t afford it anyway. She did know how to shop, but she couldn’t afford that, either. Finally, she spotted a coffee shop, entertainment in her price range.
She ordered a latte and took a book from her bag, a Matisse biography her father had given her for Christmas.
One chapter in, a voice interrupted her. “Hey there. Excuse me?”
Genevieve looked up. A man was setting up his laptop at the next table.
“Could I plug into that outlet?” He pointed to a spot behind her chair and flashed a smile.
The smile was killer, and the rest of him wasn’t bad either. The man was tall, over 6 feet. He wore jeans and a wrinkled blue-and-white striped shirt, untucked, the sleeves rolled partway up. His hair was brown and on the long side – hovering somewhere between fashionable and messy.
She scooted forward to give him room. He unspooled a power cord and plugged in the laptop. She caught a whiff of something as he leaned past her, a scent that made her think of clean shirts on her grandmother’s clothesline.
“All set,” the man said. “Will you watch this for me while I grab a coffee?”
That smile again.
“Sure,” Genevieve said. She found herself smiling back.
“Get you a refill while I’m up?”
“No thanks.”
Genevieve studied his back, admiring his broad shoulders. Fashionable, she decided on the hair.
Then, worried that he’d catch her staring and think she wanted conversation, she went back to her book. Talking to new people made her profoundly uncomfortable. She never knew what to say, and so she often ended up saying something that made her cringe every time she remembered it.
The man returned with a coffee and folded his frame into the small cafe chair. She heard the distinctive tone of a computer starting. “Thanks for watching my laptop,” he said.
“You’re lucky I had an opening in my schedule,” Genevieve said. “I usually can’t take walk-ins.”
The man gave her an appreciative nod and chuckled. Just then, a 20-something woman in an electric blue micro-mini shuffled past, her silver stilettos clutched in one hand. Her hair was squashed on one side, and her black eyeliner was smudged.
“Must have been some party,” the man said.
“Late in the day for the walk of shame,” Genevieve said.
“Even by Vegas standards,” he added.
This conversation was going to end with her tongue-tied and embarrassed. Genevieve knew that, and yet she didn’t really want to shut it down.
“Not often I see someone reading a real book in Vegas,” he said. “Very impressive.”
“Well, the Chippendales matinee was sold out.”
The man threw his head back and laughed, and Genevieve allowed herself a smile. She’d managed to say something funny! Twice!
At the counter, the woman in the micro-mini swiveled unsteadily and scowled at them over her croissant.
The man leaned over. “Uh-oh. Miss Walk-of-Shame is annoyed,” he said, his voice throaty and low. “Better use my inside voice.”
More like your bedroom voice, Genevieve thought, then began to blush furiously.
“And he didn’t even get her breakfast? Very bad form.” The man caught Genevieve’s expression. “I’m sorry – am I embarrassing you?”
Genevieve shook her head.
“It’s just that you’re blushing,” he said.
As if she didn’t know. Blushing was Genevieve’s special curse, the flashing sign that told the world she was embarrassed or upset. Controlling it wasn’t possible, so she’d learned to make light of it.
“It’s an evolutionary defense,” she said. “Now my face is red to match my hair. Camouflage. Like a lizard.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I see,” he said. Something pinged on his computer, drawing his attention. Genevieve took advantage of the moment to study his profile.
He typed for a few seconds, then turned back to her.
“Don’t your eyes pose a problem?”
“My eyes?”
“That blue. They do stand out,” he said. He tipped his head to one side, a smile creasing his face. “In this light, they’re almost violet.”
Before Genevieve could attempt a response, her phone chirped to let her know she had a text. She snatched it up from the table, grateful to have a chance to look away.
D’s meeting was wrapping up, and she wanted Genevieve to meet her.
“My friend,” Genevieve told the man, gesturing vaguely with her phone. She drained her latte. “Her sales meeting is over.”
“Big plans for the evening?”
“She’s determined to teach me to play craps.”
He smiled again, and again Genevieve returned the smile in spite of herself.
“Craps is fun. You’ll like it,” he said. “You hitting the tables here or somewhere else?”
With a jolt, Genevieve realized he wasn’t just making conversation. He was trying to find out where she might be later.
“I… um…” She could think of nothing to say. “Um, I should get going.”
