Zipper Fall (26 page)

I turned around, faced with a broad back and well-muscled shoulders. I ran my hand up and down Jack’s back, mindless in its exploration of the bumps, the dips, the muscled ridges.

“Mmmm. Harder….”

I smiled, digging my fist into that tight little triangle right between the shoulder blade and his spine.

“Ahhh… is it really tight?” he asked.

“Yeah. Have you been sitting a lot?”

“At the damn computer,” he grumbled.

I nestled my chin on his shoulder, comfortable and warm, and poked and stroked and rubbed and kneaded, making his morning a bit nicer.

“Your cheek is getting scratchy,” he purred, and I moved my jaw up and down his shoulder with a sigh.

“This is Nina Totenberg, reporting from Washington, DC….”

The radio alarm went off again, and this time Jack only turned the volume down to an acceptable level. He turned toward me. “Arrrrgh. Rise and shine! I’m taking you to work with me today for at least a little while.”

I stifled a groan and slid off his mattress. “I’ll go shower. How much time do we have?”

“We need to leave by seven-thirty,” Jack said. “I usually walk from the parking lot, takes me twenty minutes. Can you handle that, or do you want to take the jitney?”

“It may take me a bit longer than that, but I’d like to walk.”

“Okay.”

He disappeared into his bathroom, leaving me to the sounds of NPR and the shower running. I walked back to my bedroom, ready to follow his example.

Breakfast was a toasted frozen bagel with a bit of cream cheese and scrambled eggs, water, and coffee. We sat there in our suits and ties, leaning forward as we ate, careful not to land the sticky bits of food on our work clothes and anxious not to spill coffee on the white, ironed shirts.

“Do you always wear that purple tie?” he asked me suddenly.

“No… I do have several, though. Why?”

He shrugged. “Your hair’s pale blond, Goldilocks. I’d peg you for an aqua, or green.”

“Mmm… you don’t like it. What don’t you like about it? Remember, I work in advertising. I’m all about noticeable.”

“No, no, no. I never said I didn’t like it,” he backpedaled, panic in his sleepy eyes. “It looks fine. Really. It’s just… I think you’d look so nice in the paler blues.”

I sighed. Very few men could discuss fashion with any semblance of intelligence, and not even being gay was a guarantee of a good eye for color. “Should I change?”

“Only if you don’t like it… but hurry up. We have ten minutes.”

W
E
WALKED
out of the elevator, our pace sedate so I didn’t have to limp. My ripstop nylon briefcase was slung over my shoulder, containing a few printouts and some homemade business cards, and, of course, my laptop.

Risby Haus sat behind his marble castle wall. We both nodded to him and he nodded back. I caught a smirk on his face—a rather ugly face, actually—and realized that, to him, I was sauntering down the proverbial walk of shame.

Jack glanced at me and our eyes met. “I don’t care what that asshole thinks,” he muttered. “I slept like a log last night.”

I didn’t reply as we exited Jack’s building. I looked around in an effort to orient myself in the neighborhood. Jack drove from his Shadyside apartment to the Strip District, where we parked. We missed the jitney that ferried commuters from the parking lot to the office buildings downtown. Our walk took almost an hour, but Jack didn’t seem to mind. The offices of BW&B were located in the Gulf Tower, a building dating back to the 1920s. It had modern elevators, but the lobby was still decorated with carved marble and lacy brass trim, and there was a mosaic in the middle of the floor. I loved its quaint
film noir
look and said so.

Jack jerked his head up, uprooted from his thoughts. He looked around as though for the first time, and I saw him take in the urns of indoor landscaping and the antique, Art Deco lighting fixtures. It occurred to me that once Jack’s mind was on work, he didn’t notice much around him at all.

We walked past the reception desk, which was manned by a large black man with a razored, angular hairdo. Jack introduced us. “Mr. Buddy Love, meet Mr. Wyatt Gaudens. Buddy, Wyatt’s likely to be in and out of the office. He’s an independent contractor—be helpful, all right?”

Buddy Love shook my hand with his enormous paw as his phone rang. He answered it and forwarded the call where it needed to go. “Hi, Wyatt. Let me know if you need anything.” He turned to Jack. “You have some faxes on your desk. These two people called right after eight, wanting to talk to you. They’re in Europe, so they’ll be gone in three hours.”

