Merging Worlds
By: Victoria May
The hum of the motor and the rush of wind through my hair drown out everything around me. The hot air licking at my neck feels so good as the drops of clinging water evaporate. A tingling sensation creeps over my scalp and I feel what I've always thought of as the equivalent of goosebumps under my hair. I'm running out of time, but I don't want the gentle massage to end. I want to relish in it for a while longer.
Instead, I turn off the blowdryer and pick up my brush. The pulsing rhythm of the Evita soundtrack tumbles over me. The CD is on its last selection, Lament, and I hastily grab the stereo remote. Aiming blindly over my shoulder, I switch off the CD before the tears start. I can't help it. Argentina is my heritage. In some small way, I feel as though I'm sharing Eva Peron's pain when I listen to this memorial of her life. I'd always hoped that my life would come to mean even a fraction of what Eva's did. That somehow, what I do-who I am, has encouraged others to better themselves.
I smile as I glance at the makeup spread before me. I'm sure that to some, I am a role model. I'd like to think that I'm an inspiration. I've been featured in 'Cascade Magazine'; profiled in 'Business Week'. From rags to riches, I know what it's like to struggle to make something of yourself. I've faced many deterrents and overcome each and every one. From racism to sexism, I feel as though I've seen it all. And not just from the perky, blue eyed Barbie lookalike who wanted my job-thought that she was what represented a cosmetic division best. 'Friends', trying to be supportive, congratulated me on my good fortune that I had stumbled across a company who must have been hiring for that coveted 'equal rights' position. Trying to meet status quo.
But as mad as I was at the time, I had to forgive them. They weren't the only ones to assume that I hadn't earned my position, or that I'd slept my way to the top. How else could I have managed to burst through the glass ceiling so quickly and to their prying eyes, so easily? At times, I want to scream and rip my degrees off the wall and throw them at whoever it was that day to slide a look at me from the corner of their eye. 'I've earned this!' I want to shout at them. I've gotten over the urge to drag them to Marla's office to see my personnel file. To point out the years I spent in sales for the company, building a client base so dedicated, they've stuck with us through the threat of hostile takeover-more than once. When other investors pulled their support at the hint of trouble, some of my oldest clients bought the abandoned shares. They sit with me on Redwood's board now-influential men and women who have helped to develop the division into one of the most successful cosmetic companies worldwide.
I finger the strands of black hair clutched in my grip as I slowly slide the brush down its length. I struggle to overcome the wave of self-doubt that often accompanies such reminiscences. 'You earned this,' I scold myself once again. Sometimes, even I find it hard to believe that my rapid climb to the VP spot in cosmetics had nothing to do with my looks or my heritage. I'm beautiful. I know it, others know it. I try not to dwell on it too much. I like to look nice, to receive attention from others-to be told I'm beautiful.
I'm often told that I'm conceited. I'm not. I don't compare my beauty to any one else's. I don't need to. I've been told how beautiful I am all my life. I've had it ingrained in me since before I could walk. My mother, a former model, continued her career vicariously through me. Submitting my pictures first to baby magazines and clothing catalogues, then parading me in a long succession of child beauty pageants.
I was taught that beauty mattered-that you were judged on how you looked, how you spoke, and how well you could sell your body. I was thrilled at first. I can remember posing in photo shoots with my mother-Mother's Day inserts and JC Penney catalogues. Then no one wanted my mother any longer; they wanted me. I developed early, bypassing training bras for large, 32D cups. By eleven I was taller than most fifteen-year-olds. I can remember being watched as I walked down the street with my mother, made up for a shoot or on the way to a pageant. I swayed my hips and stuck out my chest as my mother instructed, ignoring the leers and catcalls.
I held myself still as foreign hands adjusted my breasts just so and ignored the lingering touch as it measured my inseam. I won trophy after trophy and continued modeling. I finally gave up the pageants-it was too much of a struggle for a Latina contestant to win against the American apple pie beauties. I continued to model, having no real alternative. My mother drew the line-model and help support the family, or find another home, another hand to feed me. I knew it was more than just the money. My mother wasn't ready to let go of the dream, as if somehow, my success could be attributed to her.
