The Foster Family (13 page)

Forty minutes later, he had the artist rescheduled for Saturday morning, Leslie’s pristinely pressed suit jacket hanging on her coatrack, waiting, and was ushering their nine thirty into the Front Gallery and offering the robust man coffee.

“I’m sure she’ll be right down,” Charlie assured the man. He managed to resist glancing up to the offices to see if she was, indeed, even attempting to look like she was on her way. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Kessler?” Charlie asked.

“I’d love a cup. And please, call me Steve.” He smiled widely. “We will be working together a lot, I hope.”

Charlie smiled. “I hope so as well, sir.”

Kessler gave him a look, and Charlie felt a blush tingle up into his cheeks. “Steve. I’ll get that coffee.”

Kessler shook his head. “No, I’ll get my own coffee.” He wandered to the small table with coffee and cookies and a warmed kettle Chad had prepared, and helped himself to coffee and some of the shortbread. “You have a lovely gallery, Mr. Stone,” he commented between bites.

“Charles, please. And we do work to keep it up-to-date and accessible. I’m glad you like it.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” Steve asked.

Charlie shifted but nodded.

“Are you the same Charles Stone who showed a body of photography some years ago in New York? It was at a small kitschy gallery near Broadway somewhere. I forget the name of it now, but my wife and I wandered in after a show, and I remember the artwork. It was magnificent.”

Charlie colored and ducked his head. “That was a long time ago, Mr. Kessler.”

“Do you still show?” Kessler’s eyes lit up. “Do you have a body of work now? I’d love to look at it. Our anniversary is coming up. My wife would absolutely adore one of your pieces. And it might get me out of the doghouse for not having bought one back in the day.” He winked.

“I’m sure Charlie would wish to put his unfortunately short-lived career as a struggling artist behind him, Mr. Kessler.” Leslie swept into the room. “Leslie Brixton. So pleased to finally meet you.”

“Ms. Brixton. Charmed.” Kessler took her hand and shook it firmly. “I was just asking—”

“Yes, yes. Charlie hasn’t picked up a camera in years. Come with me and I’ll show you to the two main viewing galleries. You’ll love this space.” Her spiel died away as she led Kessler off toward the next room of the gallery. Charlie breathed out a huff, rubbed at his chest, and wondered at the sudden tightness of his breathing. She was right, of course. He hadn’t really picked up a camera in a very long time. Not for artistic purposes, anyway. But he couldn’t figure out if his sudden discomfort was from Kessler asking about that long-ago showing or because of Leslie’s flippant dismissal of it. Of him. Of his talent, as though he didn’t have any at all.

But then, if he did have any, he’d still be showing his work and not shuffling papers for a hyper—

“That was nasty.” Chad’s voice broke his thought off in a jagged edge.

“Sorry?” Charlie glanced at him as Chad crept into the room from behind his counter.

“What she said.” Chad motioned in the direction Leslie had led Kessler. “About your work. It was nasty. She only said it because she doesn’t want anything to lure you away from her. She wouldn’t be able to run this place without you, you know.”

Charlie smiled wanly. “She’s a good businesswoman, Chad.”

“She’s a hyperbitch. Everyone knows it. And what she said about your stuff, it’s bullshit.”

Charlie eyed Chad. “She knows what sells. It’s her job.”

“She knows she needs you. You’re a great personal assistant.” Chad snatched one of the cookies from the table and bit into it. “She thinks the minute she acknowledges that you might have other interests, you’ll take off and she’ll have to find someone new to put up with her BS. She doesn’t think your stuff is crap. She wants you to think it is.”

“If I’d been any good, Chad, I’d still be doing it. I couldn’t make a living.”

“You gave up too soon. Your stuff is really good.”

“How the hell would you know?” Charlie asked, thinking about the horrendous manga art the younger man seemed to favor and questioning his taste. “I haven’t photographed anything since you were in diapers.”

Chad grinned. “I know, old man. But it’s still out there, you know. You sold pieces. There’s records of it. It isn’t like the photos fade just because you’re too chickenshit to look at them anymore.”

Charlie stared at him, unsure what to say to that. This kid, who could barely find his own ass with both hands most days, could not possibly know anything about Charlie’s aborted first career.

“Just sayin’,” Chad said as he wandered back out of the room. “Don’t let her trash talk go to your head.”

Charlie frowned and was still staring at the empty doorway when Leslie’s voice came around a corner from the Third Gallery. He straightened and smoothed the front of his suit jacket. Chad was a kid. He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Did he?

M
ALCOLM
SPENT
the better part of the morning locked in his office. I heard him on the phone, and once or twice he wandered out, still on his cell, to get more coffee or fetch his mail or do some other small task. At one point he answered the door and accepted a parcel from the delivery guy that I saw were open-house flyers. I asked him about them as he shut the door, and he smiled distractedly.

“I have a showing on Monday. Downtown. A property in an older neighborhood. It should go fast, though.” And he wandered back toward his office.

He’d barely looked up at me.

“Malcolm?”

He stopped, hand on the door handle, and looked at me, face stern but not angry. Not anything, really. Just blank and empty.

“Do—do you want another cup of coffee?” I asked. God. I was behaving like a lost kitten.

Something flickered over his face. He paused, then smiled, as though he’d had to remind himself how, and nodded. “Thank you, Kerry. That would be nice, yes.” He turned and went back to his desk, but he left the door open, at least, and I felt less like an interloper as I scuttled to the kitchen to fix him a fresh cup.

I delivered it, but once more, he was on the phone and only nodded his thanks and pointed to the empty mug on his desk. I was in the hallway when he called my name.

I looked back to see him cradling the phone against his chest. “Close the door, please,” he said, and there was that sternness again. It was a kind of blank firmness that left me feeling cold. Nervous. I did as I was told, and faintly, I heard him tell whoever he was talking to that he was back.

