Wearing a fashionable sleeveless dress with gray-and-white squiggly designs, Annie stepped out of the car, gripping her portfolio under her armpit. The California sunshine blanketed her face, making it difficult to see the entrance of the building.
The gallery sat on a corner in downtown Carmel. There were several large, arch-shaped windows lining the sidewalk from the ground almost to the roof, and the art displayed inside glistened behind the half-oval openings, inviting one inside for a further treat.
"Hi," Annie said with a smile to the petite woman she’d met after entering. "I'm here to meet with Mr. Turner. My name is Annie Baxter." Confidence. Yep. Stand straight, tits out, Cal would say. Fuck him.
Jesus, she’d waited too long to do this — meet people, move forward, work. Her pulse raced.
"Just a moment," the woman with the silver bob replied, then excused herself and disappeared.
Annie disappeared into the art and began to stroll around the gallery. Attempting to take it all in, she looked left and right, but everything she saw stimulated, excited. She was a kid in a sugar store, studying candy.
Plenty of natural light filtered into the room from those incredible windows, hitting the bamboo floors and the pieces, lighting up what was hidden. Chocolates. Pop Rocks. Skittles. Jolly Ranchers.
"Hello," came a voice from behind, a deep voice with a hint of Irish or something. "You must be Annie."
A smile already on her face, Annie turned and extended her hand. “You must be Mr. Turner.”
"I'm Brian." He shook her hand. His grip was delicate. "Please don't call me Mr. Turner."
Well, well. The deep, foreign voice belonged to a ruggedly handsome thirty-something man who sported a jaw filled with dark stubble.
Annie’s smile stretched a little wider as she looked into his brown eyes, meeting the carob color perfectly level thanks to the height of her pink pumps. What was he? Five-foot-nine or ten?
"I see you’ve been checking out the art." He looked over the room with pride.
"Yeah. It's stunning." Annie fixed her gaze on the same painting she’d been admiring when he’d approached. An abstract. Reds, greens, yellows, black — all raised off the canvas, a topography to rival a planet’s terrain.
Mr. Turner was stunned, not by the art, but by Annie, not having expected the artist he was to meet to be so youthful and vibrant. “Do you like abstract?"
“I like all types of art.” Stepping back, Annie tilted her head, watching the strange formation of colors bleeding and dripping, the texture.
The undefinable piece defined her feelings and dominated her senses, causing her to feel many things she couldn’t define, things she didn’t want to define or need to define, euphoria being the only word she could translate. The complete purpose of the painting fulfilled itself in her heart, running through her eyes and burning her retinas, freeing her mind. She wanted to reach out and touch it or climb into it. The Mary Poppins effect again. She wanted to jump into the painting.
“The artist is a woman," Mr. Turner said. "Most of our pieces right now, in fact, were produced by women, coincidentally."
“The sex doesn’t matter to me." Annie kept her eyes on the painting.
“Excuse me?”
Annie heard Mr. Turner, but her eyes remained fixated on the abstract as she attempted to name the nameless shape — her heart accepting it at face value, accepting it as it was, without border, without demarcation.
“The sex of the artist”—Annie went on as though there hadn’t been a pause or an excuse me while turning toward him, her portfolio tucked under her arm—“doesn’t matter. Not to me. I think art should be valued the same whether it’s created by a man or woman. It should be viewed without filters.”
Brian viewed Annie without filters. He studied her more than the art, wondering who this woman was and where she came from. He complimented her well-chosen words and invited her into his office, leading her to the room and closing the door behind them.
“You have an interesting point of view,” he said while sitting at the desk and thumbing through her photographs one by one, splitting his attention between looking through the originals and glancing at Annie. “You capture truth.”
Spine straight, tits out, Annie met his eyes, accepting his words with silence and a smile that lit her eyes more than her lips. She leaned an inch or two over the desk, peeking into the file, scanning the images she’d seen hundreds of times. Her feet turned inward and outward while she bent the heels against the ground and bit the insides of her cheeks.
Falling in love with the photos at first sight, Brian had made up his mind already, but he kept his enthusiasm at bay — for the prints and Annie.
“I think we can exhibit you in the winter, maybe mid-January,” he said, closing the book and handing it to her from across the desk. “Will that work for you?”
“Yes. Perfect,” Annie said, contemplating briefly where she might be in January, remembering her mother and wincing inside but ecstatic nonetheless at the possibility of what the future would bring, loving Carmel and in love instantly with the idea she would return.
