Love You So Special

by Tara Lain

  Mal nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Where are you parked?”

  Armando shook his head. “I parked somewhere in Nevada, I think, man. It was so far away, I had to buy a plane ticket to meet Mal.”

  “Yeah. What’s with the parking rules?” Mal made a rude noise.

  Artie shrugged. “The homeowner’s picky and so is the association, so just keep carpooling.”

  They walked over to the structure. “This is nice. Quality shit.” Armando ran a hand over some of the completed framing.

  “Yeah.” Artie liked the two guys well enough, but he didn’t feel much like chitchatting right now. Hell, his gut was still flipping from the whole encounter with François. “I’m going to keep working on some plumbing. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Artie buried himself in the kitchen area and pulled the copper piping through the walls. He liked the vantage point because he could look toward the house through the areas of open framing. A couple of minutes later, he saw François’s light hair behind the window, then music started. Then stopped and started again. It still didn’t sound quite as flowy as it had the other day, but better than earlier. Not as upset and angry. Good.

  Smiling to himself, he let the intrigue of piping diagrams and kitchen layout absorb him, all against a background of piano.

  Sometime later, Artie looked up as footsteps plodded against the grass outside where he worked. Mal and Armando walked toward him. Artie glanced at his watch. Jesus, how did it get to be three o’clock? “You quitting?”

  Mal nodded. “We got quite a bit done. Wanna come see?”

  “Yeah.” Artie rose from his bent-over position and followed the guys to the other end of the house, where they’d completed the framing on the bedrooms. It looked good—although not as much work as he might have thought two guys would do in almost four hours. “Okay. Seems good.”

  Mal crossed his arms. “We could’ve gotten more done except for the stupid caterwauling from the house. Jesus, Artie, how do you put up with that shit all day?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Whoever bangs on the piano in there. Christ. Start, stop, hammer, hammer. What a friggin’ sideshow. Doesn’t anybody in that house know how to play a damned song? Shit. How do you stand it?”

  Armando barked, “Somebody should buy the person an iTunes subscription.”

  Artie narrowed his eyes, and Armando quit laughing. “Listen, these people are really particular. If the lady hears you talking shit, JT’s gonna lose this job. And just so you know, that so-called person is one of the greatest piano players in the fucking world, so go get your ears cleaned out and don’t come back to this job, okay?”

  “Hey, man, JT’s in charge.” Mal gave him a puffed-up frown, but Artie could puff up right back.

  “No. He put me in charge at the job site, which this is. The homeowner doesn’t want a lot of people around, so thanks for the work. Go someplace else tomorrow. I’ll manage the framing until somebody comes in to finish.”

  “Shit, who made you God?”

  Artie just stared at him.

  “Come on, Armando.” The two of them walked away.

  Artie scowled after them until they’d disappeared from sight; then he let out his breath.

  “Do you think they’ll get their ears cleaned out?”

  Artie started and whirled to find François behind him. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  He grinned and pointed at the fireplace structure in what would be the living room, the one solid wall a person could hide behind on that side of the house. “I walked over to talk to you, saw them, and, well, didn’t want them to see me, so I hid.”

  “So you—”

  “Heard? Yes. Kind of hard to miss. They were pretty emphatic about my need to shape up and learn a song.”

  “Sorry about that. They’re idiots.”

  “That message came through loud and clear. They’re probably checking themselves into some remedial school for nitwits as we speak.”

  Artie finally grinned. “They won’t be back.”

  “Also clear.”

  “So you wanted to talk to me?” His heart thumped hard in that happy/scared way. He stared at his boots.

  “Yes. Can we sit down? I mean, I’d invite you in, but—” He shrugged like Artie had seen French guys do in the movies.

  “Sure. Try my tree.” He threaded through the house structure, walked across the grass to the comfy spot where he liked to eat his lunch, and made a sweeping motion.

  François gave the area a look. “Here I thought this was my tree.”

  “Nope.”

  François plopped down. Not like he was in danger of ruining his elegant sweat suit.

  Artie sat next to him, halfway wanting to run. “So talk.”

  François looked more serious. “I want to know why you get my music like you do. How can you hear me playing and know I’m upset? Why do you understand when I’m playing someone else’s music versus my own? Do you play an instrument?”

  Artie glanced up, then back at the grass. “Me? Jeez, no. I was lucky to graduate high school. I never got any extra lessons.”

  “But you’ve studied music.”

  “When?”

  “In school.”

  “No. Never took a music class after, like, third grade. They threw it out of our school. Man, I missed those classes.” He shook his head, but when he looked up, François was staring at him like he had two heads. “What?”

  “You particularly like Chopin?”

  “Oh right.” Artie smiled. “That’s the really pretty, flowy music that sounds like a romance movie, right? The funny word that looks like chopping? I really like it, yes.”

  François kept staring.

  Artie squirmed. “What did I do?”

  “You are fucking kidding me.” François didn’t take his eyes from Artie’s face, even though Artie tried to look everywhere except at him. Suddenly François bent forward and forced Artie to meet his eyes. “When can I meet your fish?”

