Toxic Bachelors

by Danielle Steel

  Both art dealers she had sent his slides to called her on the same day. Both were interested, and wanted to see samples of his work. The third dealer called two days after he got home from Paris, and said pretty much the same thing. Sylvia told Gray about it over dinner the day they called.

  “I think you're going to have some options here,” she said, looking ecstatic. Gray was floored. In a matter of days, she had swept him out of his lethargy, gotten slides of his work to the right places, and opened several doors.

  “You are an amazing woman,” he said with eyes that said it all.

  “You are an amazing man, and an extraordinary artist.” She made a date with him to take his work to all three galleries on Saturday afternoon. She said they could use her van. And as promised, she showed up in the morning in a sweatshirt and jeans to help him load up. It took them two hours to take everything he wanted downstairs, and he was embarrassed to have her work. She had already played fairy godmother to him, he hated to use her as delivery person too, but she was game.

  She had brought a sweater and better shoes to change into when they went to the galleries that were expecting them. And by five o'clock it was over. He had offers from all three galleries, who were wildly impressed with his work. Gray couldn't believe what she had done, and even she had to admit she was pleased.

  “I'm so proud of you,” she said, beaming at him. They were both exhausted but delighted. It took another two hours to get all his work back upstairs. He hadn't made a decision yet about which gallery to choose. But that night he did, and she thought he had made the right choice. It was an important gallery on Fifty-seventh Street, with a large branch in London, and a corresponding gallery in Paris, with whom they exchanged work. It was perfect for him, she said confidently, thrilled with his choice.

  “You are incredible,” he said, smiling at her. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, he was so moved by what she'd done. They were sitting on the couch in his living room as he said it. The room was an even bigger mess than it had been earlier in the week. He had been painting all week, inspired by her energy, and hadn't bothered to tidy up. She didn't care and didn't seem to see it. He loved that about her too, in fact there was absolutely nothing he didn't. As far as Gray was concerned, she was the perfect woman, and he wanted to be the perfect man for her, and give her all that she had never had and needed. There was little he could do for her except be there for her, and love her, which was precisely what he wanted to do. “I love you, Sylvia,” he said quietly, as he looked at her.

  “I love you too,” she said softly. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to, but the days and nights they had spent together meant something. She liked the way he thought, and what he believed. She loved his integrity and what he stood for. She even admired his work. There was nothing they needed to do about it, nowhere to go with it, no decisions they had to make. All they had to do was enjoy it. It was all so simple, for the first time in both their previously complicated lives. “Do you want me to cook dinner?” she asked, smiling at him. The only decisions they had to make were where to eat, and whose place to sleep at. He liked sleeping at her apartment, and she preferred it. His was too big a mess, although she liked visiting him there and seeing the progress on his work.

  “No,” Gray said firmly, “I do not want you to cook dinner. I want to take you out and celebrate. You got me a terrific gallery this week. I would never have done that myself. I would just have sat here, on all of it, too lazy to move.” He wasn't lazy, far from it. But he was modest about his work. She knew many artists like him. They needed someone to make the moves and bridge the gap for them. She had been happy to do it for him, with remarkably good results.

  They had dinner at a small French restaurant on the Upper East Side that night, with good French food and fine French wine. It was a genuine celebration, of them, of his new gallery, of everything that lay ahead. And as they went back to her place in a cab, they talked about Charlie and Adam. Gray hadn't seen Adam since he got back, or even called him, and he knew Charlie wasn't back yet, and Gray hadn't called him either. He often didn't call either of them, especially when he was engrossed in his painting. They were used to his dropping off the face of the earth, and called him when they didn't hear from him. He described his friendship with them to Sylvia that night, the depth of it, and their kindness to him. They talked about why Charlie had never married, and why Adam never would again. Sylvia said she felt sorry for them. Charlie seemed like a lonely man to her, and it saddened her to hear about his sister and parents, enormous irreversible losses for him. In the end, losing them had cost him the opportunity to be loved by someone else, which multiplied the tragedy exponentially for him.

