Toxic Bachelors

by Danielle Steel

  They lay in her bed until they both fell asleep, and woke up hours later, sated, tranquil, happy. They walked into the kitchen finally, and made lunch together, naked. She had no shame with him, and neither did he, and even though their bodies were no longer as perfect as they once had been, they were totally comfortable with each other. They took their lunch back to bed, and ate it, talking and laughing with each other. Everything between them was simple and fun and easy.

  They took a shower together afterward, and then dressed and went for a long walk around SoHo. They stopped in shops, looked into art galleries, bought gelato on the street and shared it. It was six o'clock when they went back to her place finally, after renting two old movies. They climbed back into her bed, and watched them together, made love again, and at ten o'clock that night, she got up and fixed him dinner.

  “I want you to come to my place tomorrow,” he said when she came back to bed with their dinner, and handed him his. She had made scrambled eggs with cheese in them, and English muffins. It was the perfect end to their special day, one which they both knew they would never forget. And there was still so much left for both of them to discover.

  “I want to see your recent work,” she said, thinking of it again, as they ate the eggs.

  “That's why I want you to come over.”

  “If you want, I'll go home with you in the morning. I have to be at the gallery at noon, but we can go to your place before that.”

  “I'd like that,” he said, smiling. They finished the eggs, turned off the TV, curled up together in the bed, with their arms around each other.

  “Thank you, Gray,” she whispered to him again. He was half-asleep by then, and only smiled and nodded. She kissed him gently on the cheek, moved even closer to him, and moments later, they were both sound asleep, looking like peaceful, happy children.

  7

  SYLVIA WAS UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. SHE WOKE and saw Gray sleeping next to her, and for a fraction of an instant, she was startled, and then she lay nestled next to him, smiling at what had happened. If anything serious happened between them, this was going to be an enormous change for her. And even more so for him. He had never had a normal woman in his life, and she hadn't had a partner and companion in her life in years.

  She slipped out of bed quietly, and went to take a shower. She let him sleep for as long as possible, and then made breakfast for both of them. She woke him up by serving him breakfast in bed on a tray. It was a far cry from the women he had fed, served, taken care of, nursed back to health, or doled out their medication to because they were too irresponsible or whacked-out to be responsible for it themselves. He looked up at Sylvia in amazement, as she set the tray down on the bed, and kissed his shoulder. He looked handsome and sexy lying in her bed, even with his uncombed hair. She loved his looks, he was strong and powerful and interesting and very male.

  “Did I die and go to Heaven, or is this just a dream?” He put his arms behind his head and lay smiling at her. “I don't think I've ever had breakfast in bed, unless cold two-day-old pizza on a paper towel counts.” She had even put a small vase with a rose in it on the tray. It was fun spoiling him. She had missed having someone to fuss over and take care of. For most of her adult life she had had a husband and children to nurture. Now everyone was gone. And she was excited to be pampering him.

  “I'm sorry to wake you,” she apologized. It was ten o'clock, and she wanted to go to his studio with him, as they had discussed, before she went to work. Gray glanced at the clock in consternation.

  “Good Lord. What time did you get up?”

  “Around seven. I very rarely sleep late.”

  “Neither do I. But I slept like a baby last night.” He smiled at her, and then got up to comb his hair and brush his teeth. He came back a minute later, and settled back into her comfortable bed with the tray. “You're going to spoil me, Sylvia. I'll get fat and lazy.” There was no risk of that, she suspected. She was just enjoying being with him, and doing for him. She handed him the newspaper, which she'd read herself, while she had coffee and toast in the kitchen. He glanced at it, and put it away. He would much rather talk to her.

  They chatted while he ate, and then he got up and got ready. They left for his studio at eleven, and walked out of her apartment hand in hand. She felt like a teenager with a new romance, but it had been so long since she felt that way that she was enjoying every minute of it. She was smiling as they walked out into the September sunshine, and he hailed a cab. It was a short ride to his apartment, and as they walked up four flights of stairs in the dilapidated old brownstone, he apologized for the mess in advance.

  “I've been gone for a month, and to be honest, it was a mess before that. In fact”—he grinned broadly at her, slightly out of breath as they reached his landing—“it's been a mess for years.” So had his life, but he didn't point that out to her. He had appeared to be a pillar of stability to the women he went out with, but compared to Sylvia, he seemed haphazard and disorganized. She ran an extremely successful gallery, had had two long relationships in her life, raised two normal, healthy children to adulthood, and everything about her life and apartment was impeccable, orderly, and neat as a pin. When he opened the door to his apartment, they could hardly get through the door. One of his suitcases was blocking it, there were packages the super had just shoved in, and a stack of mail had fallen and was spread all over the floor. The bills he'd paid the day before lay open and in disarray on a table. There were clothes on the couch, his plants had died, and everything in the apartment looked tired and worn. It had a comfortable, masculine feeling to it. The furniture was decent looking, although the upholstery was worn. He had bought everything in the place secondhand. There was a round dining table in the corner of the room, where he entertained friends for dinner sometimes, and beyond it was what had once been the dining room, and had always been his studio. It was why she had come.

