Michael, Reinvented

by Diana Copland

  Pam shook her head, a soft smile touching her lips. “Not completely. It’s assisting.”

  “Okay.”

  She pressed her hand briefly to his. “Try not to worry.”

  Michael gave him one last, lingering look, and left the room.

  The five men walked to the elevator in silence, and Michael wondered if they were all feeling at the same loose ends he was. An unfamiliar cell phone tone sounded along with buzzing in his pocket, and Michael looked down in bewilderment.

  “That’s Gilbert’s phone,” Vern said.

  Remembering he’d stuffed it into his pocket, Michael took it out and looked at the screen. “What’s Brookline?” he asked.

  “Oh shit.” Vern held out his hand. “I’d better take that one.”

  Michael handed the phone over, his eyes going to Manny. “What’s Brookline?”

  “That’s the assisted-living place where his dad is.”

  “Oh.” Michael watched Vern as he took the call. He could hear him telling someone Gil had been in an accident, then listening to their response. It wasn’t a long call.

  “I guess I’m going to have to make a run up there.” Vern came back to them. “Gil Senior is out of soap and popsicles.”

  “Seriously?” Jackson asked. The elevator doors opened and they stepped on. “They call Gil for popsicles?”

  “And soap. Listen, the old guy has Alzheimer’s. Whatever makes him happy at this point is worth a stop by the grocery store.” Vern looked at his watch when they arrived in the lobby. “I’m going to need to go feed Pixie too.”

  “What’s Pixie?” Michael frowned.

  “Pixie is a pain in my ass.” Vern scowled. “He was Gil’s mother’s cat, and he inherited him.”

  “She named a boy cat ‘Pixie’?” Michael grimaced. “That’s just wrong.”

  “Well, right or wrong, the damn thing has to be fed, and Gil Senior needs his popsicles. I’ll take you back to your car and then head up, Manny.”

  Impulsively, Michael stopped in front of Vernon. “Let me help.”

  Vern looked at him in surprise. “What?”

  “Let me help you. I can buy popsicles or feed a cat. I’d rather do any of it than sit around waiting for visiting hours to start again.”

  Vern pursed his lips, studying him. “Okay. How about tonight you take Pixie, and I’ll do the popsicles.”

  “Okay.” Michael patted down his pockets, searching for his keys, grateful to have something to do. He found his key ring in his coat. “I need to go get my car. It’s still at the mansion. You’ll have to tell me where the food is and stuff….” He looked up to catch Jackson giving Vernon an irritated look. “What?”

  “Nothing. And we’ll take you to get your car. I can fill you in on the cat.” Jackson stopped by the doors to the parking lot. “Vern, do you want me to get ahold of the guys? I’m sure Richard and Lyle will understand if we need to delay the paint for a few days.”

  Vern shook his head. “No. Gil will have my head if we get behind just because he’s down.”

  Jackson dropped his hands into his back pockets. “You know it’s going to be a long time before he’s back up, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. We’ll manage.”

  “I can help out,” Manny offered. “My load is light right now.”

  “We can also hire more guys.” David gave Jackson a quick look, and he nodded in agreement.

  “Let’s just—take it a day at a time, okay?” Vern looked away, his eyes somber. “As soon as Gilbert is up to barking orders again, we’ll do it how he wants us to.”

  “Whatever you say, man.” Jackson patted him on the shoulder. “We can be here in shifts.”

  “I’ll come by and see him in the morning.” Vern dug his keys out of his jacket pocket. “Besides, you’re the guy they’ll want if he—needs anything.”

  “You have that meeting in the morning.” David gave Jackson a pointed look.

  “Oh, that’s right. Leave the scaffolding that fell where it is, okay, Vern? Insurance guy needs to see it.”

  “The Fire Department moved most of it, but we’ll leave it where it is now.”

  They walked into the parking lot and paused at the back of Vern’s pristine ’66 Mustang.

  “If they call you—” Vern paused, his eyes searching Jackson’s.

  “I’ll call you. Try not to worry. He’s in good hands.”

