He served as a PR director for Nike, or so he told her. Although Nina had visited his downtown condo a handful of times, she never saw any project portfolios, client files or any affiliation with the famous shoes and clothing titan. She only spotted…shoes and clothes. For all she knew, he might have simply managed the store in Gurnee, or even worked as a sales associate.
But she liked how he looked at her, by which she meant to say that, when beautiful women walked through his eyesight, his gaze never wavered; he continued looking at her with an earnest expression that made her feel safe and secure. Of course, she enjoyed all of the nights they spent out on the town; fine dining, dancing well past midnight, before falling into bed. But when it came to romance, she liked the unsaid and the unexpected more than the familiar and predictable: shoulder and foot massages after a long, tough day waiting tables and inconsiderate drunks at the bar, an inexpensive but colorful necklace “because it made me think of you,” a candle reminiscent of the one at the restaurant booth where they first met on a blind date, and countless other little treasures that always kept her off balance, while making her feel special.
At the bar, still tapping a flat heeled shoe against the iron legs of her chair and glancing around the room, Nina ordered another shot from the bartender and waited. Carlos had texted her the night before, asking her to meet him at Sanitarium, a wide, two-story building erected in a triangle pattern with a bar on each of three floors, surrounded by booths on all sides. Vintage signs from various beer companies were spread across the walls. Other than the circular lamps hanging from the ceiling, blue and pink neon lights cut through an otherwise dark ambiance, allowing customers the opportunity to talk since the Top 40 music playing through a decent sound system didn’t force patrons to raise their voices.
A week earlier, just as they finished their meal at a Red Lobster seafood restaurant, Carlos had grown so upset with her accusations of seeing other women that he launched to his feet, stood over her, and shouted that he “couldn’t trust someone who didn’t trust herself” before storming out of the restaurant and sticking her with the bill.
Humiliated by the all of the eyes looking her way, Nina threw down enough money to cover the bill and a tip then rushed out of the restaurant to apologize. But Carlos had vanished.
So now Nina waited with an enthusiastic expression, scanning the vicinity for Carlos, as though expecting to see him approach her with an apologetic expression, one that transmitted nothing but love and adoration. She cleared the text message she’d written: “where are you?” and replaced it with, “I’m on the 2nd level. Are you here yet?” Then movement to her left caught her attention.
Carlos, with a buxom blond hanging on his arm and batting eyelids at him as though she’d just captured the last man alive, strutted in her direction with a cocky grin, aided by a healthy dose of alcohol: whenever he drank too much, his eyes became glassy and that smarmy smile didn’t fade from his face until his buzz wore off, in which case he often got as cranky as a toddler with an attention deficit disorder, or he passed out.
But he didn’t even notice her. Even worse, the way he pressed this other woman close, he had no intention of seeing Nina tonight. And then it occurred to her that he’d inadvertently texted her when he’d probably meant to text the girl on his arm. Nina’s eyes drew inward and became moist as she watched Carlos walk right in front of her and glance halfheartedly at her before looking elsewhere, giving her the impression that, despite having lavished her with so much time and attention, Carlos had never really seen her. If he did, how could he look right at her, however fleeting, and not even recognize her.
Only then did she remember all of the last minute calls and texts, asking her to get together. She’d always explained away each of these instances as unimportant due to his unpredictable work schedule. Now, seeing Carlos carrying on with another woman, Nina looked like the proverbial deer caught in headlights: eyes darting upwards with shock, frozen in fear.
Until she did what she’d least expected.
“What the fuck!” she shouted, stunning a dozen people nearby.
Carlos swung around toward her, whipping his new girl in the same direction but causing her enormous breasts to bounce around under her polyester blouse as though mechanically inclined to jiggle in opposite directions at the same time.
“Nina,” he said, lifting his voice as though suffering through puberty. “What are you doing here?”
“You texted me to meet you here.” She raised her phone to eye level, not in Carlos’s face but that of the girl beside him. “That’s his number. But you can reach him at: (847) IMA-DICK.”
“Oh, shit!” Carlos said, cheeks growing red. “Shit.” He shook his head. “I’m just…”
“A piece of shit?” Nina asked, finishing for him. “I agree.” She turned to the blond. “And he doesn’t clean up after himself. Good luck with that.” Then she walked away.
The picture paused on the blond turning her back on Carlos. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes closed in disappointment, looking like he’d held a winning lottery ticket only to be informed that he held a counterfeit copy.
“Impressive,” Mei Lee said, appraising Nina with a notched eyebrow. “That’s growth.”
“Growth?”
“Compared to the other boyfriend, where you looked like a wallflower that someone stepped on – even if he wasn’t rude or a backstabber.”
“How is that a good thing? I was angry, immature—”
“You stood up for yourself. That’s something to feel good about.”
“If you say so.”
“Ready for the next one? The big finale?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Here we go…”
Nina stood on stage holding a microphone with jittering hands as the arena lights blazed into her eyes. She wore a blue polka dot dress with navy blue flats. Perspiration dotted her forehead. This American Idol audition occurred at the Scottrade Center in St. Louis in 2012. She’d taken a Greyhound bus for the 6-hour bus ride, arrived, and immediately felt completely overwhelmed by all of the contestants, many of whom were more talented and more beautiful than Nina.