The man leaned back in his chair, his smile dimming a bit. “Have fun!”
Then he cut his eyes toward the woman in the mini, who was waiting for her drink at the counter. “But maybe not as much fun as her.”
“Thanks,” Genevieve said, edging toward the exit. “You, too.”
Genevieve shook her head as she walked away. You too? Had she really said that? She was such an idiot sometimes.
D was waiting near the bell desk with a drink in each hand. She gave Genevieve an awkward hug, thrust a martini glass full of icy pink liquid into her hand and said, “Let’s go!”
She grabbed the handle of Genevieve’s suitcase and set off briskly – despite her heels – toward the elevators.
“Hope you weren’t waiting around too long,” D said over her shoulder as Genevieve hustled to keep up.
“Not too,” Genevieve said. “I got a coffee and read for a little bit.”
D flashed a room key at a security guard near the elevators, led Genevieve to the correct bank and pushed the button while managing not to spill her drink.
“Only you would come to Vegas and sit around reading a frickin’ book.”
Genevieve usually didn’t mind being the foil to D’s life-of-the-party persona. But occasionally she felt the need to prove she wasn’t entirely boring.
“Actually this guy sat next to me and we started talking.”
The elevator arrived, and D blocked the door with her hip so Genevieve could board.
Genevieve told D about the conversation as the elevator began its ascent, pausing at the end of her story to sip the drink. It hit her mouth icy cold and warmed as it traveled down her throat. “What’s in this?”
“No idea,” D said. “But it’s tasty, isn’t it?”
The elevator dinged, and D started down the hall toward the room. “You told me everything he said, but you didn’t tell me what he looked like! Was he hot?”
“Definitely. Tall. But rangy, you know, not like a linebacker. Dark hair, kind of longish. Nice eyes. Brown. Great smile.” Genevieve blushed a little, remembering.
D inserted a key card into a door, waited for the electronic signal and pushed the door open. She maneuvered Genevieve’s suitcase into the room. “Movie star?”
It was a game they’d played since college. Genevieve was supposed to come up with the actor who most closely resembled the man she’d just met.
Kicking off her shoes, D perched on one bed and motioned Genevieve toward the other.
Genevieve put her shoulder bag down, thinking. “Oh, I know,” sh
e said. “The guy in Troy, the one who played the older brother.”
“Never seen it,” D said. “You know I hate high-brow stuff like that.”
“Really? Not even for Brad Pitt? In a skirt? It’s on cable all the time.”
D grimaced as she rubbed her toes, and they made a disconcerting cracking noise. Genevieve had never understood why D, who was 5-11, insisted on high heels.
“And he was single, right?”
“I hope so. He was kind of a flirt for a married guy,” Genevieve said.
“Well, did he have a ring?”
“I didn’t look,” Genevieve confessed.
“Really, Gen? Really?” D rolled her eyes. “And is that what you were wearing?”
It was a rhetorical question; obviously Genevieve hadn’t changed. She stood and looked at herself in the mirror: black turtleneck, jeans, ballet flats. “You don’t like?”
“Well, the jeans are cute,” D said. “But a turtleneck? You’re hiding your light under a bushel. If I was built like you, my going-out clothes would all be cut down to here.” She pointed in the general vicinity of her navel.
D’s envy of Genevieve’s curves was a longstanding theme. “Most women would kill to look like you, no body fat anywhere,” Genevieve told her, not for the first time.
“Yeah, well, that’s the women. Men like curves,” D said. “Did you get his name?”
“No,” Genevieve said. “He seemed like he was trying to figure out where we were going tonight, and I just kind of froze.”
D laughed. “God love you, Gen, but you are hopeless sometimes. You finally got a live one on the line, and you didn’t reel him in. How long has it been since what’s-his-name, the one who moved to San Diego?”
“Luke,” Genevieve said. “And it was San Francisco. Silicon Valley, actually.”
D waved her hand in exasperation and took another sip of her drink.
“Two years, OK? I haven’t been on a date in two years,” Genevieve said. “But I thought we were strategizing on finding me a job, not a man.”
D stood and walked to the closet. “I met a guy at a session today,” she said.
“And he would be played by?”
D pulled a black sheath out and held the hanger away from her, sizing up the dress. “Dark hair. Blue eyes. Strong jaw. I’m going to say Jake Gyllenhall.”