  Vern didn’t look convinced.

  Manny threw his arm over Vern’s broad shoulders. “It’s okay, old man. Let’s go so we can get popsicles.”

  “We?” Vern arched a brow.

  “Yep, we’re going to take care of Gil Senior, then you’re getting clothes so you can come stay with me.”

  “You think I’m going to sleep over your uncle’s garage?” Vern shook his head. “I don’t think so, Emanuel.”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” David piped up. “And Manny’s loft is very nice.”

  “Loft.” Vern rolled his eyes. “Dandy.” He glared at Manny. “Get in the damned car.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MICHAEL PEERED at the note Jackson had written giving him Gil’s address and directions. He slowed as he turned the corner. Gil’s house wasn’t far from David’s, but the neighborhood was very different. Where David’s neighborhood was filled with turn-of-the-century homes, a few post-World-War-II-era places thrown in, Gil’s looked like the construction had taken place mostly in the fifties and sixties. There were lots of ranch-style and split-level homes, and he passed an elementary school that looked as if it had been built in the seventies. He checked the address again, then tried to see the numbers on the curb. He was in the 1200 block, and Gil’s address was 1720, so he picked up speed slightly, pausing briefly at the corner. The streetlights overhead shone through the canopy of branches that met over the street, new, bright spring leaves shifting in the breeze and throwing weird shadows over worn, painted house numbers. He slowed, car rolling to a stop when he finally spotted the address at the curb.

  He stared, startled. The house he was looking at was totally different than the other houses in the neighborhood. A long and low A-line made up the roof, meeting at an off-center peak, and a light from inside showed through the large floor-to-ceiling paneled windows on either side of the front door. Michael got out of his car, locking it as he stared at the house. The front door, shown clearly in the bright porch light, was turquoise. Skillful landscaping, almost like a Zen garden, created a winding rock stream beneath a wooden bridge constructed of slender pieces of hardwood that had been laminated together. It spanned the gap between the sidewalk and the long, narrow front porch. Two large blue ceramic urns sat on either side of the door, ferns that were just beginning to add new growth falling gracefully toward the tile porch. The exterior was about as quintessential a midcentury modern design as he’d seen in town, and a bubble of excitement floated in his stomach.

  He used the key to unlock the door, then sighed in quiet pleasure as he stepped through. He was in a large square patio, enclosed from the street but open to the sky. There were wooden benches built into the walls on two sides, and at the center was a wood-burning, freestanding fireplace. He imagined there would be furniture in the space when the weather turned warmer, and plants in more of the ceramic urns. He could almost see it.

  To his left was the sliding glass door entrance to the living room, and he went up the three steps, then slid the door open. The living room had hardwood floors, a geometric-patterned area rug under a long, low sofa upholstered in oatmeal-toned fabric. Michael recognized the designer and ran his hand over the back of the couch in pleasure. There were two armchairs with wooden arms and legs, and a wooden sideboard against the far wall with a huge flat-screen television sitting on it. Everything was simple and masculine and impeccably clean. It was also Michael’s dream house, right down to the glass-topped coffee table and the vase-bottomed lamps in three different jewel tones, all sporting the same squatty beige shades. On the wall was a metal starburst
wall clock, and Michael stared at it for several seconds. He had a starburst clock of his own, but his wasn’t nearly as fine.

  Walking up another three steps, he moved through a shadowy dining room featuring a long blond wooden table and eight chairs. Five hanging medallion lamps with beige shades in different geometric shapes hung above. A counter separated the kitchen and dining room, three simple stools at the poured concrete surface, more pale wooden cabinets along the wall above a very modern range and beside a stainless-steel fridge. The combination of eras was seamless and perfect, and Michael ran his hand over the smooth, polished concrete, making a soft sound of pleasure.

  He’d had no idea Gil loved midcentury modern as much as he did. But then, he didn’t know very much about Gil, full stop. He knew he was handsome and a teasing smartass and an amazing lay, but he’d held him at a distance, hadn’t let him close enough to find out anything about him. Basically, he’d refused to discuss him with David; he hadn’t wanted to know anything about him. Michael looked around the impeccably decorated space, clearly revealed in the light shining from under the fan hood above the stove, and shook his head. He’d been so stupid.