At seventeen, I was looking forward to college. I'd taken all the exams, applied to different schools. I was trying to choose between a career in medicine and a career in business when my world fell apart. I'd been accepted into NYU, was clutching the acceptance letter in my hand, when my father told me. Mother was out, hadn't had the nerve to stay and be the bearer of bad news. The money was gone. All of it-every cent I'd made as a child model, every penny I'd earned was handed over to my mother as my guardian. Spent on new clothes, makeup, hotels, and photoshoots. None of it set aside to provide for my future.
My father was on social security-hadn't been able to work. I never realized that the money we lived on, the money that made the house payment every month, that kept the lights on and food in the refrigerator had come from me. I was the sole breadwinner in the family. I blamed my mother at first. I couldn't believe that she could betray me, use me like that. It wasn't until years later that I came to peace with her, who she is. I still send her money every month. Between what I send, and my father's social security check, they manage to survive.
I went to college. I continued to model-not by choice but by necessity. I was forced to take out loans to pay for the first semester. I found myself ineligible for grants due to the reported income the previous year. I applied for scholarships, but received only a pittance from that arena. I'd always felt that I was judged just another pretty face at the interviews. My grades were good, but there had been no time for clubs or extra curricular activities. Nothing that said I was special.
I knew I was more than just a pretty face and I was bound and determined to prove it. At the end of my first year of college, I was on the honor role and had earned a Presidential Scholarship, paying half my tuition. I joined DECA. I found myself concentrating on the business aspect of modeling and applied for an internship with the modeling agency that held my contract.
As a model, I'd often been approached by small, start up cosmetic companies, wanting someone to represent their company. I turned them down-well, except for one. Wildflower. An 'all natural' brand created by a shy, mouse of a girl in my marketing class. Made and bottled on her family's farm in Illinois, Wildflower proved to be a line worthy of representing. Fortunately so for Nancy, who dropped out of college her junior year. She said it was because it just wasn't 'her thing' as she put it. I suspected it had more to do with her wildly alternating bouts of depression and euphoria. I'm sure that neither she nor her family expected the cosmetic line to really go anywhere, just another product of a manic episode.
But I liked the line of cosmetics. They didn't make me break out, and I had several people ask me what brand I was wearing the day I debuted the line. I used the product line to develop my own business skills and made it into my graduate project. I based my master's thesis on the starter up company. I hadn't invested in the company however, just developed and marketed it. It was a hit. It could have been big.
It's as dead as Nancy is today.
Working with Nancy was never easy. She questioned every decision I made, every step I took. She designed her own logo and attempted to force me to use it, threatening to fire me if I refused. I called her bluff and hired a student from advertising to develop the logo. 'Wildflower: Natural, fresh, beautiful'. I don't think Nancy ever forgave me for that, but I could never wrap my mind around 'Wildflower: Be Wild'. I almost laughed the day Nancy tossed that one at me-instantly my mind was filled with images of bright pinks and loud blues and oranges. I felt like I was back in the eighties.
I planned on continuing to work with the rapidly expanding company after graduation. I accepted my master's degree, feeling more pride than I ever thought possible. I left to spend the summer with my family in Argentina, leaving the company to run itself. I was confident that nothing could go wrong. Well, Nancy can be more influential than I ever gave her credit for. In a bout of mania, Nancy decided to expand. She purchased a building to house the company and signed contracts with printers for labels and advertising. She found investors and spent the money on a new car and wardrobe.
The company was bankrupt by the time I returned from Argentina. I was flabbergasted. The investors had filed lawsuits against the company. Nancy of course turned to me to bail her out. I told her in no uncertain terms that I couldn't help her and to get a good lawyer. I let Nancy's family know how I felt about them not intervening and stopping Nancy. But they'd been living with Nancy and her bipolar disorder her entire life-they truly believed this was just another flash in the pan for Nancy. They'd never realized how successful the company had become. I couldn't really fault them.
Nancy committed suicide before she even came to trial. I blamed myself for not seeing how sick Nancy was. For not noticing how close to the breaking point she really was. Her family tried to assure me that Nancy had struggled with her bipolar her entire life, often succumbing to the pull of the mania. Nancy attempted to live a normal life, but didn't like the way the cocktail of medications she took every morning, noon and night made her feel. As an adult and in charge of her own medical care, she often skipped doses. Nancy, like many sufferers of bipolar disorder, finally came to an early death.