“Anytime you’re ready, honey,” said Steven Tyler, the Aerosmith front-man and judge of the reality show.
“Take your time,” Jennifer Lopez said. “Try to relax.”
Head lowered, taking a deep breath and letting it out into the microphone, Nina nodded.
“You give good blow a bad name,” said Tyler, a former cocaine addict.
Nina lifted her head and squinted at the lights. Sweat formed above her upper lip. She started singing in a high-pitched squeal that made Jennifer Lopez place both palms against her ears. Steven Tyler looked as though someone blew onion breath into his face. Randy Jackson, the third judge, placed both hands together and let his head fall, shaking it.
“Sorry,” Nina said. She cleared his throat. “That was a warm up.”
“Really?” Tyler asked. “You just massacred Whitney Houston’s song as a warm-up?”
Lopez gave him a cold look. “Go ahead. Try again.”
Nina exchanged glances between Tyler and Lopez then looked out across the enormous venue. “Um…okay.” She bit her lower lip and kicked at the ground with her shoe, but it landed at an awkward angle. She tripped and fell, landing with a crash. Her legs went up in the air, no doubt giving the judges (and cameras) a look beneath her dress.
Nina let out a loud grunt. Her cheeks flared so brightly that it looked like someone had pressed a pair of scolding frying pans against them. One of the show’s producers turned to a camera man and drew a hand under his neck, demanding that he stop recording.
“Oooh yeah,” Tyler said. “I’m standing at attention in more ways than one, and you didn’t even open your mouth.”
Lopez looked disgusted. “That comment is nasty is so many ways.”
Undeterred, Tyler said to Nina, “Darlin’, you got a future in pictures, not music.”
The p
icture froze on Tyler’s excited expression while Lopez gave Nina an empathetic look.
Mei Lee turned to her. “You’re just not cut out for singing in public.”
“But I’d be amazing in the studio. I know it. If Kelly Clarkson heard my lyrics, she’d want them for herself.”
“And do a better job at the microphone than you.”
“Well, she’s special,” Nina said.
“The same could be said of Carrie Underwood.”
“Well, there are exceptions.”
“Adele. Beyonce. Rihanna.”
“I thought you were supposed to be supportive?”
“When you’re on earth? Yes. In heaven? Not so much.”
“I have poor taste in selecting parents, men, and now spirit guides…But I have these feelings inside that I can’t get out any other way.”
“Why did you want to sing if you have a fear of the spotlight?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nick pretended to examine the canvas like he saw something that no one else did, that the blank slate spoke to him in ways that a blank page spoke to a novelist. He couldn’t hide the truth from himself. He could not compete with three of the greatest artists in history. He didn’t deserve to even hold the same brushes as these icons. Yet, the crowd behind him expected genius to explode from his spirit and onto the canvas.
He scanned the crowd, searching for…someone familiar, someone who could calm his nerves. Anxiety swept through him until he finally rested his gaze upon Roland.
He met Nick’s gaze with a severe but enthusiastic and inspirational nod. And Nick didn’t know why, but he felt Roland’s confidence swelling inside him. It felt like he’d just received a shot of adrenaline. He dabbed the brush in some blue paint and began the only way he knew how; one stroke at a time.
Within moments, clarity took hold, allowing him the opportunity to follow his artistic insight. He didn’t second-guess himself, didn’t agonize whether whatever he worked on could compare with the three masters around him. He just let his eyes guide his brushstrokes.
Before long, Nick had become so wrapped up in his work that he didn’t see beyond the canvas; he didn’t even notice the individuals working a short distance away from him. And as time passed, he felt consumed by one of the most intimate yet penetrating portraits he had ever completed. It seemed as though his soul, not his mind, guided his vision, and he worked with such rapidity that he couldn’t believe he had finished so quickly. Never before had he finalized a work without making countless mistakes and corrections. It was as though in some strange fugue state, he didn’t even know what he’d created until he stood back from it to view it from a distance.
Only then did he realize that Picasso, Monet, and Dali had left their stations. If that weren’t disturbing enough, the crowd on either side of him had vanished. All around him, silence reigned.
The geniuses around him had probably already finished their work, only to take one look at his portrait and chuckle at his unskilled hand. And the crowd, having already seen what would amount to worthless garbage, had already headed out to avoid meeting his eyes and relaying disappointment and pity.
But when Nick backed up, he felt a couple pairs of hands clutch onto him so he wouldn’t fall backwards. He glanced to the left and saw Picasso eyeing his artwork as though trying to decide whether he liked it or hated it. Nick took his deliberation as a compliment; since Picasso could distinguish excellence from trash, Nick was simply glad to see that the master didn’t judge his work as outright crap and dismiss him with a flick of his wrist.
He looked to his right and saw Dali, fingering his mustache while staring at the portrait with wide-eyed intensity, as though he’d fallen into the painting and wanted to merge himself inside it. Once again, Nick regarded this as an endorsement. He couldn’t have been more pleased.