  There was a garden window across the room with several framed photos sitting among containers holding herbs, and he crossed to look at them.

  There was a picture of Gil, Vernon, Manny, and Jackson, all wearing snow gear and holding snowboards. This must have been pre-David, or Michael’s best friend had been doing his version of “skiing”—sitting in the lodge with a hot toddy. There was another photo of a young Gil with a full head of medium brown hair, posing with another boy who looked a lot like him and a very pretty girl with waist-length blonde hair. Michael wondered if they were his siblings. There were also portraits of a beautiful woman with bobbed hair and jewelry à la Doris Day in the fifties, and a handsome man with a smile like Gil’s in a World War II Army uniform. Gil looked like his parents, Michael thought. He had his father’s bone structure but his mother’s soft mouth. Michael sighed and put the pictures back in the window, turning to look for the cabinet Jackson had told him held the cat food. And froze, his breath catching in his throat.

  “Jesus God,” he muttered.

  Across from him on the concrete counter sat the biggest cat he’d ever seen. It was white and orange, with a white breast, muzzle, and front paws, butterscotch-orange face, and full, bushy tail. Dark orange markings curled around its back, and it had a huge pink nose. Large, vivid green eyes studied Michael, and the tufts of orange fur sticking up on the tips of its pointed ears twitched. The beast sat at least three feet tall; Michael could tell just by looking it had to outweigh Scooter.

  “They named you ‘Pixie’?” The cat’s ears shifted at the sound of its name. “Someone had a very twisted sense of humor.” The cat stood and stretched, then jumped down from the counter almost silently on its enormous feet before he approached Michael.

  He stiffened. “If you eat me, I can’t feed you.”

  The cat sniffed at his legs, and if it wanted to stretch a bit, Michael’s crotch wasn’t out of reach. Instead it wound around his legs, making an odd chirping sound.

  Michael’s brows shot up. “Dude, really? That’s the best you’ve got?” The cat’s noises grew louder, and Michael was torn between surprise and the urge to laugh.

  He found the cupboard with the cat food and looked down at Jackson’s note. “Okay, so you get a full can and a full bowl of the dry stuff. Huh, I wonder why Jackson would know that.” He took out a can, and the cat’s noises rose in volume.

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He found the bowls in a far corner, sitting on a place mat with the face of Garfield on it, the words FEED ME in capital letters. He chuckled, picking up the two large earthenware bowls. Once they were filled, he put them back down, and the cat attacked the food like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Michael watched him for a moment, then decided to take a tour of the rest of the house.

  A long hallway led to a bathroom, an office, and a guest bedroom. Around a bend was the master suite, with a king-size bed. A white tufted-leather headboard took up most of one wall, and lamps sat on small tables on either side. Linens in a white-and-turquoise repeating circle pattern covered the bed. The attached bathroom was beautiful, with a backsplash of clear and green glass tiles, trough sinks, and a huge glass walk-in shower. It smelled like Gil, and Michael noticed a towel hung neatly over the shower door. He went to it and touched it, feeling the slight whisper of dampness in the folds. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into it, inhaling the scent of Gil’s morning shower.

  When he came out and studied the master bedroom, he saw the bed was neatly made and there weren’t any clothes tossed carelessly around. He was persnickety about his surroundings, but Gil apparently was too. Michael didn’t leave a mess when he left his apartment in the morning because he hated coming home to it. There wasn’t a thing out of place in the large bedroom, leading him to believe Gil was the same.

  Michael paused near a portrait hanging on the wall. It was the same woman he’d seen in the kitchen, only older, a soft smile on her face. Her image had been lovingly rendered, her blouse and the background done in soft greens and blues. Even before he looked at the signature, he recognized the technique. He wasn’t surprised to see g.chandler scrawled in the corner.