I looked around for awhile, sending out my resume to as many companies as I could. When I walked into my interview at Redwood, I felt like I was coming home. Marla interviewed me first and then the president of the cosmetics division. I was hired and started out in sales, traveling the country marketing the company's cosmetic line. I moved quickly into the VP spot-I'd always felt as though I were on a fast track. Despite what others may think, I'd always attributed it to my former experiences, not my looks or ethnicity.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I glance at the clock on the wall. 5:37PM. Damn, if I don't hurry I'm going to be late. With only a few sweeps of my brush, my hair is held on top of my head, only a few stray clumps surrounding my face. Picking up the small triangular sponge, I dab on thick, pasty goo that is supposed to cover up all my blemishes. I grimace at the finished result and reach for the bottle of makeup, shaking it and spilling it onto the sponge. It only takes seconds to smear that expertly over my face and finish it with a few strokes of powder. Much better, I think as I smile my sexiest smile into the mirror.
I reach for the tiny compact housing my eyeshadows and growl when the doorbell rings. What now? If it's someone selling magazines I may just have to kill them. I do not have time for this. I stand and draw my white, silk robe tighter around my body. I stalk over to the door, wanting to fling it open and give whoever it is a piece of my mind. Instead, I do the sensible thing and peer down into the peephole.
I can feel the tension drain from my body as I see who is standing outside my door, patiently waiting for me to open it. I open the door and smile tenderly at my visitor. I receive a goofy grin in reply as a bouquet of roses is drawn from behind my guest.
"Blair, you shouldn't have," I say as I take the flowers and hold them to my nose. They smell divine and I close my eyes as I inhale their rich scent.
"Yes, I did. I couldn't come by empty handed, now could I?" Blair asks.
Before I can answer, I'm in Blair's arms receiving one of the sexiest kisses I've ever had the pleasure of enduring. The man can kiss and has no shame when it comes to showing off that particular skill. I have no problem with that as long as I'm the only one he shares it with.
Pulling back, I grab his hand and draw him into the house. "What are you doing here?" I call out as I disappear around the corner into the kitchen.
"Just thought I'd drop in and say 'hi'," Blair calls back.
I return to the living room, the roses now in a crystal vase and place the arrangement on the fireplace mantel. "Oh, that's sweet," I say as I turn to face him. He's over by the TV, pretending to be looking at the accumulation of photos strewn all over the entertainment center.
"Now, what are you really doing here?" I ask as I walk up to him and wrap my arms around his waist.
"What, I can't just drop in?" Blair asks as he turns in my arms, leaning in for another kiss.
"Mmn," I murmur into his mouth and sag forward for more. He tastes so good and his hand is roaming down my back to my derriere. He's turning me on and right now that is a bad thing-a very bad thing. I pull away and gently swat his arm. "Stop that," I scold.
'What?' his innocent expression seems to say.
"I thought you were going out tonight," I say as I take his arm and lead him into my bedroom. I watch as he shrugs and sits on the bed. He doesn't meet my eye as he runs his hand over the satin comforter. Finally he lays back and stretches his arms out.
"A man could get used to this," he says as he kicks his shoes off and draws his legs up onto the bed.
"As if you don't get enough time lazing around in that bed, you goof," I scoff at him. Turning away, I begin to apply my eye makeup. I almost forget that he is there, until I hear the radio switch on. The volume is still set on high from my CD and is quickly turned down. A chaotic rambling of passing stations grate at my ears until a classic rock station is selected. I'm about to coat my lips with gloss when suddenly Blair is behind me, his hands on my shoulders.
I melt under the sudden onslaught. His hands expertly soothe away tension I didn't even know was there. Then his lips are on my neck and his hands are exploring over the silk robe, playfully arousing me.
"Blair," I say as I lean forward. "I have to get ready. I can't be late for this." I turn to look at him and catch the disappointment in his eyes before he smiles at me.
"I know, Shelli's party. Can't have the bachelorette party without the maid of honor."
"You knew about this Blair. I thought it wasn't a problem," I say, starting to feel the slightest bit irritated.