Finally, Monet met Nick’s gaze and cringed, obviously dismissing the portrait as second-rate, if not worse. But Nick didn’t mind. Seeing Dali’s expression negated Monet’s evaluation. Nick turned around to see Roland clapping and whistling. Nick had never seen him so…exhilarated.
The crowd that had originally sat behind the three masters now waited expectantly for him to step aside so that they could take in his work. When he did, he heard a collective gasp. Their faces beamed as they applauded. And although he didn’t recognize any of them, he got the impression that he knew some of them. This realization struck him in the same manner of seeing an old friend while that individual’s name eluded him.
And while he marveled at this unexpected epiphany, he actually felt the joy and elation in their hearts. It filled him with the most amazing peacefulness that he’d ever experienced. All of the pain he’d experienced in his life, all of the sorrow, all of the doubt, all of the loneliness, all of these emotions had been replaced with a fullness of love and understanding and support that Nick stood before them mystified and…for the first time since his parents died, he no longer felt alone.
Nick felt a hand clap him on the back. Turning, he came upon a hefty man with a dark, well-manicured goatee. He wore a tan suit and revealed a big-hearted smile. Nick stared at him in disbelief.
“It’s breathtaking,” said Thomas Kinkade.
While Nick hadn’t expected the masters to consider his portrait as anything special, he definitely sought out his idol’s opinion. And to see Kinkade smiling at him while declaring his admiration proved to Nick that, not only had he followed the correct career path, but he had done a valiant job in that profession. He had never before felt so rewarded and accepted and valued.
Kinkade threw an arm around Nick’s shoulder and walked him away from the three masters. “They paint for themselves and the critics. You and me? We paint for ourselves and…” He extended an arm and swept his hand toward the crowd. “It took me a while to figure out that you can’t please everyone, nor should you even try.”
Kinkade, who had never earned the respect of artists and critics, had long agonized over this lack of esteem, while disregarding how millions of people not affiliated with the art world adored his artistry. This absence of validation attributed to his accidental overdose of alcohol and Valium, resulting in his death.
“As long as you love your work,” Kinkade said, “and you can pay your bills, you will have enjoyed a successful career.”
Unlike his idol, Nick didn’t want critical acclaim, but he did want public recognition. And in the event that he didn’t reach the masses as he’d long hoped, he vowed to remember this moment for the rest of his life and to carry out its wisdom. “I understand.”
“Good luck to you, Nick,” Kinkade said, offering his hand.
Nick took it and shook it profusely. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.” A few seconds later, Kinkade’s expression grew a little worried. “Um, Nick?”
“Yes.”
He glanced down at his hand with a gentle smile. “I’m going to need that back.”
“What?” He followed his gaze. “Oh, right.” He released their grip. “Of course. Thank you so much.” After feeling Kinkade slap him on the back again before walking away, Nick turned around.
And that’s when he spotted his brother in the crowd. Harold’s smile gleamed and his eyes glittered with pride.
A swell of emotion went through Nick. Perhaps that’s why he felt so uplifted; he’d somehow known that Harold stood in the crowd. Maybe brotherhood linked them more profoundly than he’d thought. Of course, this type of connection wouldn’t work on earth. But in a dream, this type of link seemed not only possible but expected.
A moment later, Harold vanished.
The mass of individuals standing before Nick blocked his line of sight. This time, however, he wouldn’t let his brother get away so easily. Nick pressed into the crowd, accepting slaps on the back with a distracted smile. The further he walked into the masses, the more abundant the size of this group seemed to grow. He’d expected to pass a few people and come upon his brother within a few secon
ds.
When he’d turned around, he saw perhaps five hundred people gathered around him. Despite that staggering estimate, he now figured that figure had doubled or maybe even tripled. This oddity seemed on par with the compact size of the dance club, only to discover that upon entering it, the dimensions of that building grew with incomprehensible swiftness and with disregard to every law of physics.
But he used his imagination to create images on canvas. So why couldn’t he use that same creativity to bend his dreams to his desires? Given his high expectations when it came to what he hoped to accomplish with his artwork and his subsequent need for acclaim, he shouldn’t have been surprised that a huge crowd had appeared to lavish him with admiration.
Smiling faces blurred his field of vision, and anxiety swept through him. He glanced left and right. But he didn’t see Harold anywhere. It seemed fitting that upon finally receiving the adulation he’d longed for, he all but ignored their praise to focus on finding one of the few people that he cared about; a person he’d let down, a man he’d never trusted until it was too late, a brother he’d loved only after losing him.
It seemed his vanity had wrecked his chances for a reunion.
Nick pushed further into the crowd. “Harold!” Now plagued with the thought that he might once again lose his brother, he rushed forward, forsaking those around him, dismissing the strangers around him, concentrating only on finding the one person in the crowd that knew him, the one person that mattered.
Unable to locate his brother, Nick spun around to check the outskirts of the crowd on either side of him before directing his attention to the spot where he’d first entered the crowd, only to learn that he’d traveled the length of a football field. But he didn’t see Harold anywhere.
Just Like Heaven Page 12
