“Lindy,” she corrected him. “My friends call me Lindy.”
“Lindy,” he repeated. “I like it. I may forget and call you Melinda from time to time, though. I sort of think of you as Melinda already, and I like that name too.”
Lindy was surprised enough to learn Paul thought of her as anything that she didn’t catch Stephen’s question about one of the handbags until he repeated it. She had thought he was still absorbed in the gray scarf.
“The bottom of this? We could use a stiffer leather to give it a little more structure. I think it would hold the sides out more evenly, show off the design better.”
“Oh. Yeah, I agree. I usually don’t work with very hard leathers,” Lindy explained, “because I just don’t have the equipment for it. But I agree, that would be a good idea.”
“Mel—sorry, I mean Lindy,” Paul corrected himself with a grin, “I wondered about the silk in this scarf. It’s vintage, isn’t it? So we’d need to look into a more readily available alternative to that.”
She couldn’t help but be impressed that Paul knew the silk was old, and from the look on Stephen Markham’s face he was likewise impressed. “Yes, it’s vintage. From the thirties. I bought a trunk full of old fabric remnants and a few full bolts of upholstery silk at an estate sale a few years ago, dirt cheap, and I still use those a lot in my work now. But honestly, that was just a lucky find and I use it to save on costs, not because of any artistic vision. Nonvintage is fine with me.”
“Okay, good to know. Stephen, maybe you should be writing this down?”
“Oh are we doing this right now, then? Talking about changes?” He was clearly pleased with the idea.
“I think so,” Paul confirmed. “Unless you had any objections, Lindy? We don’t have a contract drawn up yet, I don’t want to pressure you about it. But since we’re all here, maybe we can go ahead and discuss some possible ways to make things work for manufacturing purposes? It’ll be good for you to keep in mind from now on, anyway.”
“Absolutely,” she said, tamping down her pang of anxiety about moving so quickly. She didn’t want to lose the opportunity that was right in front of her just because she was too scared to reach out and grab it. “We’ll just keep it hypothetical.”
Within minutes, she and Stephen were bent over samples, with Stephen scrawling notes on a legal pad while Lindy looked over each of her pieces with a fresh eye. She learned a great deal in a short time about what types of changes might be needed—hypothetically, of course—to make her quirky, eclectic pieces more amenable to large-scale production. And she was surprised to find that, for all his deliberate flamboyance and vocally gushy love of fashion, Stephen was also almost encyclopedic in his knowledge of producers and suppliers, the intricate vagaries of sewing machines at various factories, the current market rates for leather and countless other details. It made Lindy’s head spin to see how quickly he could jump from squealing over a new shiny object—“Adorable!”—to rattling off a list of specific materials and suppliers that might be involved in its manufacture, sometimes right down to fabric catalog numbers.
The time went by quickly, and when Paul asked what type of sandwich she’d like, Lindy was startled to realize she was famished. And small wonder, since it was just after noon.
“Ham and Swiss? On rye bread if that’s an option. Oh, we’ve been monopolizing your office all morning! I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think—”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have dreamed of interrupting your flow, anyway,” Paul insisted, then spoke into the phone receiver he’d been holding. “Maggie? Add a ham and Swiss on rye to that.” He nodded, listening, then covered the receiver to speak to Lindy and Stephen again. “And besides, if you’d gone back to Stephen’s office or the workroom, it would have been nothing but interruptions and he’d have been far too distracted to be any use at all.”
“How well you know me,” Stephen quipped. “Better than your father ever did when he was in this office, I’m quite sure.”
“He taught me everything I know about you,” Paul assured him. “By the way, he emailed me earlier and said to relay his condolences, and that he’ll send a car for you at eight sharp tomorrow morning for golf.”
“Darling man, of course he did,” Stephen murmured, and looked a little bleary. Lindy suddenly felt as though she’d intruded on a private scene.