"It's not," he assures me before leaning down and placing a quick kiss on my cheek. "I just thought I'd come by and keep you company until you had to leave," he fibs.
I glance at the time again. "Blair," I say, almost pleading. I don't want to have to walk out on him, not when something is obviously bothering him. But I only have fifteen minutes until I have to leave. I can not be late for this. Not this. Shelli would never forgive me.
"Really," he says, trying to assure me, but only succeeding in making me even more suspicious.
I stand and walk over to where he has slumped onto the bed. Leaning over, I run my hand over his chest and take his lips with a force only a woman in love can muster. "I wish you could come with me," I say, wanting to make him feel better.
"Yeah, that'd go over really well," he laughs. Then his eyes light up. "I know-I can come along and be the entertainment. I've got the moves, don't you think?" he asks as he stands and begins to sway his hips to the music on the radio. His hands wander to his shirt and he begins to slowly unbutton it.
I ignore his antics and go to my closet and pull out the dress I will be wearing that evening. It's short-only coming to mid-thigh. It's covered in silver sequins and shimmers as the light hits it. I pull it on and turn to ask Blair to attach the skimpy strings at the top to hold the halter top in place. He's stopped his strip tease and is standing there, his mouth hanging open slightly as he stares at me.
"Blair?" I say, waving the lose strings in his face. "Will you?" I ask and turn as he takes the silver strands. I can feel his warm hands as they fumble to attach the strings to the hook at the back of the dress. I know he is finished when his hands slide down my bare shoulders, copping a feel.
"Thanks," I say as I turn and press my body to his. His eyes are wide and he's panting slightly. I grin at him and steal a kiss. I'm breathless when I pull away. "Now, I only have five minutes before I have to leave. Why aren't you with Jim?" I pry before applying more gloss.
I haven't met Jim yet, and now I'm starting to wonder why. Blair says that they were best friends-roommates. That they were as close as brothers-probably more so. I know that Blair says Jim is special-that he can see and hear better than anyone. That his sense of taste and touch and smell are off the charts. Great. So what? But I know that it's important. That if word got out it could hurt Jim badly. That some psycho has already tried to use Jim's abilities for his own dirty deeds.
I know that he means something to Blair. That the 'bond' for lack of a better word, is important enough to Blair to look past all the hurt and all the pain he carried when I first met him. Blair calls himself Jim's 'guide'. It scared me when he first told me that. The whole concept of 'sentinels' and 'guides' seemed a bit dramatic to me. But Blair seemed so sincere that I found myself believing everything that he said. That he really was connected to this other man whom he had only known for four years. Four devastating, life shattering years.
When I met Blair, he wasn't the man he is today. He was fragile-lost. He had nothing. He was alone. I first saw him at a board meeting. He was pleasant enough. Polite. And he was smart. When he was introduced as Redwood's new Cultural Attaché, I was impressed. His credentials were read off, BA and Master degrees from Rainier. World traveled. Published in countless magazines and journals. Just what this company needed to head off the allegations of cultural ignorance.
Blair was a charmer. I knew that from day one. He had the VPs all eating out of his hands by the end of his first month. When someone had a hard sell, or was worried about the effects the company would have on surrounding lands or some far off culture, Blair was called in. He eased fears and made ingenious recommendations that made for win-win situations all around.
He was taken with me. I knew it-it was pretty obvious after the second time I turned to find him at my side during the board meetings. But he never did anything to distract from the meeting or the business at hand. He never asked me out. I finally got tired of waiting for him and asked him out. I went as far as paying for dinner and the movie we saw. I was hooked when he didn't bat an eyelash at being the one treated on the date. I think he liked the fact that I was being so independent. I've since met Naomi and understand now why he wasn't fazed by me.
At first, he hung back and I thought it was something I was doing, or not doing. I wasn't sure how he felt about me. I'd told him all about myself-the modeling, the pageants, Wildflower. I told him about my family, both here and in Argentina. But I didn't know much about Blair. Oh sure, I knew he was an anthropologist, but I didn't know what he studied. I didn't know what he did before coming to Redwood. I began to have that feeling women get, that small voice at the back of their minds warning them to get out when the going was good.