“Thanks, Buddy.” Jack took the messages and motioned for me to follow. We walked through a room of regular, gray cubicles like the people at Pillory’s agency used to have. Offices with doors were on the other side.

“Come in,” he said. His workspace was overflowing with unfiled papers, all piled in discrete groups. He glanced at his watch. “We have a bit of time. Let me get you situated in the conference room. While you get yourself comfortable, I have to get to my office and return these phone calls.”

I ended up sitting by the projection screen with my presentation already up there and several paper copies in front of me in a tidy pile, along with my invoice.

A
N
HOUR
later, I was elbow-deep in spirited conversation with Jack’s business partners.

“So, you suggest we focus on clients in the same area of business as our current customers?” Louis Schiffer reiterated in his monotone voice as he peered at me over the rim of his metallic glasses. “And finding them will cost how much, exactly?”

I launched into a detailed explanation of my prospective client search process. The meeting continued like that for two and a half hours. Rick Blanchard was as thorough as Schiffer—poking and prodding, looking for problems to come up. My heart leapt at their interest; a thorough client was more likely to succeed.

Schiffer also looked at my invoice. “Hundred and seventy-five an hour? I thought you charged eighty.”

“That rate is for small, distressed businesses and for nonprofit organizations,” I replied with a straight face. Pillory had given me a run-down on rates and billing two days prior.

The more they invest in you, the more cooperation you’ll get, Mr. Gaudens
, he said.
It is impossible to deliver good results without their cooperation. Charging them more is actually for their own good.

“I have some worksheets for you to fill out,” I told them, handing out questionnaires all around. “The more information you can provide, the faster I can get your marketing plan off the ground.”

All three of them scowled, not having expected to have to work on this personally.

“Of course, I can delve into your old files and retrieve the information myself. It will take me two weeks of full-time effort. It will take your secretaries less than three days.” I gave them my winning, hundred-watt smile. Let them do the math.

J
ACK
wanted to escort me home right afterward; I was so tired, I didn’t even want to be taken out to lunch.

“There’s leftovers,” I mumbled. “I’ll be fine. I’ll take the bus.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. Just ride with me down to the lobby.”

He stepped into the elevator and pushed a white button with a star. After we descended a few floors, I reached out and pressed the red stop button. The cabin ground to a halt.

“Wyatt?” He had mischief in his eyes.

“I just wanted some privacy, is all.” I sank against him, molding my body against his. Warm hands ran up my back, and I looked up only to have my lips possessed in a slow, languorous kiss. I sighed, rising against him as our tongues met in gentle exploration. There was sweetness and lust, along with the thrill of forbidden fruit in a forbidden place.

We broke for air, panting. His cheeks were flushed, his hair was unruly, and his tie was askew. I fixed the tie and mentioned the hair.

His scintillating blue eyes took my measure. “You look like a cat in heat, Wyatt. You’re hardly the one to talk.” Then he smirked. “Better get going before they send the janitor after us.” He pressed the button with the star again, and we descended and parted with a chaste peck on the lips.

T
HE
bus ride took forever, and I spent most of it standing because, let’s face it, my butt still hurt and the streets were rough with patched potholes. Never had I been so glad to be home. I shut and locked the door behind me and stumbled to that friendly leather sofa. It beckoned to me. Disregarding my office suit, I kicked off my shoes and sprawled on my right side, letting the tired, sore muscles scream obscenities at me. They were still healing, knitting themselves back together, and here I’d just taken them onto the bus.

My eyes opened half an hour later. Somewhat restored, I resolved to make lunch, eat it, and then think about something constructive to do. After changing into sweats and a T-shirt, I had a leftover meatloaf sandwich and an apple, drank my glass of milk, and proceeded to just think.

Think of what to do next.

Think….

Think….

I felt like Winnie the Pooh, the Bear of Very Little Brain, at that moment. Stuffing was coming out of me, but no good ideas. In cases such as these, my favorite solution involves drawing a spider diagram.

