“Oh, geez, are you carrying that? Let me…” he said, stepping quickly into the vestibule in his bare feet and taking the crate by its rope handles.
I gave it to him wordlessly as my brain spun in confusion. Why is he here? Did I know he would be here? How am I supposed to act? Why does he smell so good? Where is his shirt?
“This is heavy! Wow… Hey are you OK?”
I fluttered inwardly for a few more seconds before finally nodding with as much confidence as I could muster.
“Yeah that really was heavier than I thought it would be,” I replied lamely.
He nodded and smiled. Somehow his expression conveyed a genuine friendly feeling as though we had known each other a long time. It did a little to set me at ease, but not enough to keep my eyes from flickering over the ripples of his chest muscles as they bunched and calmed from the shifting weight of the crate.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he said, gesturing with his chin that I should walk ahead of him down the wide hall. The ochre and sienna-colored plaster was soothing and rich, like swimming in a sea of warm honey. On every wall, in every niche, there was a painting or piece of sculpture and I was a little sad we were moving so quickly through it. I was sure I spotted a Modigliani and what looked for all the world like a tiny Vermeer. It was like an intimate treasure trove of someone’s personal taste, played out in artifacts. I wanted to touch everything.
“I assumed Raul was going to fetch you but then I didn’t hear the door open. I think Eddie’s in the garden. Just bear left across the living room.”
I tried to walk elegantly and kept nodding like an attentive schoolgirl until I could come up with a better plan. How was I supposed to act in front of the guy I had hooked up with the night before? I had absolutely no idea. I kept my eyes on the walls and shelves, making a personal promise to walk out slower so I could really investigate. Was that a Rembrandt? Holy wow.
“Eddie?” I asked politely.
“Well, Edna… Eddie… That’s just what we call her,” he said as we walked through a tall library with floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with what must have been thousands of books, most of them paperbacks. There were so many they were arranged vertically and then had layers of horizontal stacks shoved into every remaining space on the shelves. It was a noisy, colorful riot of popular culture.
Some art school kid could probably get an NEA grant for this kind of installation, I thought sourly then tried to shove the idea out of my mind. Obviously this collector had a different kind of taste, something far and away from novelty and spectacle. By the looks of it, she was really searching for quality, longevity, respect for tradition… Just the sorts of things I prided myself on.
Jackson led me to a set of open French doors and out into the sunny garden. An older woman in a long, colorful kaftan sat at a small table. She waved her fingers to beckon us over and gave a wide, friendly smile.
“Oh, Jackson, you don’t have to haul those all over the house,” she chided gently as we approached. “Will you set them up for me in the gallery please?”
“Sure, Eddie,” he said and leaned in to kiss her chastely on her lined, soft cheek. She wrinkled her nose affectionately at him as he hefted the crate to his other hip and nodded politely at me.
“Later then,” he said with a grin, and I kept my eyes carefully connected to anywhere north of his washboard abs and chiseled chest and shoulders.
“Yes,” I said, trying to sound professional and like maybe I had never seen his penis. “Thanks for carrying that for me.”
“Anytime,” he replied and walked away across the garden while I dutifully did not watch him and focused on Edna instead. She was small and delicate, but with a wiry strength in her quick, self-assured movements. Her eyes glittered with intelligence and wit and I instantly decided that I loved her.
“Sit,” she beckoned me. “I was just about to have some breakfast. Won’t you join me?”
“Of course, I would love to,” I cooed even as my inner schoolmarm moaned about the delay. I settled onto the cushion of an antique cast iron chair, crossing my legs as gracefully as possible and smiling openly. “You have a beautiful… an amazing home,” I breathed, unable to contain my excitement.
“Oh, you’re so kind,” she purred as a man rolled up a trolley with a coffee carafe and trays of berries and small cakes. He set the trays on the table and then gave us each a cup of strong coffee and two small plates with a starter selection of strawberries, poached pears with honey, and small, hard discs of some kind of cheese.
“This all looks wonderful.”