“I'll have Janet email you the paperwork." He handed her his card. "Look over the agreement and call me with any questions." He stood, adjusted his belt, and grabbed the pack of cigarettes lying on the paper-strewn desk.
"Thank you." Annie stood. "I'm looking forward to it." She turned to leave.
"Do you mind if I walk out with you?" He opened the door to the office. "I need to have a smoke."
"Sure." Annie glanced at him. "You can tell me more about the town.”
“You mean you’ve never been to our quaint, little tourist mecca?” Brian asked with an adorable lilt, the Irish a bit more pronounced.
“No,” Annie replied, smiling with her lips pressed together.
The two of them stood on the sidewalk in front of the shiny, red car, in the shiny, bright sun, chatting. In between puffs, Brian told Annie about some of the sights to see and good places to eat.
"I would like to take you to dinner. How long will you be in town?” He extinguished the cigarette by placing it into one of those receptacles made for the things.
Annie looked at his face but not directly into his eyes, pretending it was the sun causing the aversion. "I don't know."
"You don't know how long you will be in town, or you don't know if you want to have dinner with me?” His eyes twinkled a lighter shade of brown.
One. Simple. Question.
And Annie thought of Cal in an instant. Well, she didn't actually have to think of Cal because he was always there, never leaving her thoughts, always there, reminding her, gutting her. Annie knew the time Cal needed included not speaking by phone. No texting, no email, nothing — a complete separation. By choice. His first, that he’d ignored, and now hers.
A sharp pain rushed through Annie’s body, stabbing her, then she turned to Brian. "I'm leaving on Saturday. I can do dinner."
"Where are you staying?" he asked, trying to meet her eyes.
Annie gave him the name of the inn.
"I'll pick you up at eight.”
"Tonight?"
“Yes,” he answered, smiling as cute as a button but all the while thinking about how much he needed to get laid.
* * *
Annie listened patiently to Brian talk through most of dinner about his life, including his ex-wife and his mother, his old jobs, and his new one. His conversation was heavily peppered with what seemed to be his favorite word — fuck — and he paused only when he needed to take in more alcohol. A chunk of his dark hair repeatedly fell onto his forehead, into his eyes, and he was constantly pushing it back up into his thick locks — over and over.
As Annie studied Brian's face and watched his lips move, listening to his rattling in between bites, she appreciated more than ever the secure anchor that was Cal and respected the understated, quiet man's fierce need for privacy in a way she could never fully come to terms with before.
When Brian wasn't speaking, he could be quite cute, and Annie was flattered that he seemed to take an interest, but as the dinner came to a close, she worried his only interest was to worm his way into her cozy room and bed.
Annie walked a fine line between trying to appease the man who’d agreed to exhibit her photographs and trying to fend off the man who seemed lonely and in want of something she could not and would not give.
As Brian and Annie strolled back to her inn on foot, he reached for her hand, and she awkwardly accepted, feeling desperation on his skin, sensing it as it was the quietest he’d been since they’d met. She tried not to look at him in any way that would mislead him, but he honestly looked like he might misread any signal at that point, so she let go of his palm.
“This is me." Annie stopped a few feet shy of the door to her room. A light breeze rustled the hem of her skirt.
Brian gazed into Annie's eyes as if it was unspoken that he wanted to enter her room.
"Thank you. I had a good time." Annie readied her key card and turned toward the door.
Brian followed Annie to the front step, put a hand against the wall, and leaned into her, smelling all boozy and smoky, not to mention that same damn piece of hair was in his eyes — falling, falling, falling. Pick it up, man. Cut it.
"I'm not available," Annie blurted out just above a whisper. Was that convincing enough?
Brian maintained his stance and looked into her eyes. "I thought you said you weren't married."
"No, I'm not married." She held her breath. Cal filled her vision.
"You’re thinking of someone, though." He eased away from her, painfully aware of the mistake he’d made in asking her out.
"Yes. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.”
Brian pulled his Newports from his pant pocket and shook one out of the pack. "No, it's probably better this way, considering we’ll be working together." He packed a cigarette on his palm. "I'm sorry, too. I guess I got a little carried away."
"It's okay. I’m really looking forward to January, though. I like it here."
Brian rolled the unlit cigarette between his fingers and watched Annie turn and put her key in the slot. Leaning into the wall, he stood near her again and placed his hand atop Annie’s. He put the cigarette behind his ear and gazed at her profile, making Bambi eyes.
"Can I kiss you goodnight? That's all."
