by Arlene James
She popped up to make him a snack in order to tide him over until the dinner they’d planned with his brothers and their wives to celebrate her opening. Afterward, they sat together on the sofa and watched the early news. surprised to hear Camille mention that night’s opening of the Art Bar. Jillian’s nervousness translated itself into constant fidgeting with her glasses, which she’d lately taken to wearing again. Finally, Zach suggested that she have a long soak in preparation for the evening, and went so far as to pour her a glass of white wine to sip while enjoying her bath.
Two hours later, Jillian emerged like a butterfly from a cocoon. She had chosen the dress for the occasion while still living with Denise and Worly; Denise had hoped that a shopping trip would cheer up her friend. Zach could not fault either decision. The slip dress hugged Julian’s slender curves like shiny, cherry-red skin, dipping low both front and back, displaying the tops of her firm breasts and the graceful sweep of her shoulder blades. A flaring tunic of sheer gold print with a wedding ring collar that buttoned at the back and long, flowing sleeves disguised some of the bare skin but none of her breathtaking shape exposed by the dress itself. A pair of the most ridiculous shoes he’d ever seen completed the ensemble. Shiny red vinyl with ankle straps and faux tortoiseshell platforms with clunky three-inch heels should not have looked both funky and sexy, but on Jillian they somehow did. Her hair had grown long enough to wisp around her neck as well as her face, and she had painted a few tiny streaks of gold glitter through the soft caramel tresses. An earthy brown eye shadow, black mascara and cherry-red lipstick constituted her makeup. He noted that her red toenails were painted red.
“Wow,” he said. “Your fairy godmother must be proud.”
She laughed. “Didn’t you know? We modern Cinderetlas don’t need fairy godmothers. We do, however, need a little assistance with the modern version of the glass slipper. They aren’t securely buckled, would you mind?”
“Not in the least.” He got down on one knee and carefully buckled the clear vinyl straps, admiring the trim ankles decorated by the outlandish red vinyl roses. He couldn’t help noticing that the creamy expanse of her long legs were bare of stockings, and his temperature rose accordingly. “I’m not sure I can do you justice tonight,” he told her huskily, rising to his feet.
She smiled and somehow managed a curtsy in that short skirt and those tall shoes. “Oh, we’ll find something for you,” she said. “Let’s take a look in your closet.”
He was only too happy to accept her assistance—until she laid out what she’d chosen. Looking doubtfully at the pale chinos and the once white T-shirt now yellowed to a matching hue, he lifted a skeptical eyebrow. When she came out with the baggy camel tan coat that had once belonged to his father and the green-and-gold paisley vest he had received as a gift and never worn, he actually balked. “This stuff is so old it ought to be tossed,” he told her.
“But it’s good quality,” she said. “The people I know would buy it at resale in a heartbeat. Come on, just try it on.”
While he did so, she rummaged around and came up with a ten-year-old pair of brown Italian loafers and a hemp belt. He was stunned by what greeted him in the mirror. “Well, all right,” he said skeptically, “if it’s what you think best.” Was that really him? He looked like something in one of the trendier men’s magazines. Didn’t he?
She seemed pleased, so he squelched his doubts and went along. When they walked into the restaurant to encounter his brothers and sisters-in-laws, his doubts were put to rest.
“Heavenly days,” Mary exclaimed, “you both look like fashion models!”
“I think we’re hanging with the ‘in’ crowd,” Brett teased.
“How on earth do you walk in those shoes?” Daniel asked Jillian.
“Very gracefully, obviously,” Sharon said. Then she gave Zach a thorough going-over and announced, “I think I married the wrong brother.”
Everyone laughed, and the server came with additional menus. Almost ninety minutes and a dangerous amount of prime rib later, Sharon glanced at her watch and announced that they just had time to get the babysitter home before her curfew. All rose to leave. Brett apologized for not being able to make the opening itself. “Maybe if it had been on a weekend,” he said.
“There will be other showings,” Zach assured him, convinced that he was right. Jillian had a unique and sizable talent.
Mary patted her big belly and confessed, “I don’t think I’d fit in too well with the crowd tonight anyway. Heck, I don’t even fit too well in my own skin these days.”
Jillian kissed her on the cheek and told her to take it easy in the draining heat. Thanks, congratulations and good wishes were exchanged, along with hugs and pats. It was almost ten by the time they left the parking lot of the fashionable West End steak house. It was almost ten-thirty before Zach gave up trying to find a closer space and parked the convertible in front of Denise and Worly’s apartment building. As they walked the three blocks to the club, Zach caught Jillian’s hand in his, and she neither pulled away nor stiffened.
When they reached the club, they had to work their way through a throng of patrons to the doorman, who expected a cover charge. When Jillian told him that she was one of the artists, he sent inside for confirmation, and the owner, Mr. Considine, showed up himself to escort them inside. Zach thought he was the least likely Deep Ellum club owner imaginable. A short, paunchy, balding man wearing an execrable suit of pale-green polyester over a Hawaiian shirt, he talked too loud and smelled of tobacco, but he seemed to know his business. The place was packed.
