A More Perfect Frame
by Andrew Shields
Peter wandered out of his room, bleary eyed and attracted to the scent of brewing coffee. "Good morning, beautiful," he said with a grin. "Damn you look sharp in a suit and tie."
The young man seated at the table raised an eyebrow at him. "Ah, the half-dead beatnik photographer lumbers forth, seeking the magic brew that will jolt him to consciousness." He checked his watch. "Still five hours until noon. Don't let the sun's rays hit you directly, no telling what that might do."
"Hey Harry, you weren't planning on drinking that whole pot yourself, were you?" Peter asked wistfully, blinking the sleep from his eyes and sniffing hungrily.
"I don't even bother with the two cup jobber any more," Harry said. "Need to get one of those diner setups with the two pots. Didn't anybody tell you that gargling coffee in the morning stains your teeth?"
"At this point I won't even taste it on the way down," Peter said, closing in and snagging a mug off the drainer board. "It might not even hit my teeth."
"I don't bother with the gourmet coffees anymore if you're home," Harry shrugged, a smile on his face. "Just start with brewed dirt. You can't tell the difference."
"It's not that I can't tell," Peter said, sitting down opposite Harry, armed with a cup of hot coffee. "It's just that I don't care."
"What's getting you up this early anyway?" Harry asked casually. "It's a Friday, in case you weren't sure." He grinned his elfin grin, the one that made him look like a mischievous ten year old. Peter couldn't help but grin back.
"What, are you implying I don't know what day of the week it is?" he asked, putting a hand to his wounded chest, bunching up his nightshirt. Then he looked down at his coffee. "Gwen's coming by. We have a date."
"In the morning?" Harry said, amused.
"Yeah," Peter said, and just then there was a crunch of tires on gravel outside. Peter perked up, smiling, coffee forgotten. "That would be her."
Harry shook his head. "You kids have a good time now," he said. "Shoulda guessed it didn't have anything to do with, you know, working." His grin had a bit of an edge to it. He met Gwen at the door.
"Good morning," he said, holding it open. She breezed in, her floral print dress flaring in the breeze of her passage. She smiled at Harry.
"You look awfully sharp this morning, Mr. Osborn," she said.
"Thank you," he said with a stiff bow. He smiled back. "I'm off to work," he said. "Keep it legal."
"What are you doing this summer?" Gwen asked.
"I'm interning at Blank and Piscus Law Firm."
"Really?" Gwen said, visibly impressed. "Wow."
"Harry's gonna sue Bill Gates then retire, a one case career," Peter said dryly.
"A man's gotta have a plan," Harry said with a shrug and a quick smile. "Later." He stepped out the door, fished his car keys from his pocket, and made his sleek black road machine beep. He put on his mirrored shades and dropped down into the leather interior of the car, and a moment later it was roused to life with the throaty growl of a powerful engine. The dim thud of his stereo filtered into the house as he backed out and hit the road.
After a moment of silence, Peter grinned at Gwen. "I'm up!" he said with a grin.
"Yes," she said, "very good. Now you need to get dressed."
"Do I have to wear a tie?" he asked.
"Yes," Gwen said firmly. "This is a big deal for dad."
"Yeah," Peter said, looking at the table.
"And you promised."
"Yeah," he said, looking up. "And it's a date." He grinned, and stood. "You wait in here, I'll go get dressed." He got up, and strolled out of the main room. She watched him go with a smile, absently wondering why he was wearing sweats and a long sleeved shirt in July.
She sighed, and picked up his coffee mug. She sniffed the coffee, made a face, and put the cup down. She let her eyes wander the room. The entry room was nice, then there was a connected living room, headed back to the kitchen and bathroom. The living room also connected to Harry's bedroom, while Peter's connected to the entryway. All in all, the place was sparely decorated and tidy. She smiled to herself. It was possibly the tidiest men's dwelling she'd ever been in. She got up and wandered over to Peter's room, glancing in.
Except for the rumpled bed and the wad of clothes growing on it as Peter went through his closet, it was also fairly tidy.
"Hm," she said quietly to herself as she saw his bare back; he had just shrugged off his shirt and he stood, bare chested, rifling his closet. He stopped and turned, looking a bit startled.
"Er, can I help you?" he said.
"I'm going to help you get into your suit," she said, her eyes wandering his torso. "In a minute."
She stepped into his room and closed the door.
xXx
"See?" Peter said. "Ten minutes before the auction starts." Gwen stopped the car, and they got out. He squinted up at the imposing stone face of the museum at the top of the hill. "Don't you think they got a little carried away when they built this goofy thing?"