I spent the next hour tidying and puttering until he called me and asked for lunch. As I prepared him a plate of sandwiches and pickles, I wondered hard why I hadn’t told him to make his own goddamn lunch. When I knocked on his door and he opened it, giving me a broad smile and coming out to sit at the kitchen table with me as he ate, I forgot I’d ever had a problem with serving him.

“Thank you.” He ruffled his fingers through my hair, and I managed not to flinch or even make a face at him.

“You’re welcome.”

He tilted his head. “All right?”

I nodded. It wasn’t like I had anything to complain about. Not really. But he was confusing, and I couldn’t figure out my own reactions to him. One minute I was anxious and feeling ignored. Then I was pissed at him for wanting me to make him lunch, and now I was just pleased he was paying attention to me. I was screwed up. I’d always known that, but this was more messed up than even I was used to.

“We never did pick out any flowers for Charlie yesterday. You up for that?”

“You’re finished….” I waved a hand at his office.

“I’m done work for the day, yes. Get this cleaned up and we’ll go shopping for Charlie.”

And there he was ordering me around again, I realized as I rose and cleared his dishes. I turned around to tell him to clean up his own dishes and nearly rammed them into his chest, he’d followed so close. He had a dish towel in his hand. I clamped my mouth shut and silently washed while he dried, humming under his breath and looking utterly contented.

M
ALCOLM
AND
I spent half the afternoon touring Lissa’s nursery. He picked a selection of flowers shaded from blue to purple to complement the white-and-yellow-painted porch railings on the front of the house, and a new shrub to replace the ones near the front windows that he and Charlie hated. I had to agree that the new rhododendron was a far better choice than the ragged cedar globe and junipers we were taking out. A climb of honeysuckle and spray of butterfly bush behind it would give a season-long kaleidoscope of delicate color up the corner of the house leading around to the backyard spectacular.

I did talk him into transforming the windy, rugged bluff leading down to the beach to something a little softer by moving the junipers to the space at the top of the hewn steps. It would blend the manicured yard into the wilder, more natural landscape behind the gazebo. He wasn’t sure Charlie would like the idea, but I had a vision, and I thought maybe I could bring Malcolm around to agreeing to let me do what I envisioned on spec. Charlie didn’t have to participate. I’d do it on my own, and he could decide if he liked it when I was finished.

“It sounds risky,” he hedged.

“So don’t decide today. But think about it.”

“Show me what you can do with the rest, and we’ll see.”

“You were going to hire me to be your gardener anyway,” I pointed
out.

“Mowing the lawn and watering the flowers. You’re talking about landscaping and garden design. It sounds a lot like Charlie’s domain.”

“How long have you lived in that house?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Ten years?”

“And he’s never planted a single thing beyond the gazebo. He has a brush pile and compost heap back there and a quarter acre begging for his attention.”

Malcolm shrugged as he leaned forward to sniff a geranium. “He likes the yard and the view of the ocean. The rest is wild. I don’t really know why he hasn’t taken it on.”

“So let me.”

“We’ll see. Let’s worry about what we already have that needs attention first.”

“Fine.”

“And what do you need for that?” Malcolm asked, drawing me back around to the reason for our visit.

I was settling the last of his selections on the cart when he asked and I glanced up with a smile. “Charlie has more tools than one person could use in a lifetime. I’m good.” I gripped the handle, and we strolled toward the cash register that had been bolted to a workbench perched on the dirt floor of the one permanent structure on the property. All of the greenhouses and the winding paths between surrounded what was really not much more than a small barn turned into a rustic, mostly weatherproof shop, display area, and overspill for the tools and equipment Lissa sold.

“I didn’t ask you what Charlie has. I asked what you need.”

Behind the counter, Lissa grinned. “Let the man shop, Kerry.” Her eyes twinkled. “Let him spend his money.”

“Honestly. I don’t need anything.” Where would I keep my own tools? I didn’t even have a suitcase big enough for my clothes, let alone a shed for garden tools.

“He needs a place to put things,” Lissa piped up, digging thoughts out of my head like only she could.

I glared at her and turned away from Malcolm so he wouldn’t see the color invading my face.

Malcolm strode off, and I took a moment to berate Lissa.

“He asked what you needed, Kerry. I told him.”

“This shed looks sturdy,” Malcolm called from the display area. He was poking his head into a tiny barnlike affair that was probably the best-built shed we carried.

“I don’t have a yard, Malcolm,” I pointed out. I turned to Lissa. “Can you ring this stuff up, please? So I can get him out of here before I end up with an arsenal to carry around on my back?”

“Can you deliver it this afternoon?” Malcolm asked, coming back over.

“For God’s sake, I do not need a fucking garden shed!”

Malcolm’s expression was one of mild surprise, but he said nothing.

“What part of that story I told you last night did you not understand?” I asked. “I’m homeless, Malcolm. Where the hell would I put a garden shed? I don’t even have a fucking garden.” I forced myself to ignore the spike of doubt driving through me at saying the word
homeless
out loud. It wasn’t like I’d ever had a real home, so not having one now shouldn’t matter either.

He turned his attention to Lissa. “If you could please put the shed on my bill and have it assembled in a corner?” He pointed to the back of the lot to where there was an open swath of cracked pavement and gravel. We’d recently disassembled an old greenhouse from the spot, and it served as an outdoor storage space for bags of earth, pallets of fertilizer, and a row of wheelbarrows filled with various paraphernalia for carting around to care for the plants.

“Don’t put me in the middle of this,” Lissa said as she began to punch numbers into the register.

“Then deliver it to my address along with the flowers.”

“Wait, you’re not taking the truck?” She looked to me.