“Sandwich?” Paul asked Stephen, but the older man shook his head and patted his fingers over his chest thoughtfully, toying with his artfully knotted cravat.
“I don’t think so. Things to do. But enjoy your lunch with this talented, ravishing creature.” Turning to Lindy, Stephen took her hand in his and lifted her fingers to his lips briefly. “A rare pleasure, Miss Lindy Moore. I certainly hope it will not continue to be so rare.”
Then he was off with a perky wave and a spring in his step, and if Lindy hadn’t already seen the tear in his eye, she would never have believed he was having anything but the best day of his life.
“His father,” Paul said quietly after Stephen was out of earshot. He had apparently finished relaying the lunch order to Maggie as he was no longer on the phone. “Ninety years old, was dying of liver cancer. Stephen went to try to see him one last time and the old bastard wouldn’t even let him into the house. Died two days later. Stephen’s mother let him come to the funeral since he was already in town, but she wouldn’t talk to him.”
“That’s awful!” Lindy said, horrified. “Because he’s gay? I mean…I assume he’s gay?”
Paul laughed, somewhat bitterly. “Yeah, he’s gay. And yes, that’s why. You know, he may take it too far sometimes, joking about sweatshops, but he actually pushed harder for that change than anyone. Stephen’s one of the best people I know, and I’ve known him all my life. It still baffles me now, just like it did when I was a kid, that his parents didn’t see what a fine human being he is. I don’t think I’ll ever understand that.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Lindy agreed. “But he’s what, in his early sixties? Times were different when he was growing up, I guess.”
“Don’t ever let him hear you guess that close to his actual age, please. And yeah, times were different. But at least he never tried to hide who he was. Not that a gay man is so unusual in the fashion industry, of course. But still, a gay man who’ll give you the custom-tailored shirt off his back? Those people didn’t deserve a son like him.”
“How have you known him so long?” She started folding scarves, stacking them neatly, and Paul shifted from his desk chair to the couch to help. From his quick, automatic motions, she wondered if he’d done a stint in the retail side of his family business when he was younger. For somebody who almost certainly grew up with servants in the household, he looked like he’d had a lot of practice folding clothes.
“He’s one of my parents’ closest friends. He’s worked for this company since his early twenties, and my grandfather made my dad start at the bottom, so Stephen and my dad became friends and then pretty much came up through the ranks together. He introduced my dad to my mom at a New Year’s party. My middle name is Stephen after him, actually.”
After a moment, Lindy asked, “Should I know any of this about him? About his family?”
“No,” Paul confessed. “But I just felt like I had to tell somebody. I’m a little worried about him. He’s not holding up as well as he pretends to be, I think.” Patting the completed pile of scarves down neatly, Paul sighed and tried on a smile.
Concern for a friend was an oddly attractive quality in a man, and Paul was an attractive man to begin with. His handsome, blond, boy-next-door looks had a wholesome charm, a nice balance to his slightly stern corporate demeanor. Lindy was not immune to his appeal.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” she told him, and felt rewarded when his smile broadened.
“Thanks. And thanks for letting me unload on you.”
“That was unloading? Please,” she scoffed. “I have a sister and a cousin who’s basically like a sister, plu
s a brother who’s still a teenager. And I hang out with artists. They all unload more than that before they say hello on an average day.”
Paul chuckled. “Doesn’t that get exhausting?”
“Sometimes,” Lindy said, and as she said it she realized how true it was. And how refreshing it was to be around somebody who didn’t seem inclined toward that sort of drama. “I’m used to it, I guess. But I do sometimes feel like I’m becoming the official repository of secrets for the greater Indianapolis area.”
“Wow. I would not want that job.”
“It isn’t exactly something I applied for. I wouldn’t want your job.”
“Fair enough. I didn’t exactly apply for that, either, of course.”
The arrival of a tray of sandwiches interrupted them, but by the time the condiments were spread and the refreshments poured, the conversation was once again well underway.
