The
meeting was an exercise in frustration—again—Arthur making a mental list of his own: who would he keep after Christmas and who would he fire? He ignored the little voice in his head that kept saying
Bastard
and went over the details of the project one more time. And, if his memory served him, this would be the sixth time he would need to explain that they were building a factory and not a show home.
After almost a half-hour of explaining, in great detail, the needs and preferences of the clients—
You know, the people paying us?
—Arthur lounged in his leather chair, cell phone in hand, and stared out the window, trying to think of something witty to say when he called Mitchell. He wasn’t successful, but only because he couldn’t stop thinking what it would be like to be in the same bathtub, bubbles making their skin silky and slippery, fingers exploring, mouths meeting, tongues dueling, Mitchell’s—
“Arthur?”
Arthur looked up to see his assistant in the doorway. “Yes, Tina?” He coughed; his face flushed at the thoughts Tina could probably read in his eyes. “What is it?”
“You asked me to remind you when it was eleven thirty?”
Arthur didn’t know what she was…
Dammit
, Arthur cursed under his breath,
I’m supposed to be wining and dining that asshole from Dunmore Developments
. He quickly checked his datebook and saw that the appointment wasn’t for another hour; plenty of time to call Mitchell, set up a date, and then close the deal with—Arthur checked the screen of his Blackberry again—Rune Marsters.
Rune
, he thought,
must have had sadists for parents; why would anyone name their kid after Celtic dice?
Arthur called the restaurant to confirm the reservation for twelve thirty and then settled back to dial Mitchell’s number. Arthur was only slightly worried when the phone rang three times, thinking that perhaps he would need to think of something clever to leave as a message.
“Mitchell.”
“Mitchell, hello!” Arthur sat up in his chair, squaring his shoulders as if Mitchell would be able to see him slouching. “It’s Arthur, from a couple of days ago, gift exchange, lover of Chopin?”
“Arthur, how are you?”
“I’m fine, just fine, and you?”
“Never better.” Mitchell sounded happy to hear from him. “What’s on your mind?”
You, bubble bath, silky skin.
“Uh, I was wondering if you were free tonight.”
“Well,” Mitchell sounded surprised at the question, “I work until ten?”
“Not a problem,” Arthur tried to sound casual, “I was just thinking drinks, or coffee?”
“Sure, when and where?”
“I’ll come and pick you up at the store, if that’s okay.”
“I’ll be waiting out on Cornelius; do you know where the entrance is on Cornelius?”
“Sure do.” Arthur smiled, hoping it sounded like he was smiling. “I’ll see you then.”
Mitchell disconnected the call before Arthur could make any small talk:
Where are you? What are you doing? When does your shift start?
Arthur flipped his phone shut, checked in with the senior partners about the delay in the latest project, and headed out to make his lunch appointment, making a mental note to go and look for Chopin CDs, obscure ones that Mitchell probably wouldn’t have.
* * *
“
Arthur
, nice to see you again.” Rune was already at the bar.
“Rune, you too.” Arthur motioned to a booth in the corner of the restaurant; it wasn’t crowded yet, but it would be very soon. As the hostess brought menus and Rune’s drink, to the table, Arthur pulled her aside and asked that the bill be brought to him. She nodded and informed him that their server would be out shortly. Until then, Arthur chatted with Rune about his family. He’d been sure to bring the Filofax card with Rune’s personal information to study in the taxi. Arthur had his back to the activity of the bar, an old trick he’d learned long ago to minimize distractions, and was chatting about Rune’s wife and three boys when he heard a familiar voice.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen; may I get you anything from the bar?”
Arthur looked up and into those blue eyes. Arthur wasn’t sure if he was pleased or shocked to see the stunned smile on Mitchell’s face, but he was certain that his face was just as much a jumble of emotions.
“I’m fine for now, thank you.” Rune was looking at Arthur as if he’d been caught doing something illegal.
“Just a Heineken for me, thanks, in a glass, please.” Arthur felt some control slipping away from him; he should have just acknowledged Mitchell, by name, and taken control of the ordering instead of staring like a gawky teenager at his first girly magazine.
“Certainly, gentlemen. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.” Mitchell pushed the pad of paper back into his half-apron and moved off to the bar.