  Chapter Six

  ARTIE BANGED on Don’s kitchen screen door. Don peered around the wall from his dining room, where Artie knew he liked to work on jigsaw puzzles. “Hi, Artie. Want to work on a puzzle?” He walked to the screen, unlatched, and opened it.

  “Uh, no. I wonder if you’ve got, like, furniture polish or something. You know, the stuff that makes wood look good.”

  Don drew his brows together. “What are you trying to do, Artie?”

  “Make my place look decent.” It came out as a sort of half wail.

  “Your place looks decent.”

  “Decent-er.”

  “Why?” He cocked his head.

  Artie quirked his nose. “This guy who’s the son of the woman I’m doing this job for is coming over to see my fish. He’s this famous piano player who lives in a rich, fancy house. I’ll bet he’s never even seen a place as crappy as mine.”

  “He’s coming to see your fish? How come?”

  Artie shrugged. “I told him how great they are.”

  “Does he have fish?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So he’s looking forward to seeing your fish and you, not your place.”

  He has a point, but still— “I know, but I still want the place to look okay, at least.”

  Don held the door open to Artie, then walked to his laundry room and came back with a mop and some bottles of cleaners. “Let’s go see what we can do.”

  Don followed Artie outside and up the stairs to the apartment. Inside, Artie tried to look at the place through a stranger’s eyes. The couch that to Artie meant comfort, and a real coup since he got it for free from a neighbor who was throwing it away, would probably just look like junk to François. He sighed.

  Don set down the stuff he was carrying. “How long have we got?”

  “Until six tonight.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “Have you got a tape measure?”
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  “Hey, I’m in construction. Of course I do.”

  “Measure that couch.”

  Artie did as he was told, calling out the dimensions to Don, who wrote them on an envelope.

  When he was done, Don said, “Okay. Let’s go to Target.” He said it like tar-jay.

  “Now?”

  “No other time is better in the universe. We must create ourselves.”

  Artie gave him a look. Don liked to say wild shit like that, but Artie loved it since it was so unique. So different.

  Artie drove them to the big store and parked. Don powered into the building like Moses leading the chosen people. He looked around and then steered Artie to a department where they had slipcovers for couches. It all started to make sense. He searched for ones that matched the dimensions Artie had measured. “So what color do you like?”

  Artie frowned at the weird green and the ugly flower print; then his face lit up. One package held a slipcover in a fabric that looked sturdy, comfy, and not shiny, but most of all, it was a beautiful shade of… all he could think of was tangerines. “That one.”

  “Really?” Don raised a white eyebrow.

  “Oh, is that one bad? I guess it’s kind of bright and weird, huh?”

  “No. I think it’s great. I just didn’t expect you to think so.”

  “It kind of reminds me of some of my fish.”

  “Okay, good. Now let’s get some stuff to go with it.”

  A half hour later, they’d picked out some cushions to go on the couch in darker, more subdued colors that made the brighter color of the slipcover look real classy. They also got a big rug in a gunmetal shade of gray and two lamps in stainless steel that wasn’t shiny.

  Don strolled over to a shelf and came back with some place mats and napkins that had both the gray and the orange in them.

  Artie shook his head. “I don’t think he’s going to be eating.”

  “That’s okay. These are cheap, and they add a lot of color for not much investment.” He added a big wooden bowl to their cart and, as they checked out, picked up some pots of flowers they had on a stand near the cash registers. He was practically dancing a jig, he seemed so excited with their purchases. Artie reserved his opinion.

  Back at the apartment, Don put Artie to work polishing the old, scarred wooden table he ate at. When he got done, Don put the placemats and napkins on the table, then placed the bowl in the center and added some oranges he got off the tree in his backyard. “Okay, help me with the slipcover.”

  It took almost a half hour of jerking, shoving, and straining, but finally the slipcover fit over the old relic of a sofa almost like it had come that way. When Don added the cushions, Artie let out a laugh of surprise. “Shit, that looks good.”

  “Yep. If I do say so myself. Now you vacuum the floor and I’ll dust the tables. Then we’ll add the rug and the rest of the stuff.”

  As soon as the place looked squeaky clean, Don gave the go-ahead to move the couch and put the rug in the center of the living space, then position the couch to one side of it. He draped an afghan thing he got at his house over the really ugly recliner and positioned Artie’s striped chair that was actually kind of nice-looking opposite the couch. Then with a move like he might have pulled a rabbit out of a hat, he put two pots of flowers in the center of the scarred coffee table, tossed any magazines over a year old in the trash, then stepped back and grinned. “I think your place looks almost as good as your fish. You’ve brought meaning to an irrational world.”

  Artie glanced around. Son of a bitch, not sure he’d go quite as far as Don, but it did look great. “Damn, this looks good. How did you ever learn to do this?”

  His eyes misted. “I was married for a long time. Some of it just rubs off.”

  Artie put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. How can I ever repay you?”

  “You already do. Every day. I’m just glad I got to give you a little back.” He sat at the table surveying his creation. “Now what are you going to serve your guest?”

  “Serve?”

  “It’s polite to offer some refreshment. Are you having dinner?”

  “I don’t think he’d want to have dinner with me.”