"It's baroque, I think," Gwen said. He walked around the car and offered her his arm, which she took. "I think the dome gives it a very Washington look."
He looked at the dome over the central exhibition area. "The columns definitely give it that snooty feel," he said. "Got our invitations?"
"Right here," she said, slipping them out of her purse. She handed him his. He opened the brochure.
"You are invited to the Museum of History and the Arts for their 8th annual auction sponsored by the Fellowship of Antiquarians," he read. "Lessee, they plan to sell off three collections today. Hang on a sec while I get a grip on myself so as not to hyperventilate with enthusiasm."
"Oh, Peter," Gwen sighed. "We aren't here for the auction, we're here to support dad. This is a big deal for him. The Fellowship of Antiquarians appointed him as chief of security for this thing."
"Yes," Peter said. "And I might as well get some photos for the school paper." He grinned.
"Because the whole college will be dying to know who gets the lots," Gwen said.
"Hey, I'm not writing copy. Oh no. I am arteest, with zee shaping of zee light as my meediemm," he said, gesturing with his limp wrist and hunching his shoulders as he hopped up the steps sideways, his eyes on hers.
Gwen laughed as they trotted up the steps past the small groups of smokers who were getting ready for the auction. At the door they traded their invitations for a booklet with the day's activities explained in it. They strolled into the echoing murmuring dimness of the lobby, where groups of men and women in business attire chatted and laughed. Peter glanced over at the refreshment table wistfully.
Gwen glanced at her watch. "It's almost eight thirty," she said. "I wonder where dad is." She looked around. Peter did too.
"He's probably in with the auction displays," Peter said. "Let's go." They headed through the archway to the bidding gallery. Peter sat down with Gwen on the back row and pulled up his book. "Let's see what treasures await the lucky few today. In the first lot," he said with a dry stuffy voice, flaring his nostrils and leaning against Gwen's arm, "the collected portfolio of unfinished works by deceased local artist Arl Schwinters, completed by his daughter Meg Schwinters. Following will be the complete library of the deceased Doctor Charles Xavier, an expert on the workings of the human mind. The last lot available for today's stuffybeak display of obscene wealth will be the collected drafts portfolio of Abricus Finch, three time winner of the Laurel Crown and current holder of the Naugahide Fellowship."
Gwen, stifling her giggles and glancing around, punched him in the arm. "Can it, buster," she managed, "or we're gonna get kicked out."
"Oh, right, sorry," he said, obviously not so. He looked at Gwen with an irrepressible smile. "Hey, this is a date, not church," he said.
"Oh, there's dad," Gwen said, standing up and waving. Peter looked down her line of sight and saw the tall, slightly stooped shoulders of retired police captain John Stacy. Stacy glanced over the crowd from where he stood by the stage, then stood and strode back behind the stage.
Gwen's smile faltered. "I guess he didn't see me," she said.
"Relax, babe. It's impossible to miss you at thirty feet or less, but he's getting old and there's a lot on his mind. C'mon, have a seat," Peter said, grinning.
"You're impossible," she said as she sat down.
"Yeah," he reflected. "Yeah, I know. At least he's lookin spiffy in tweed."
"Oh, hush," she said, batting him with her purse.
"Hey, how long until this shindig gets on the road?" Peter asked.
She glanced at her watch. "Right about now, I would think."
People were gathering in the room; a surprisingly large crowd to Peter. He glanced around a few times, then settled into his seat. "I guess they never start on time," he said. "Got to let everybody get here."
"Yeah," Gwen said. "Besides, I have you to keep me company."
A rather worried looking thin woman with gray hair walked up to the podium and stood looking over the crowd for a moment. "Excuse me please, may I have everyone's attention?" she said. She cleared her throat as the room quieted.
"As most of you know, I am Marcy Clesk, President of the Fellowship of Antiquarians. Due to a complication, I'm afraid today's auction must be cancelled. Thank you for coming, I apologize for your disappointment." She quickly stepped back from the microphone and through a door in the back. A startled murmur sprang up through the room, and security guards appeared to assist in ushering people out.
"Okay, that's surreal," Peter said. "Why don't you head out to the car."
"What about dad?" she said.
"I'll look for him," Peter said, already scanning the crowd, his senses unfolding. "Just go, please."
She looked at him for a long moment. "I'll wait in the car," she said in a small voice. He nodded, already expanding his sweep.