I think Blair sensed that I was pulling away from him. I was shocked the day that he came to me and asked me to accompany him shopping. I thought he was going to try and buy my affections and lavish expensive gifts on me-based on whatever caught my eye as we shopped. But instead, he asked me to help him improve his 'image', his style.
Blair is gorgeous. I couldn't fathom why he would want to change. But I helped him pick out the classiest suits we could find, with a cut to compliment a more petite man. We went for casual wear as well and when we finished, he looked like he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. I was so absorbed in what we were doing, that I suggested we go all the way and have his hair done. I'd seen a style that would have looked lovely on him, with those curls and soulful eyes. I didn't think anything of the moment of hesitation when he fingered his hair before grinning and agreeing.
When the stylist pulled the cape off and Blair stood up, I almost melted. I was right. The cut complimented every positive feature Blair had. I couldn't help myself-I grabbed him and kissed him with everything I had. The kiss was returned, but when I pulled away, I couldn't help but notice the rapid blinking. I thought he was going to cry but then he pulled away and handed the stylist his credit card. I stood behind him, my arm on his back and gently rubbed.
We left the salon, neither of us speaking. I noticed that as we passed storefronts, Blair would seem to pause, just a second, and look at his reflection. I started to tease him, until I caught the look on his face. It wasn't that of a man pleased and gloating, but one of genuine surprise. Like he didn't know how beautiful he was. That was the day I started to tell him how beautiful, how gorgeous, how sexy he is. I think, maybe, he finally believes it.
I decided that there was much more to this man than I knew and I wasn't done with him yet. He was an enigma. So strong and confident at Redwood, yet so tentative and unsure once he stepped foot out those doors. But I wasn't the only one who something worth waiting for in Blair. I knew Marla saw it-I think the woman seeks out kindred spirits and saw something special in Blair. I swear that she's made him her pet project-signing him up to teach at the Salvation Army and stealing him away for lunch-checking up on him. As for Arthur, I hadn't even known him until Blair showed up for an after work drink with him in tow. I would have said that Arthur is his best friend-would have until Jim reappeared.
But slowly Blair began to open up and relax and those of us who cared got to see a wonderful, warm, witty person. I was shocked when one day out of the blue, Blair began to tell me about his life, pre-Redwood. About traveling with his mom, about starting college at sixteen. About his pursuit of sentinels. About his expeditions to South America. And he told me about Jim; about his perpetual observer status at the Cascade PD. I was shocked and ready to spit nails when he told me about some of the cases he'd been involved in. How close he'd come to dying so many times-how he'd died at the hands of that psycho Barnes woman. And I cried when he told me about his mother sending his dissertation to a publisher, only to have everything he'd ever wanted flaunted in front of his face, his to keep at the cost of his friendship and his friend's safety. I wasn't surprised when he told me about the press conference or that he'd been willing to go so far as to label himself a fraud if it meant protecting someone he loved so dearly.
When he told me about being offered a badge, a place at Jim's side as a detective, I felt so much pride. Then he told me about being treated as an outsider, being left behind. How Jim didn't seem to need him anymore. How he'd given up his life for this man only to abandoned by those who swore to keep him safe.
How he can look back and say they were his friends, I still don't understand. I'm glad that I haven't met this Jim yet, or any of the men he talked about after coming home from a poker game he'd crashed with Jim. Blair says he doesn't need them anymore. But he does. He still hides his feelings so well, but I can see the hurt on his face when he talks about what Jim and 'the guys' are working on at the PD. Cases that he himself should be a part of. Showing off that incredible intellect. Had he been allowed to let them see. If they had looked.
Not that I begrudge him his work at Redwood. It is, after all, what brought us together. I just want to believe that he is happy. And I guess if that means Jim becomes a fixture in our lives, I can live with that. I say 'our' lives, because I am hoping that the next wedding I stand up in is my own.
"Blair?" I prompt as I smooth the gloss over my lips. I'm still waiting to find out why he isn't out with Jim.
Blair was sitting on the bed again, playing with a loose piece of string. "Jim got a break in a case he was working on and had to go in to the station. No biggie. We'll go out another time." He shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
"Oh sweetie," I sigh as I sit beside him. "It's hard isn't it-not being there with him. Hearing about the cases he's working on, but not being able to help. I'm sorry," I offer leaning into him, offering him my support, my love.