I took a piece of paper from Jack’s printer and found a fine-point mechanical pencil. Between sips of cold, refreshing milk, I drew a circle. Inside it, I wrote “me.” I drew a line going outside of this circle. I labeled it “Novack” and suddenly a number of mental leaps connecting to the Novack Bakery came to my mind. I wrote them down as branches off that first line. Another line was “The Stamens,” a new and high-end floral design shop in Lawrenceville. Unfortunately, Ricky and Theodore didn’t know enough to name their shop in a way that would announce their business to the general public—but I could fix that. Next line: “BW&B.” Again, a number of items.

“My apartment” sprouted a lonely limb on the thinking tree. I sat there and thought for a while. The question was, what to do with an apartment I didn’t live in? It was a small, one-bedroom place, and I still had a good bit of stuff in it. I made a branch, labeling it “de-junk apartment.” First I’d clean it up, then I’d see.

And now the biggest item: “Celia.” Now, this line was like a full-grown tree when I was done with it, and questions were hanging off the main branches like leaves. I saw a need for a timeline of events, a list of friends and coworkers, a list of fellow climbers…. Later, I’d make a spider diagram all about Celia. For now, though, one thing caught my eye.

“Her climbing gear.”

Jack had not mentioned coming across his sister’s harness, carabiners and self-belaying devices while remodeling the room for me. Presumably, it was still in the pile of boxes only fifteen feet away from me. I measured the sprawling pile with a baleful eye. There was no help for it.

If I were going to figure out what happened to Celia, I’d have to delve into the innumerable boxes she and her two aunties left behind. Besides, it would be faster if I did that all by myself. Jack’s extra set of hands came along with a set of eyes and a lifetime of memories. He’d slow down for every other thing and ponder upon its significance. I didn’t have enough time to do that. I had to find that gear, and I had to find it today.

T
IME
just flew by; I was no longer bored. Engrossed in my task of sorting and evaluating, I didn’t even look up when the key slid into the lock.

“Wyatt. What have you done?” His voice wasn’t displeased, exactly. Just… he sounded like a parent whose clever charge had built a pyramid out of chairs to reach the sugar bowl and spilled the white stuff all over the floor. There was no real harm, no bodily injury had occurred, but there was a lot of mess to put away.

“Oh, hi, Jack!” I looked up, pleased. It was good to see him at the end of the day. My back was killing me from hunching over boxes and piles. “I’m looking for Celia’s climbing gear. And while I was at it, I began to categorize all these items….” I gestured at the organized chaos with theatrical eloquence. I thought my system was obvious. “The garbage is in those old boxes. You’ll want to go through that, make sure it doesn’t contain anything of personal value. The furniture is right next to it, all piled up. The boxes are labeled, see? Textiles, silver, porcelain, glass, art, jewelry, books….”

He looked around again, this time truly absorbing the magnitude of my accomplishment. “What happened to the huge pile?”

I flashed him a victorious grin. “Just these few boxes are left. The gear’s bound to be there somewhere.”

“Do you even realize what time it is?” he asked, glancing at his Rolex.

“No…?”

“Pizza time. I don’t want any weird stuff by Susan, and neither one of us is going to cook tonight. Or so it seems.”

“Yeah… good idea. I’ll have whatever you’re having!”

I heard him cackle, disappearing into his bedroom as I stretched my back, bending over yet another box full of the flotsam and jetsam of somebody else’s life.

T
HE
heartlessly plain pizza was long gone, but we still had the good beer from Reyna.

“It tastes… okay, I guess. It’s chewy. Like you’re drinking bread.” Jack finished his first-ever bottle of Dogfish IPA and set it aside.

“So would you go back to Miller Lite?” I asked, teasing only halfway.

“I’m not so spoiled I’d turn it down,” Jack said.

“Give it a few weeks of being spoiled and pampered….” I said, and then I called Izzy before it got too late, and let him know that he could come over the next few days for a truckload of resale goods. There were still several boxes to go, and I dove right in. Hiding under old, beat-up baby quilts were several moldy, crusty-looking stuffed toys.

I grumbled under my breath, digging under. “Is this garbage, Jack?” I shoved a plush Puss in Boots toward him. His felt was riddled with holes and the stitching showed, although the cracked plastic boots were still securely sewn on.