“Are you okay?” Rune was studying Arthur’s face.
“Fine, thank you.” Arthur scolded himself;
Jesus, pull it together
. “Now, you were telling me about James’s first year of university.”
“Jesus,” Rune huffed, “I can’t believe I’m going to have live through this with the other two….”
Arthur tuned in and out, laughing at the right moments, frowning with sympathy at others, nodding his head periodically as if Rune’s comments were the most insightful he’d ever heard. Why hadn’t he called Mitchell by name? Why hadn’t he stood and shaken the man’s hand? Why had he felt so surprised and… what was the word he wanted to use? Betrayed? Certainly that couldn’t be the word he was looking for? Mitchell didn’t owe him anything; it wasn’t as if Mitchell had done anything wrong. Lots of people had two jobs and worked fifteen hour days, maybe longer.
Mitchell had returned, standing there again, smiling, pen in hand, waiting while Rune finished his little anecdote about the skyrocketing cost of post-secondary education. Each man ordered, Mitchell writing it all down, very quickly, Arthur noted, and headed back to the kitchen.
Rune had segued into talking about the new development, and, with Mitchell cleanly removed from Arthur’s mind, for the time being, Arthur was once again in his element. As they ate, Arthur detailed similar projects that his firm had handled, giving specifics of how the details would be observed for Dunlop Developments and how Rune could expect updates as frequently as he would tolerate phone calls from Arthur.
Dessert was refused by both men, coffee consumed, and the bill given to Arthur as requested. Arthur handed his credit card to Mitchell along with the bill and waited for Mitchell to return so he could give a generous tip and sign. Relief flooded Arthur when Rune announced that he would need to leave to make a meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Arthur stood, shook Rune’s hand, promised a follow-up call the next day, and sank back into the booth, suddenly feeling sweat break out over his upper lip. He was entering a reminder to call Rune into his Blackberry when the black leather folder was placed in front of him. He closed his eyes and looked up, not opening his eyes again until he heard his own voice.
“Mitchell, I’m sorry.” Arthur saw Mitchell smiling and became even more worried.
“About what?” Mitchell squinted at him as if the older man were crazy.
“Not saying ‘hi’ or even using your name.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re- you don’t—” Arthur stammered as he got to his feet. “You’re not angry?”
“Of course not, Arthur, this is my job.”
“But the bookstore….”
“Okay.” Mitchell laughed, teeth gleaming, eyes dancing. “One of my jobs.”
“Are you sure you still want to go out later, I mean, if you’re working two jobs….”
“Well,” Mitchell said with a wink, “just how late were you planning on keeping me out?”
“Not,” Arthur felt his chest tighten and his pants become a little more snug, “not too long.”
“Then I’m sure.” William scooped up the black folder, handed Arthur his card, and extended his hand. “I’ll see you at ten, Mr. Richardson.”
It took Arthur a couple of minutes to realize they hadn’t exchanged last names, and that Mitchell knew his from his credit card. “Uh, wait, I don’t know your—”
“MacDonald.” Mitchell was walking backwards, smiling. He turned gracefully just seconds before he would have hit the corner of the bar.
He’s obviously worked here long enough to know every inch of this place, backwards and forwards, literally.
* * *
Arthur
arrived early to the bookstore, having decided to leave his car at his condo and take the subway downtown to meet Mitchell. He was mindlessly thumbing his way through
Architectural Digest
when he felt someone standing beside him.
“She didn’t like it?” Mitchell was smiling at him, eyes playful and teasing. When Arthur frowned, he added, “Chelsea, she didn’t like her gifts and prefers—” Mitchell lifted the cover of the magazine to see the title, “—
Architectural Digest
?”
“Oh, no,” Arthur said as he finally caught on, “the exchange is not for another two weeks.”
“So.” Mitchell held up his coat and pulled his arms through the sleeves, wrapping the scarf around his neck twice. “Ready when you are, Mr. Richardson.”
“I’m ready, Mr. MacDonald.” Arthur led Mitchell to the door and held it open. “So, have any favorite places?”
“How about Chino’s just down the street?”