  “He says he wants to get married, but I don't think he ever will,” Gray said philosophically. They both agreed that Adam was another story. Bitter about Rachel, angry at his mother, all he wanted was bimbos and girls who were young enough to be his daughters. It sounded like an empty life to her. “He's a great guy, once you get to know him,” Gray said loyally about his friend. Sylvia was not as convinced. It was easy to see the merit and quality in Charlie. Adam was the kind of man who never failed to annoy her. Smart, confident, cocky, successful, with no real use for women, except as sex objects and decorations. He would never have dreamed of going out with a woman his own age. She didn't say it to Gray, but she had a profound disrespect for men like him. As far as she was concerned, he needed therapy, a good swift kick in the ass, and a powerful lesson. She hoped that one of these days, some smart young thing would deliver it to him. From what she could see, he had it coming. Gray didn't see it that way. He thought he was a great guy, who'd had his heart broken when Rachel left him.

  “That doesn't justify using people, or disrespecting women.” Sylvia had had her heart broken too, more than once, but it hadn't made her use men as disposable objects. Far from it. It had made her retreat and lick her wounds, and think about how and why it had happened, before venturing out into the world again. But then again, she was a woman. Women functioned differently than men, and came to different conclusions. Most women who had been badly burned retreated to nurse their wounds, whereas most men who had been wounded ran headlong into the world, wreaking vengeance on others. She was sure, as Gray said, that Adam was nice to the women he went out with. The problem was that he had no respect for them, and would never have understood what she and Gray were sharing. He would never have let it happen, or dared to trust it. Which made her realize once again what a miracle it was that she and Gray had found each other.

  She cuddled up next to him in bed that night, feeling safe and warm and lucky. And if, in the end, he went away again, at least they would have had this magical moment. She knew now that she could survive whatever happened. Gray loved that about her. She was a survivor, and he had proven over a lifetime that he was as well. If anything, their disappointments had made them kinder, wiser, and more patient. They had no desire to hurt each other or anyone else. And whatever else happened, or didn't, between them, along with the dreams, the hope, the romance, and the sex, best of all, they had become friends and were learning to love each other.

  8

  “I'M BACK. ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” CHARLIE CALLED Gray at his studio on a Monday, and sounded concerned. “I haven't heard from you in weeks. I called you a few times after I got back, but your phone is always on the machine, at whatever hour,” Charlie complained, as Gray realized he'd probably been at Sylvia's when Charlie called, but Gray said nothing to him. It had been a blissful weekend for Sylvia and Gray, and Charlie had no idea what had happened since Gray's return to New York. Charlie had realized while at friends' in the Hamptons over the weekend that he hadn't heard a word from Gray since shortly after he got home. Charlie had a couple of e-mails from him in early September while he was still on the boat, but nothing since. Usually, if all was well in his world, Gray eventually checked in, and this time he hadn't.

  “I'm fine,” Gray said happily. “I've just been working.” He sai
d nothing about Sylvia yet, but they had both agreed over the weekend that it was time to say something to his two friends. She wanted to wait to tell her children. He and Sylvia had been seeing each other for nearly a month, and from what both of them could discern, it was real. She was faintly worried that Charlie and Adam would be jealous, or even resentful. With a serious relationship in his life, Gray would be less available to them, and she had a feeling it wouldn't sit well with them. Gray had insisted that wasn't the case, but Sylvia was not convinced.

  He told Charlie about his new gallery then, and Charlie whistled. “How did that happen? I can't believe you finally got off your duff and found a gallery to sell your work. It's about goddamn time.” Charlie was delighted for him.

  “Yeah, I thought so too.” He didn't give Sylvia credit for it yet, but he intended to the next time he and Charlie met. He didn't want to talk about it over the phone.