He spoke with a lost loneliness. Different than Cal's brand of lonely, though.
God … Cal.
Annie wanted to beat her head against the wall, but she didn't move. If she moved, Brian might. She didn't want his kiss. He needed to back away. Still, he’d asked her permission?
"You’re so beautiful," Brian said, and then he didn't wait for an answer or Annie’s permission after all.
He put his hands on the sides of her face and kissed her goodnight, without tongue. His beard scratched her skin, and his body was too close, uncomfortably close, pressing everywhere she didn’t want him to be — with her, against her, in her space.
Shifting her face to the side, Annie turned from him, wishing for room to breathe when she began to feel as though she stood on the deck of a boat in the middle of a storm.
Taking the cigarette from behind his ear, Brian shoved it into his mouth, lit it, and backed away.
Annie removed the key, opened the door, stepped over the threshold, and glanced over her shoulder at Brian as he smiled, blowing smoke, ruffing his beard, and waving goodbye.
“Goodnight,” Annie whispered and nodded, and then she closed the door and promptly locked it.
Fuck, Annie. What were you thinking?
Letting her head fall back against the inside of the cottage door, she raised a shaking hand over her lips and began to weep silently. Then she began to bite at her skin until it left marks on her finger, until she could feel something other than the pit in her gut and the hole in her heart.
She tore her shoes off and threw them across the room as she walked toward the bathroom, sobbing uncontrollably now but quiet, as usual, behind a dam, holding it back and bursting, losing control and maintaining.
She couldn't play that part anymore.
Leaning over the sink in the bathroom, palms on the counter, she looked at her face in the mirror, staring at herself, breathing shallow, shaky, shakier, wiping the tears from her eyes and feeling shame. Shame, shame, shame. No excuses. Only shame. The stain of Brian's kiss — wrong. Capital W wrong.
His lips were all wrong.
His body was all wrong.
He was wrong.
Her stomach churned as she gazed deeper into the mirror, peering past the turning and the swirling, and then in an instant, in a rush, the retching was at her throat. Dropping to her knees in front of the toilet, she tucked her hair behind her ears and gripped the bowl. She vomited violently, crying, shaking, and puking until she was dry heaving, an eye-watering and nose-running mess.
A fucking mess.
After wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she flushed the toilet and stared at the walls in a daze, resting her back against the side of the tub, tasting the sour on her palate and thinking of Cal.
Was he kissing someone else, like me?
She turned her head and grimaced, a metallic taste on her tongue. What she’d told her father earlier was true. She did trust Cal. He wouldn't kiss someone else. She was the fool.
Did Cal trust her? Could he? What had she done with that trust? Gone on a date with a wandering-Irish-strands-of-hair-in-his-eyeballs-lonely-rambling man. Why had she done that? Time apart didn't mean date or kiss or screw. Why couldn’t she allow Cal to send her a simple damn text message?
Funny … allow him. Who would’ve thought Cal needed her permission?
Maybe she held the cards. If only it were as simple as a game of poker. Ace high. Wild card. Risk.
But nothing was simple.
She accepted Cal despite herself, or she accepted herself, maybe. A little. Did she really accept him? Completely? She still had the bit of resentment between her teeth.
What she wouldn't have done for Cal's hand on her butt cheek right about now. His harsh but steadfast palm would’ve removed the stain of capital-W wrong and the questions. His hand and its blunt mastery of her illogical musings would’ve released her mind from prison, given her reasons and answers, stopped time, made a lie truth, stripped away bullshit with sting, and left only pleasure in its fabulous wake.
She regretted telling Cal not to message her anymore. She could’ve used a song right about now, one of his, more than a pink ass cheek.
After starting the shower, she removed her clothing, hoping to wash it off — the blemish, the guilt, the tears, the nausea, the sour, the hurt, and the pain.
But before she stepped into the tub, she grabbed her phone and booted up one of Prescott's infamous songs. She could stand to listen to it. She had to.
Originally a favorite of his, he had said, when done by Billie Holiday. He’d sent her two versions last week before the texting ban — Holiday's and Eddie Vedder's — explaining the differences, of course. A toss up, but Annie preferred Vedder's. Ukulele Songs. Track four. Play...
The man's unique voice echoed in the bathroom hauntingly, proclaiming love. Steam fogged the glass, wet the wallpaper. Annie stood under the balm of the streaming shower head and only heard Cal.
His voice.
His sentiment.
His love.
It was … greater than she could know.