* * * * *
The forecast called for cooler weekend weather, but by that evening it was still far too hot. Lindy could feel sweat forming a sticky film under the heavy weight of her hair. It dripped down and puddled in the space between her breasts, held there by her bra, with an occasional droplet sliding down her stomach to punctuate her discomfort. The fabric she worked with, silk and wool and cotton, was all warm and slightly damp to the touch. Humidity had crept in from outside to permeate the art gallery along with the heat. The floor fan did little to stir the thick air.
Peering over the pink-on-pink scarf she was draping carefully around a black spherical support, Lindy gazed enviously at the blonde girl who stood at the far wall of the main gallery space with a measuring tape and a clipboard.
Lindy had no idea how Eva, the gallery manager, always appeared so cool and unwrinkled. She looked like she existed in a personal bubble of climate at least fifteen degrees cooler than the surrounding air. While Lindy fretted and frizzed through her preparations for the show, Eva sailed through the heat wave with no signs of stress and with every pale hair neatly in place.
Dropping the scarf and just letting it fall over the pedestal into a slouchy spiral that looked surprisingly good, Lindy stretched her arms over her head and thought about the changes the past few days had brought.
Even without Red House, things were definitely looking up lately, she reminded herself. Lindy already had more demand from local boutiques than she could possibly supply by herself. The show would bring more press, and she had every reason to hope it would be positive exposure. The local critics seemed to love her work, though she was still always startled to hear herself referred to as a designer rather than an artist. She had only started messing around with fabrics because she needed an extra non-art elective credit in college and the textiles course was cross-listed under home economics. But she’d loved it, and now she was well on the way to making a successful career out of her favorite hobby.
And then, of course, there was Richard. Or, she corrected herself, there was the confidence she’d gained by knowing she had finally taken the matter of her overripe virginity into her own hands. So to speak. And perhaps that confidence had even been part of the reason her meeting at Red House had gone so well.
But she’d thought having sex with Richard would cure the daydreaming about him, not worsen it. She’d expected greater clarity once she had dealt with the mystique of her attraction for him by sleeping with him. Instead, she had spent the whole afternoon in a fog after leaving Paul Maddox’s office. She hadn’t seen Richard all day, she had left without talking to him that morning, and now she missed him terribly. And though she tried to deny it, she’d felt guilty more than once during her lunch with Paul. She’d felt guilty for having lunch with a man other than Richard, which was ridiculous since it wasn’t a date and she wasn’t involved with Richard in any case. And she’d felt guilty for thinking about Richard when she was having lunch with Paul, which was equally ridiculous because it still wasn’t a date and she wasn’t involved with Paul, either.
Lindy sighed, stretching again and trying to ease the tension in her shoulders and neck caused by long hours of sitting as she worked. She wondered if she’d have time to make it to a Pilates class that night, to work some of the knots out. If she didn’t go to class, she knew, she wouldn’t exercise at all. Her sedentary job took its toll on her back and it certainly didn’t help her waistline, but there was no good way to knit and work out at the same time. And forget using a sewing machine while trying to multitask.
When Lindy giggled a little hysterically at the sudden mental image of a treadmill all fitted out with a commercial grade Singer, Eva turned around, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing,” Lindy assured her. “Just thought of something funny. I think the heat is getting to me.”
“Yes, it’s very unpleasant,” Eva acknowledged. “The humidity is more of a concern for the artwork than the heat itself, of course.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Can you give me your input? I’ve been looking at the Weems installation, and I’m concerned about the transition from his section to yours, given the high level of visual interest in both. I’m wondering if we need to move McClure over here and Weems over there instead.”
The way Eva said “visual interest” made Lindy suspect she meant “it looks too busy”, and she had to admit that between her vivid fabrics and the hand-painted light panels of Mr. Weems, there was certainly quite a lot to look at.
“I think you might be right, but of course I’d be staying here either way, so I guess it’s up to you. And it’s pretty late in the game. Having to move when they’ve already set up may not make them too happy.”