Part art deco and part fantasy forest, the gallery consisted of balconies constructed of brushed steep pipe around three sides of the cavernous room. The bar occupied the fourth wall, all burnished mahogany and sparkling mirrors. The spacious dance floor was ringed with cement tree trunks that provided display bases for the club’s permanent art collection. Green potted trees, some fifteen feet tall, were interspersed throughout the seating section, sheltering tables and chairs with branches strewn with twinkling lights. The stage, or performance space, was a black rectangle at the apex of the dance floor. The entire wall behind it was draped with black velvet curtains that puddled on the black enameled floor. It was here that the band would begin tuning up in another thirty minutes or so.
Meanwhile, Mr. Considine escorted Jillian and Zach through the gallery exhibits. Zach was amazed to see the number of small red Sold stickers adorning much of the artwork. Denise had sold a piece and was thrilled beyond words. Her wild red hair bounced and wavered in the set lights, her exuberance almost making Zach overlook the plain, skintight, black jersey dress that she wore with black high-topped athletic shoes and mismatched socks. She looked like a lump of coal with feet on one side and red seaweed on the other.
Jillian, to his delight and her own, had sold several pieces, more than anyone except a scruffy, nervous middle-aged man with a white ponytail whose specialty was casting and carving glass into fanciful, colorful shapes. He and Jillian were talking shop in front of an audience of several enthralled patrons when Camille showed up with a camera crew. She was overdressed in floor-length navy satin, and the perfection of her hair and makeup gave her the aura and warmth of a mannequin. As Camille positioned herself with her microphone and the filming lights glared, Zach quickly stepped away to use his cell phone. A short, discreet conversation assured him that Camille’s frustrated “protection” was lurking just outside the doors of the packed club. Zach promised to alert him when she left and got off the phone before Jillian or Camille could notice.
Camille did her piece on the trendy and experimental new Art Bar opening in Deep Ellum and dispensed the crew to film extraneous shots. A clearly befuddled Jillian introduced her sister to the glass sculptor, only to have Camille freeze him so deeply that he took himself off, muttering about the “establishment invasion.” Zach took note of Camille’s combative stance and moved in to be on hand if Jillian should need him.
“So how is m
arried life?” was her opening volley, the tone of manufactured boredom failing to override that of resentment.
Jillian lied smoothly. “Surprisingly easy. I know why my husband’s such a great guy now. His family has just been wonderful.”
Camille did not bother to reply to such disappointing news. Stepping close she hissed, “You might at least have gotten me an invitation to your opening! Everybody at the office just assumed—”
“But, Camille,” Jillian said in surprised exasperation, “no invitations were sent out.”
“What?” Camille reeled in obvious shock. “B-but the openings of art shows are always by invitation only.”
Jillian shook her head, explaining, “The whole concept behind the Art Bar is one of allowing the public easy access to art. Worly was emphatic that it be a public opening, and the interest in the project was so overwhelming that Mr. Considine was convinced. No one needed an invitation.”
Camille had the look of someone who’d been bamboozled. Here she thought she’d been cut out of an elitist, invitation-only event, and it turned out that anyone with the price of admission could get in. To make matters worse, she’d finagled her way in with a film crew and unwittingly given the occasion coverage. And, as usual, it was all Jillian’s fault. “You could have paid me the courtesy of a telephone call to explain the situation, you know!”
“It never occurred to me that you had the least interest in it,” Jillian told her gently. “You’ve derided the notion from the beginning.”
Zach was enjoying himself too much at this point to keep quiet. He stepped to Jillian’s side and slid a possessive arm around her waist, taking great pleasure in informing Camille that her sister was a great success. “She’s sold the majority of her work already, and Considine himself bought the central piece for his permanent collection.”
“How exciting,” Camille drawled, but what she was really saying was, “there’s just no accounting for taste.”
It was then that Worly’s band, nameless by design, took the stage. The houselights went down and a strobe came on over the dance floor. Zach was wrong to think they’d do anything as pedestrian as tune up. They simply picked up their instruments and launched into a garbled, guitar-shrieking song. Thankfully the balcony floor and the “forest” protected them somewhat from the worst of it. Camille rolled her eyes. “I knew that creature Worly wasn’t capable of making real music.”
Once her friend was insulted, Jillian had apparently had enough. “Listen, Camille,” she said caustically, “now that you know you weren’t slighted in any way you can care about, why don’t you just go and let us enjoy our evening.”
To everyone’s surprise, apparently even her own, Camille teared up. “How would you know what I care about?” she asked, lifting her chin regally, as if by that action alone she could keep the tears from falling. “All my life I’ve tried to be somebody others would admire and love, while you get those things without even lifting a finger. It all comes so easily to you. Everybody loves Jillian.”
“Except you!” Jillian shot back.
Camille stamped a foot, exclaiming, “Especially me!” The effect of the music was such that no one even turned a head. “Don’t you think I’ve wanted to hate you? You were Daddy’s little darling, but he could barely stand the sight of me.”