  “Why not?” He dropped his eyebrows.

  Artie shrugged. “We didn’t talk about it.”

  “All right. You can ask him when he gets here. But you still need to offer drinks and hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Uh, I’ve got beer.”

  “How about a choice? Perhaps offer wine, beer, and iced tea.”

  “Okay.”

  “Some cheese and crackers would be good. Nuts are always handy snacks. Put some in a bowl.”

  “Uh, I better go to the store.”

  Don glanced at his watch. “You have just enough time to do that and get home to primp for your engagement.”

  “Primp?” What was he thinking?

  “Poor choice of words. Prepare.” He stood. “I’ll leave you to it. I suggest gouda cheese.” Ha patted Artie on the arm. “Have a great evening.” Whistling between his teeth, he walked out of the apartment.

  Artie looked around, stared at his fish zipping around in their tank, took a breath, and hurried out the door.

  FRANÇOIS RAN the brush through his damp hair. It took water to make the neglected mass do much of anything at all. He should just break down and go to a hair cutter, but the people always asked him what he wanted and the answer was always to be left alone, so why go?

  He walked into his bedroom, feeling odd in his slim jeans. They felt positively tight compared to his sweats, but it didn’t seem right wearing his usual uniform over to Artie’s. He opened the closet and chose a pale green sweater that he’d always liked even though he almost never wore it. At the last second, he added a hunk of green jade on a chain that he’d found in a little store in Hong Kong. Another thing he never wore.

  He smiled. Maybe it’ll match one of Artie’s fish.

  I wonder why I’m doing this? He hadn’t much clue except to say that Artie interested him. Fascinated, actually. It was disconcerting to have somebody see him, get him. To say that Artie was the last person he ever expected to be perceptive or sensitive was a cliché not worth mentioning. But returning the favor seemed important.

  He texted Joseph, his chauffeur, then walked out of his suite toward the front door. He got all the way to the entry before the voice came.

  “Mon ange?”

  He stopped and took a breath. “Yes, Mother?”

  She appeared in the arch that led to the living room and her sunroom beyond. “My, don’t you look nice.” She didn’t smile. “Where are you going?”

  His instinctive tendency to account to her warred with his drive to declare his independence. “To visit a friend.” Would she dare ask who?

  She must have read the challenge on his face, because she smiled tightly. “Have fun.”

  He almost laughed as he stepped out the front door, got into the limo, and dug in his pocket for the address Artie had given him on a slip of paper, written in thick, dark contractor’s pencil. What the hell am I doing? He actually chuckled as he handed the paper to Joseph. Yes, his mother would likely hate that he was going to see the fish of their plumber, which made François feel weird—and altogether delighted.

  TWO HOURS after racing to Mom’s Market, Artie had managed to slice the cheese without cutting off his finger. He set it out on this fancy wooden block thing they’d had at the store that looked real pretty and cool; then he poured some crackers into a basket he’d gotten at the same time. The girl told him that crackers were better than chips, so he got a few kinds, and some paper napkins almost the color of the couch. Damn, this was fun. They always said gay guys liked shit like decorating, but this was the first time he ever believed it.

  At a few minutes before six, he ran to the bathroom, put out the nice clean towels he’d washed and dried a few days before, then stared in the mirror to make sure he hadn’t missed any whiskers in the shower. No facial hair. All he re
ally saw was his perfectly ordinary self. Brown hair, brown eyes, okay skin, regular nose, nothing to remember or write any songs about.

  Why do you suppose François wants to see my fish?

  Shit, he probably just likes fish. If I had anything else in mind, I just spent a bunch of money and went to a shitload of trouble for nothing. He cocked his head at himself. Am I interested in François—that way? Like for sex? His cock leaped in his dark jeans. Whoa! Seriously? Artie’s sex life was kind of like everything else in his life—same old, same old. Except for the element of possible discovery, which might have added a taste of spice for some guys, but to Artie it was just uncomfortable. He’d give a helluva lot to just have nice comfortable sex in a nice comfortable bed with a guy whose actual last name he knew and who he could look forward to seeing again. Yeah, right. His dad wanted the Cleveland Browns to win the Super Bowl too.

  With a long exhale, he walked back into the living room. He perched on the edge of the striped chair but didn’t relax because he didn’t want to mess anything up. So he stared at the fish tank. Better than TV.

  The sound of crunching tires on the driveway that led to the garage above which Artie lived made him get up and peek out the venetian blinds. What the fuck? François came in a limo? Was this dude serious? You didn’t drive around Costa Mesa in a limo unless you were going to the prom.

  Half his brain wanted to run outside and wave them off, while the other half just wanted to hide. Would people believe François came to see Don? Jeez, guys like Artie didn’t have friends who arrived in football-field-sized cars complete with driver.

  Before he could decide what to do, there was a knock on his door. Artie walked to the door and opened it before he realized he was still frowning.

  François stood on the other side looking—uneasy.

  Well, shit, they were quite a pair. Artie cleared his throat. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Uh, couldn’t find your car?”

  François’s eyes dropped to the floor. Not usually his style. “I don’t have a driver’s license.”