Eva pursed her lips a little. “Well, it’s always better when the artists are happy.”
“I am incredibly happy,” Lindy assured her, and turned back to her work. She felt anything but happy, but at least she had a moment of joy a few minutes later when she discovered a ponytail holder in the depths of her jeans pocket. With the heavy mass of her dark auburn hair finally off her neck, Lindy felt vastly better prepared to face the unexpected late September heat.
What she wasn’t prepared for was a ghost-touch of fingers against her shoulder, and Richard’s voice in her ear.
“Hi.”
“Richard, what are you doing here?” She tried to calm her fluttering heartbeat and stifle the buzz of sexual energy his fleeting touch had triggered. “It’s great that you’re here, I just wasn’t expecting to see you.” And she wasn’t expecting him to touch her, or to smell faintly of spicy aftershave, or to have a tiny bead of sweat right at the base of his throat just begging to be licked off.
“I figured you’d be pretty caught up in getting ready, so I brought you some dinner.” He held up a white plastic bag that was apparently full of take-out.
“That was very nice of you,” she said, “but you didn’t have to do that.”
“And yet I did do it. It’s the kind of stuff friends do. Come on, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Just eat.”
It was Chinese, and she hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she caught the waft of steam from the beef with broccoli. Eva declined Lindy’s invitation to join them and took herself off to parts unknown while Richard spread out the contents of his bag on a canvas drop cloth, dished up the food and regaled Lindy with amusing commentary about the artwork surrounding them while they ate.
The problem, Lindy discovered, was that she kept forgetting to distance herself. When Richard grazed his fingers along the inside of her wrist after he passed her the steamed rice, it felt so good that she forgot they weren’t supposed to be doing that now. She had to stop herself from gazing dreamily into his eyes as he spoke. They ate and laughed and any awkwardness of the past few days was forgotten.
And that was all. A Chinese picnic dinner in the middle of the gallery and a lot of light conversation. Lindy kept expecting him to make a move, but he never so much as hinted.
He kissed her on the cheek when he left, and Lindy was annoyed at herself when she realized she’d
been hoping for more. Richard was a great artist and a very good friend, but he was moody and had an abysmal history when it came to relationships. He had earned every bit of his reputation as a player back in college, and although he had cut down on volume since then, he had only done so to get involved with a woman who was disastrously wrong for him.
It would be beyond foolish to become his friend with benefits, Lindy told herself firmly. She had started the whole thing harboring a crush that was dangerously close to love already, and she’d been wrong to think she could just walk away from him unaffected. Sleeping with him yet again when she knew he only saw her as a friend, a cute kid…it would be stupid, and Lindy wasn’t that stupid.
She watched him walk out then opened her fortune cookie and munched it reflectively as she made a final pass through her exhibit and discovered there really wasn’t anything left to do. When she read her fortune, she had to wonder if there was some truth to the notion that these random slips of paper really did have predictive powers. Or if perhaps Richard had planted it for her, for some reason. It was a quote attributed to H.L. Mencken.
“Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence.”
Richard had also placed a single rose with a fat, pink bud on her windshield. He had tucked the tied-on note under a wiper blade to secure it, and there was a faint gray arc smudged over the words he’d written.
“Beautiful and unexpected. Reminds me of you. Richard.”
Lindy pressed her nose into the flower’s silky, slightly cool petals as she scanned the message and tried to figure out what the hell Richard was playing at.
* * * * *
Maintaining the fiction of “just friends” was turning out to be harder than Richard had ever imagined. He had known things were going to be weird. Things were going to be weird any time he was expected to be in a room with Lindy and not think about what it felt like to be inside her. Or any time he was expected to be away from her and not daydream about the way she sometimes smiled in her sleep. He had discovered that, of course, while watching her sleep; he still wasn’t sure why he’d felt compelled to do so.
Art of the Lie Page 7