Arthur bowed and motioned for Mitchell to lead the way. As they walked—foot traffic almost non-existent at this time of the night—Arthur was struck by how comfortable and warm it felt to be walking with Mitchell. Mitchell was in just as good a mood as he’d been this afternoon in the restaurant, but moreso even, more flirtatious, more boisterous. Mitchell kept pointing out which storefronts had already mounted their Christmas decorations, which decorations he liked, not mentioning the ones that he, or so it seemed to Arthur, found unsuitable or too garish. When Arthur would comment on those, Mitchell would just shrug and say that he was a lower-maintenance kind of guy.
Arthur was learning a lot from their little walk; Mitchell did not like flash and show, did not walk against traffic signals, and offered spare change to each and every vagrant that they passed. If Mitchell was walking by, the empty hands thrust out in front of him did not remain empty for long. When Arthur asked him about this, Mitchell just shrugged and said that it didn’t mean as much to him as it did to whomever’s hand was empty. Arthur was convinced that Mitchell would be broke before the end of every month if he did this every day.
No wonder he works two jobs.
They made it to the small café and took a table in the corner, Arthur sitting, as was his habit, with his back to the crowd. Mitchell took the initiative, asked for Arthur’s order, and walked to the counter. Arthur noticed how light and graceful all of Mitchell’s movements were, how Mitchell seemed to offer the same warm, charming, disarming smile to everyone, even to the person who cut in front of him in line. He didn’t know why, but he wasn’t really interested in merely trying to bed Mitchell; it made him nervous to realize that he was actually interested in Mitchell’s life.
“So,” Arthur started, by way of opening the conversation, “why two jobs? You making sure you can pay for all those Christmas presents for friends and family?”
“No.” Mitchell handed over Arthur’s latte and sat down. “I’ve just got a lot of energy.”
“You work two jobs, practically all day long,” Arthur asked, astonished, “all
year
long?”
“Yes, I do.” Mitchell sipped his hot chocolate, studying Arthur’s stunned expression. “You don’t know anyone else who works two jobs?”
Arthur shook his head. “No, most people I know can barely handle one job.”
“Speaking of jobs,” Mitchell folded his arms on the table and smiled up at Arthur, “you know what I do, but you haven’t told me what you do.”
“Architect.”
“Wow!” Mitchell’s expression brightened even further. “That must be an incredible feeling, building houses and condos and other buildings that people will use and live in for years and years?”
Arthur nodded and then tilted his head to one side. “It can be very interesting, yeah. If you’re interested in demanding clients, incompetent co-workers, and marathon late nights fixing everything so the client will be happy.”
“And, the client being happy, seeing the smile, that doesn’t make it all worth it?”
“Not as much as cashing the check.”
Mitchell laughed, and then his expression became more serious. “Money’s not everything, Arthur.”
“No, it’s the only thing.” Arthur deadpanned, noticing that Mitchell did not find it funny. “Yes, it gives me satisfaction to be able to please the clients.”
“Satisfaction?” Mitchell raised an eyebrow and smiled warmly, indicating his playful mocking.
“What about you, Mitchell?” Arthur sipped his latte, leaning back in his chair, wondering how long it would take him to get Mitchell to admit that he hated dealing with customers. “You love helping all of the slobs and cheapskates in the restaurant, not to mention all of the holiday shoppers who expect you to do their shopping for them?”
“Of course,” Mitchell’s lips curved into a slight smile as he peered at Arthur from under his lashes, “you never know who you might meet.”
“Okay, okay.” Arthur held up his hands. “You win. And thank you.”
“It’s easy to find what you don’t like in life, Arthur.” Mitchell reached over and touched Arthur’s hand, briefly. “I like the challenge of finding the beautiful or the fascinating in something… or someone,” Mitchell whispered, leaning forward, “that others see as worthless.”
“And giving away all your spare change to beggars?” Arthur moved his leg, accidentally brushing against Mitchell’s under the table, feeling Mitchell pull his leg back.
“Makes
me
smile.”
“Even though they’ll be spending it on booze or drugs?”
“Not every person will.”
Arthur snorted derisively “Isn’t that a little naïve, Mitchell?” He folded his arms across his chest, expecting but not wanting a heated discussion about street people.
“I’m okay with being naïve, Arthur.” Mitchell smiled sadly and finished his hot chocolate. Arthur got the feeling that the sad smile was because of his comment.