  She walked straight toward it, as he tried in vain to make order in the place, but it was beyond hopeless, he realized. Instead, he followed her into the next room, and stood watching her reaction to his work. He had three paintings on easels in various states of development. One was nearly finished, another he'd just begun before his trip, and the third he was pondering and planned to change because he didn't think it worked. And there were at least another dozen or so paintings leaning against the walls. She was stunned by the power and beauty of his work. They were representational and meticulous, dark in most cases, with extraordinary lights in them. There was one of a woman's face, in a peasant dress from the Middle Ages, that was reminiscent of an Old Master. His paintings were truly beautiful, and she turned to him with a look of admiration and respect. It was completely different from what she showed in her gallery, which was hip and new and young. She had a real passion for emerging artists, and what she showed was easy to look at and fun to live with. She sold some very successful young artists as well, but none had the obvious training he did, the masterly skill, and the expertise that showed in his work. She had known Gray was a painter of the first order, but what she saw in his work now was maturity, wisdom, and infinite ability. She stood next to him then, looking at the work, wanting to absorb it and drink it all in.

  “Wow! It's absolutely amazing.” She understood now why he only did two or three paintings a year. Even working on several at once, as most artists did, it had to take him months, or even years, to complete each one. “I'm blown away.” He looked thrilled with her reaction. There was one of a water scene that was absolutely mesmerizing with sunlight on the water at the end of day. It made you want to stand and stare at it forever. Sylvia knew, looking at his work, that he needed an important gallery to see his work and represent him, not hers. He knew the kind of work she sold, he had just wanted her to see it so she could see what he did. He had a great respect for her understanding of art history, and even modern painting. He knew that if she reacted favorably to it, it would be a major compliment to him. And whether she liked it or not, it w
as what he did. “You have to find a gallery to represent you, Gray,” she said sternly. He had told her he had been without representation for nearly three years. He sold his work to people who had bought them previously, and to friends, like Charlie, who had bought a number of his paintings and also thought they were very good. “It's a crime to leave all these paintings just sitting here, without a home.” There were stacks and stacks of them leaning against the walls.

  “I hate all the dealers I meet. They don't give a damn about the work, just the money. Why give my work to them? It's not about money, at least not for me.” She could see that easily from the way he lived.

  “But you have to eat,” she chided him gently. “And not all dealers are that greedy and irresponsible. Some really care about what they do. I do. I may not sell work of this caliber, or as masterful as these, but I believe in the work I show, and my artists. In their own way, they have tremendous talent too. They just express it differently than you.”

  “I know you care about it. It's written all over you, that's why I wanted you to see my work. If you were like the rest of them, I wouldn't have invited you in. But then again, if you were like them, I wouldn't be falling in love with you either.” It was a big statement after their first night together, and for a moment she didn't answer. She loved being with him, and wanted to get to know him better, this was serious for her too, but she didn't know if she loved him yet. However excited she was about him, it was still too soon. It was for him too. But he was getting there faster than either of them had planned, and so was she. Seeing his work, and knowing he had dared to be vulnerable with her, made her care about him even more. She gave him a look that had no need of words, and he took her in his arms and kissed her.

  “I love your work, Gray,” she whispered.

  “You're not my dealer,” he teased her. “All you have to love is me.”

  “I'm getting there,” she said honestly. In fact, faster than expected.

  “Me too,” he said clearly.

  She stood staring at his work for a long moment, as though she were on another planet. Her mind was going a million miles a minute. “I want to find a gallery for you. I have some ideas. We can go look at their work this week and see what you think.”

  “Never mind what I think. It depends on what they think too. You don't have to worry about that. You have enough to do, and I don't have enough for a show right now anyway,” he said modestly. He didn't want to take advantage of her connections. What he felt for her was entirely personal and private, it had nothing to do with his work, or wanting an introduction from her, and she knew that.

  “The hell you don't have enough for a show,” she said forcefully, as she would have to one of her young artists, half art dealer, half pushy stage mother. But a lot of them needed to be pushed. Few if any of them ever realized how talented they were. Not the good ones anyway. The young show-offs were rarely as good. “Look at all this,” she said, gently moving things so she could see what was in his stacks. It was gorgeous stuff, as good as what was in progress on the easels, or better.

  Once finished, his paintings seemed to be lit from within, some by candlelight, some by fire. There was a luminous quality to them that she had never seen in recent work. It was straight out of the Renaissance and the work of the Old Masters. And yet it had a modern-day feeling to it. It was the technique that was so remarkable, and which was a lost art. She knew he had studied in Paris and Italy, just as her daughter was doing. In Gray's case, it had given him a great foundation. She thought his work was nothing less than brilliant and inspired. “Gray, we have to find you a gallery, whether you like it or not.” It was the kind of thing he would have done for one of his previous women, helping them to find a gallery, an agent, or a job, more often than not with disastrous results. No one had ever offered to help him, except maybe Charlie. But Gray didn't like to impose on anyone, particularly his friends, or those he loved.

  “I don't need a gallery, Sylvia. Honestly, I just don't.”