  “How about lunch one of these days? I haven't seen you since the boat,” Charlie said. He was going to a concert with Adam later that week. It was harder to get together with Gray. He tended to get involved in his work, and isolate himself for weeks on end. But he sounded in good spirits these days, and if he had signed up with a major gallery, things were obviously going well for him.

  “I'd love to have lunch with you,” Gray said quickly. “When?” It was rare for him to be that anxious or enthusiastic about getting together. Most of the time, he had to be pried from his lair and dragged from his easel. Charlie didn't comment. He assumed that Gray was ebullient about the deal he'd made.

  Charlie quickly consulted his book. He was swamped with meetings for the foundation, many of which included lunch. But he had an opening at lunchtime the following day. “How's tomorrow?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “The Yacht Club?” It was Charlie's favorite venue for lunch, either that or one of his other clubs. Gray found the Yacht Club painfully stuffy at times, as did Adam, but they humored him anyway.

  “That sounds fine,” Gray said, sounding pensive.

  “See you at one,” Charlie confirmed, and both men went back to work.

  Gray told Sylvia the following morning that he and Charlie were having lunch, and she looked at him over the stack of pancakes he had just made.

  “Is that good or bad?” she asked, looking nervous.

  “Good, of course.” He sat down across the table from her with a plate of pancakes of his own. He loved cooking for her. He was becoming the breakfast chef, and she cooked for him at night, or they went out. Everything was falling into place, and they had settled into an easy routine. He left in the morning to go to his studio, where he no longer slept. She went to the gallery, and they met back at her place around six, when they both got home. He usually brought a bottle of wine, or a bag of groceries. He had bought lobsters for them over the weekend, which reminded them both of the golden days on the boat. He hadn't officially moved in with her, but he was sleeping there every night.

  “Are you going to tell him about us?” she inquired cautiously.

  “I thought I would. Is that still okay with you?” Knowing how independent she was, he tried not to step on her toes.

  “It's okay with me,” she said easily. “I'm just not so sure it will be okay with him. It might be a bit of a shock, you know. He might have liked me fine as a passing face in Portofino, but he may be a little less enthused at the thought of this becoming a full-time deal,” which clearly it had become in the four weeks since Gray got home. And it was more than fine with them. Very, very fine.

  “Don't be silly. He'll be happy for me. He's always been interested in the women I've been with.”

  Sylvia laughed as she poured him a cup of coffee. “Yeah, because they were no threat to him. He probably figured they'd wind up in jail or an institution before they could cause a lot of trouble between the two of you.”

  “Are you planning to cause trouble?” Gray asked with interest, looking slightly amused.

  “No, of course not. But Charlie could perceive it that way. The three of you have been inseparable for ten years.”

  “Yeah. And I'm still planning to see them. There's no reason why they can't see me with you.”

  “Well, see what Charlie says. Maybe we should have him over for dinner. I've actually thought of that a couple of times recently. And Adam too, if you want,” although she liked him a great deal less. “I'm just not too crazy about having dinner with women the same age as my kids. Or younger, in Adam's case. But I'll do whatever you think is a good idea.” To Sylvia, it seemed like the diplomatic thing to do.

  “Why don't we have Charlie over on his own first,” Gray suggested amiably. He knew she didn't approve of Adam, and he didn't want to push it. At least not quite so soon. But he liked the idea of including her with his two friends. They were an important part of his life, and so was she.