“That isn’t true,” Jillian argued. “He just had a hard time being as much a part of your life as he wanted because of your mother.”
“When he left, Mother was all I had!” Camille pointed out. “It wasn’t my fault they couldn’t be in the same room together!”
She was right, of course, though Zach hated to admit it.
Jillian sighed and caught her sister by the upper arm, shaking her gently. “Camille, Daddy and Mom both taught me to love and admire you. I’ve thanked God for you a million times, and I’ll always love you because you are my sister, but it’s time you dealt with some important issues from the past. I don’t think we can be as close as we both want to be until you do.”
Camille regarded her with tears trembling prettily on her lashes, bottom lip quivering. “You mean it? You haven’t just written me off?”
Jillian looked her in the eye, saying flatly, “Never. You’re my sister.”
Camille’s vaunted ego summarily reasserted itself. She tossed her golden head. “I’ll think about it,” she said. “Maybe you’re right.”
Jillian’s lips quirked in a quickly disciplined smile. “That’s all I ask.” In her wisdom, she had made herself sound the penitent, when they all knew that was not the case, even if Camille couldn’t admit it.
They all stood a moment longer, clutching the railing around the balcony as the dance floor filled with gyrating bodies, before Camille pulled in a deep breath and haughtily took her leave, declaring that she couldn’t stand one more minute of that “obscene noise.” She signaled her crew and was gone without so much as a farewell. Zach reached for his cell phone. Just then a young man wearing a black suit at least two sizes too large for him appeared at Jillian’s elbow.
“Mr. Considine asked me to tell you that he reserved a table for you.”
Nodding, she allowed him to lead them down the stairs and into the live forest. Bringing up the rear, Zach quickly made his call and alerted his man that Camille was on her way out.
The table to which they were escorted boasted a placard reading Ms. Jillian Keller, Artist, and Zachary Keller, Husband. Jillian apologized, feeling that it somehow belittled Zach, but he just laughed. “What makes you think that I mind being known as your husband?” He had to shout the question, but the look she gave him in reply was both eloquent and steamy. A thrill shot through him. The hope he had so carefully tried not to nurture these past days flared into stubborn life. They sat in the dark beneath the trees, pretending to enjoy the deafening music and sip complimentary drinks in which neither was particularly interested, until Zach simply couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I want to dance with you,” he said, getting up. She looked up, clearly surprised, but placed her hand in his.
He led her out onto the periphery of the dance floor. All around them couples were gyrating as if in the various throes of convulsions, but he didn’t care. Not even the screaming, screeching music could convince him that he shouldn’t take her into his arms and dance with her just the way he wanted. As her willingness to have him do so became obvious, the music actually seemed to recede, taking everything and everyone else with it. All alone in a world of their own making, they wrapped each other close and danced to the tune of their hearts. After the demise of the frantic piece, Worly, bless his aberrant soul, moved the band into a slow number, surprising Zach with his deep, gravelly vocals. The song itself was ridiculous, the lyrics unfathomable—some—thing about goldfish, as far as Zach could tell—but it gave Zach a very good reason to keep his wife in his arms, and when the moment came, only minutes into it, to kiss her, he didn’t hesitate.
If anyone paid them the slightest attention, they never noticed, so wrapped up in each other were they. When at last the music ended, Zach bucked up his courage and suggested they go home. Jillian dazzled him with her smile.
“Just let me visit the ladies’ room first.”
He kissed her again before he could let her go, and he knew then that it was going to be all right. Somehow, he’d married the one woman in the world who could truly make him happy, and she seemed to be giving him the chance to repay her in kind.
Jillian slipped toward the ladies’ room on a cloud of euphoria. He did want her. She knew it. Love emanated from him like perfume from a rose. She was so thrilled that she didn’t notice the man stepping out of the shadows until she’d bumped into him.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me, Jillian.”
His hand fastened around her wrist, and she found herself staring into the face of Janzen Eibersen. He’d cut his hair close to the scalp, disguising its paleness and accentuating his dark brows. She realized suddenly that sh
e’d glimpsed him several times that evening and not once recognized him or sensed his proximity.
“What are you doing? Let go of me!” she insisted as he pulled her toward the door.
“Don’t fight me if you want to see your sister again,” he warned.
Camille. Jillian’s blood ran cold. “What have you done with her?”
“Never fear. I only want to talk to you, make you see that you can’t let her keep calling the shots.” He pulled her into the darkened foyer and past the doorman.
“What are you talking about? Camille has no control over me.”
“Oh, please. You forget that I was there, darling Jill. I saw the way she manipulates and bullies you.” He pushed her through the door and out onto the sidewalk.
“Not any longer. I put an end to that when I moved out of the house.”
“Then why did you let her bully you into marrying her handpicked bodyguard?”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Jillian said desperately, afraid to fight and afraid to let him haul her down the sidewalk away from Zach. “Camille didn’t want us to marry. She refused to even come to the wedding.”