  “What if I find you one you like? Will you at least look at it, and talk to them?” She was pushing hard, but he loved her for it. She had nothing to gain from it, all she wanted was to help him. Just as he had done for so many for so long. He smiled and nodded in answer. She had already decided who to call, there were at least three possibilities that were perfect for him. And she knew that if she thought about it, there would be others, uptown galleries, important ones, that showed work like his. Definitely not galleries in SoHo like her own. He needed an entirely different venue. London and New York. The right galleries would have connections in other cities. That's where he belonged, in her opinion.

  “Don't worry about this,” Gray said gently, and meant it. “You have enough on your plate as it is. You don't need another project. I don't want to make more work for you. I just want to be with you.”

  “Me too,” she said, smiling at him. But she also wanted to help him. Why not? He deserved it. She knew that artists were typically terrible businessmen and incapable of selling their own work. That was why they had dealers. Gray needed one too. She was determined to help him. And hopefully, to have a relationship with him. That still remained to be seen. But whether she did or not over time, there was no reason not to give him a hand with the right connections for his art. She knew damn near everyone in New York in the art world. She had proven herself to be so honorable and decent that doors opened for her with ease, and always had. And once she opened the right door for him, the rest would be up to him. All she wanted to be was the conduit, which was a perfectly respectable goal between them, even if all they turned out to be were friends who'd had a brief romance.

  Sylvia glanced at her watch then. It was nearly noon and she had to get to her office. He promised to call her later, as she kissed him good-bye, and a moment later she was scampering down the stairs as he called out to her.

  “Thank you!” he shouted down the stairwell, and she looked up with a broad smile. She waved then, and was gone.

  There was the usual chaos once she got to her office. Two artists had called in frantic about their next show. A client was upset because a painting hadn't arrived yet. Someone else called to check on a commission they'd ordered. The installer had had a motorcycle accident, broken both arms, and couldn't put up their next show. She had an appointment with their graphic designer that afternoon, about the brochure for the next show. She had to meet a deadline for their next ad in Artforum, and the photographer hadn't delivered the four-by-fives yet of the piece of sculpture in the ad. She didn't have time to breathe until four o'clock that afternoon. But as soon as she did, she made some calls for Gray. It was easier than she had expected. The dealers she called trusted her reputation, her taste, and her judgment. Most people who knew her thought she had a good eye, and an instinct for great art. Two of the dealers she called asked her to send slides. The third was coming home that night from Paris, so she left a message for him to call her. She called Gray as soon as she hung up. She was a woman on a mission. And he laughed the minute he heard her. She sounded like a whirlwind, and he assured her he had slides. If he hadn't, she was going to send a photographer over to do some.

  “I have sheets of them, if that's all you want.”

  “That'll do for now,” she said cheerfully, and told him she'd have a messenger at his studio in half an hour to pick them up.

  “Wow, you don't mess around, do you?”

  “Not with work as great as yours … besides,” she said, slowing down a little. This wasn't business for her after all, it was romance. She had to remind herself of that for a minute. “I want good things to happen for you.”

  “They already did, in Portofino. The rest is gravy.”

  “Well, let me take care of the gravy,” she said, sounding confident, and he smiled.

  “Be my guest.” He was loving the attention, it was completely unfamiliar to him. He didn't want to take advantage of her, but he was fascinated watching her work, and seeing how she lived her life. She w
as not a woman to be daunted by obstacles, nor to accept defeat or failure. She just rolled up her sleeves and got to work, whatever the task at hand.

  The messenger appeared at Gray's door at exactly four-thirty, brought the slides to Sylvia, and shortly after five she had them and a cover letter in the hands of the dealers she'd called about Gray's work. She left her gallery at six, and as soon as she got home, Gray called her, and suggested dinner together. He wanted to take her to a small Italian restaurant in his neighborhood. She was thrilled. It was funny and cozy and the food was delicious, and she was relieved to see on the menu that it was cheap. She didn't want him spending money on her, but she didn't want to humiliate him by offering to pay either. She suspected they would be doing a lot of cooking for each other in the future. And after dinner that night, he took her home, and stayed at her place. They were falling into a delicious routine.

  They made breakfast together the next morning, and the next day he served her breakfast in bed. He said it was her turn. She had never had a turn before, but this time they were partners, spoiling and pampering each other, listening to each other, consulting each other on what they thought. For the moment, everything about it was perfect. It frightened her to look into the future, or have too much hope that this meant more than it did. But whatever it was, and however long it lasted, it suited them both for now, and was all they had ever wanted. And the sex was beyond terrific. They were old and wise enough, and had just enough experience, to care about each other, and make sure that each was pleased. Nothing in their relationship was self-serving. Each of them enjoyed making the other happy, whether in or out of bed. After a lifetime of mistakes, they were both wise and well seasoned. Like a fine wine that had ripened perfectly with age. Not too old yet, but just old enough to be vibrant and delicious. Although her children might have thought them old, in fact they were the perfect age to enjoy and appreciate each other. Sylvia had never been happier in her life. Nor had Gray.