  When he walked back through the house, no longer as awed by the décor and design, he paid closer attention to the art on the walls. Some of it was by other artists. When he bought other people’s art, Gil tended toward modern works or black-and-white photography. A series of stunning male nudes hung on the wall of the office, and a pastel depiction of stylized flowers was on the wall of one of the spare bedrooms. In the dining room was another of Gil’s pieces, a beautiful image of an old man sitting in a battered Chevy pickup truck, leathered arm propped on the open window, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Michael stared at it for several minutes. Whoever the man was, Gil clearly loved him. He’d rendered every line on the old face, every seam in the battered Seattle Mariners hat pulled low on his brow, the scratches and dents in the faded paint of the truck’s door. It was a stunning painting, and Michael wondered why Gil didn’t use his talent doing portrait art instead of painting houses.

  He was still staring at the painting when Pixie came into the dining room and began rubbing against Michael’s legs. His purr sounded like the motor of a small car.

  “So, I’m your friend, huh?” He bent and gingerly ran his hand over the huge, leonine head. “You are enormous. Beautiful, but like a Lab in a cat body.”

  Pixie butted his head against Michael’s knee, then turned and jumped effortlessly onto the dining room table, stretching out across the surface. Michael gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not usually supposed to do that?”

  The cat merely returned his look with a slow wink and then a steady gaze.

  “Fine. Since you’re big enough to eat my arm, you can stay right where you are.” He paused long enough to run his fingers through the luxurious, orangesicle-colored fur. “I’ll bet you’re every bit as high maintenance as I am. And clearly your boy is out of his damned mind, wanting both of us.” He hesitated. “At least I hope he still does. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony? I decide I want him, and he’s gotten bored waiting on me?” He sighed softly and left the house after locking up carefully.

  He drove to David and Jackson’s through the residential streets, his mind full of Gil’s house, Gil’s paintings, Gil’s cat. By the time he pulled up in front, he had dozens of questions, none of which could be answered before Gil regained consciousness. He jogged up onto the porch, and when he unlocked the front door and walked in, he found David and Jackson lying spooning on the couch, Jackson in back with his arm around David’s waist. They were watching a basketball game on television. Michael knew it must be love; it was eleven o’clock at night and his completely sports-ignorant best friend was watching basketball.

  He closed the door and glared at Jackson. Scooter ran t
o him and danced around his knees as he bent to pet her, then stopped to sniff his pant legs. Her batlike ears flattened. “I know, you think I’ve cheated on you. Well, that’s because your daddy is an ass.”

  “What did I do?” David asked.

  “Not you.” Michael pointed at Jackson. “Him.”

  “What?” Jackson asked, going up onto his elbow, his brow furrowed.

  “Pixie? Really?”

  Jackson fought it, but finally laughter won out and he dropped back down, burying his face in the back of David’s neck.

  “Did you know about this?” Michael asked David.

  “What? He’s a cat.”

  “A really fucking big cat! For God’s sakes, that animal could’ve eaten me if he’d been hungry enough. He’s the size of a mountain lion.”

  “Aw, come on, Michael,” Jackson finally managed. “Don’t exaggerate. He’s a nice cat. Besides, if you want to blame anyone, you’re going to have to go to Vernon. He’s the one who set you up.”

  “Oh, believe me,” Michael promised. “The old man and I are having a chat next time I see him.” He looked at David. “And I’m not going into work tomorrow. In fact, depending on how Gil does, I may just be done at A.F.I.”

  David didn’t look surprised. “Why does it depend on how Gil does?”

  Michael looked away, his face heating. “Because depending on how soon he can come home, he isn’t going to be able to be alone, and I’m the most expendable.”

  “How do you figure that?” David sat up, a frown furrowing his brow.

  “I’m your assistant, which you wouldn’t want to live without, but you could. And everyone else is scheduled to work on the mansion.”

  “Well, you’re a bit more indispensable to me than you seem to think.” David ran his fingers through his hair. “And actually, I’ve been thinking we should both be done.”

  Michael smirked. “What about letting down the poor owners?”

  “Shut up,” David grumbled. “Things are different.”