  Both of them knew that including friends in their private world was going to be important to the health of the relationship in the long run. They couldn't sit there alone forever, holding hands, watching movies on TV, and spending their weekends in bed, although they both loved it, and it was certainly fun. But they needed more people in their life than that. Adding friends to the mix was yet another step toward achieving some kind of stability between them. Sylvia always felt as though there was some kind of rule book somewhere about relationships, and others knew its contents better than she. First you slept together, then he spent the night, eventually with increasing frequency. At some point, he needed to have a closet and some drawer space, they hadn't gotten there yet, and his clothes were hung all over her laundry room. She knew she was going to have to do something about that one of these days. After that he'd get a key, once you were sure that you didn't want to date anyone else, in order to avoid awkward moments, if he arrived at the wrong time. She had already given him one, there was no one else in her life, and sometimes he came home from the studio before she got back from the gallery. There was no point having him sit on the front stoop, waiting for her. She wasn't sure what came after that. Buying groceries, he had done that. Dividing up the bills. Answering the phone. She was definitely not there yet, in case she got calls from her kids, who knew nothing about Gray. Asking him to live with her, changing his address, putting his name on the mailbox and bell. Friends were a part of all that. It was going to be important that they like at least some of the same people. And in time, her kids. She wanted Gray to meet them too. She knew he was uneasy about that. He had said as much to her. She knew that was the easy part. Her kids were great, and she was sure he would love them too. All Emily and Gilbert wanted was for her to be happy. If they saw that he was kind to her, and they loved each other, then Gray would be welcomed into the family. She knew her kids.

  They still had a long way to go, but they were on their way. Some of the hurdles ahead still frightened her, and she wasn't ready for them yet, and neither was he. But she knew that telling Adam and Charlie was a big one for him. She had no idea how they'd react to the news that she and Gray were as serious as they were. She hoped that Charlie wouldn't discourage him, or frighten him about her kids. She knew that that was Gray's one big Achilles' heel. He was phobic about kids, not only about having his own but about relating to someone else's. It didn't seem to matter to him that hers were adults and no longer children. He was panicked about getting attached to anyone to that degree. For a man who had spent a lifetime nurturing some of the most dysfunctional women on the planet, the one thing that terrified him was meeting, dealing with, or relating to their kids. To Sylvia, it appeared to be a completely irrational fear. But to Gray, it was real.

  Gray helped her clean up the breakfast dishes, and he left for the studio first. She had some calls to make before she left for work. She wanted to call Emily and Gilbert. With the time difference, it was usually too late to call them when she got home from work. She hadn't said anything to them about Gray yet. Neither of them was coming home till Christmas. Sylvia thought there was plenty of time
between now and then, three months in fact, to see how things were going with Gray, before she said anything to them. Both were out when she called that day, and she left loving messages on their answering machines. She stayed in close touch with her kids.

  By the time Sylvia left for the gallery that day, Gray was already at the Yacht Club with Charlie. They were seated at his favorite table. It was an enormous elegant dining room, with vaulted ceilings, portraits of previous commodores, and ship models under glass around the room. Gray thought Charlie looked terrific, tan, fit, and rested.

  “So how was the end of the trip?” Gray asked conversationally, after they both ordered chef's salads.

  “It was fine. We didn't really go anywhere after you left. I had work to do, and the crew started doing some repairs. It was just nice to be on the boat, instead of here in the apartment.” He had been finding it lonely and depressing of late, and he was feeling restless. “So tell me about the gallery you signed with. Wechsler-Hinkley, isn't it?” It was an impressive name in the art world. “How did that happen? Did they just find you?” Charlie was happy for him. No one deserved it more than Gray. He had an enormous talent. “Or did you find them?” Charlie was smiling broadly in anticipation of the story.

  “Actually, a friend gave me an introduction,” he said cautiously. Sylvia had made him nervous about Charlie's reaction, which he knew was silly. But now he felt anxious, and he looked it.

  “What kind of friend?” Charlie asked with interest. He didn't know what or why, but there was something smoky about the story.

  “A friend friend …you know… actually…a woman,” Gray said, feeling like a schoolboy reporting to his father.

  “Now there's a twist,” Charlie said, looking amused. “What kind of woman? Do I know her? Is there a new wounded bird in your nest these days? One who works at a gallery, with good connections? If so, how clever of you,” Charlie praised him. But it wasn't what he thought. Gray wasn't dating some secretary who had asked her boss to see him. There was no wounded bird in Gray's nest, but rather a dynamo who had taken him under her wing, and flown like an eagle.