I hear a small chuckle and glance over at him. "What?" I ask, perplexed.
"Sweetie-you have to find something else to say. I do not want to be thinking about my mom when we're together-especially when we're making love."
I frown, struggling to figure out how Naomi figures into any of this. Then it hits me and I giggle. "Sweetie! Oh Blair, I didn't think. I'll think of something else," I promise.
Blair chuckles again, and I can feel him leaning against me, his head lowered for a second onto my shoulder. Then it's gone and he's standing, holding out his hand.
"Come on. I'll walk you to your car." He helps me into my coat and holds the door for me like the gentleman that he is. We near my car and he takes my keys, opening that door as well.
"I love you," he says, and I know he means it. I wish I could just pretend to be sick. Stay here with him and love him all night. But it's not my night, and it's not Blair's. If we don't want to be recluses the rest of our lives, we have to put our friends first on occasion.
"Blair, why don't you go and see if Arthur is home. If he's not, Ken said he was going to be around this weekend, working on the Tafferty account. You know he only tells us that he's working at home so that someone will take pity on him and disturb him. Go and drag him out for dinner. I'm sure he'd appreciate the disruption," I coax. I slide into the seat and pull the door closed. I roll the window down and Blair leans over, resting his elbows on the edge.
"You're just trying to get rid of me," he says, smiling.
"You got it buster. I have to go or I'm going to be late." Blair smiles and leans in and kisses me. I love him so much. "Are you okay?" I ask as I bring my hand to his face and gently brush his cheek.
"I'm good. Just disappointed. You're right. I'll go and see what Arthur's up to. I think he's jealous," Blair adds with a sad smile.
Oh Blair. You just can't win, can you? Instead of voicing my thoughts, I shrug. "He's a big boy. I'm sure he's fine. Just don't forget . . ." I stop, shocked at what I was about to say. To even imply that Jim isn't really Blair's friend. But I have to wonder. Blair always tells me about his forays back into his old life-Jim's life. But Jim hasn't found his way into Blair's. Blair is content to think that this is the way it should be. That someday, Jim will need Blair and Blair will just go running. But what about when Blair needs Jim? When Blair explained it, he stressed that it came down to friendship. Last I heard, friendship wasn't a one way street.
Blair surprises me with one last kiss before pulling his head from the car and slowly standing. "I know who my friends are. I won't forget," he says, an earnest look on his face. And I believe him. He knows that the people you hold near to your heart are too precious to take for granted. I think he just got a little excited when his worlds began to merge. He'll figure it out.
I start the engine and watch through my review mirror as he climbs into his car. He catches my eye and gives a little wave and a cocky grin and I know he'll be okay. Looking out my side mirror and then the window, I turn on my blinker and slowly pull onto the street. He'll be okay.
END
By: Victoria May
The hum of the motor and the rush of wind through my hair drown out everything around me. The hot air licking at my neck feels so good as the drops of clinging water evaporate. A tingling sensation creeps over my scalp and I feel what I've always thought of as the equivalent of goosebumps under my hair. I'm running out of time, but I don't want the gentle massage to end. I want to relish in it for a while longer.
Instead, I turn off the blowdryer and pick up my brush. The pulsing rhythm of the Evita soundtrack tumbles over me. The CD is on its last selection, Lament, and I hastily grab the stereo remote. Aiming blindly over my shoulder, I switch off the CD before the tears start. I can't help it. Argentina is my heritage. In some small way, I feel as though I'm sharing Eva Peron's pain when I listen to this memorial of her life. I'd always hoped that my life would come to mean even a fraction of what Eva's did. That somehow, what I do-who I am, has encouraged others to better themselves.
I smile as I glance at the makeup spread before me. I'm sure that to some, I am a role model. I'd like to think that I'm an inspiration. I've been featured in 'Cascade Magazine'; profiled in 'Business Week'. From rags to riches, I know what it's like to struggle to make something of yourself. I've faced many deterrents and overcome each and every one. From racism to sexism, I feel as though I've seen it all. And not just from the perky, blue eyed Barbie lookalike who wanted my job-thought that she was what represented a cosmetic division best. 'Friends', trying to be supportive, congratulated me on my good fortune that I had stumbled across a company who must have been hiring for that coveted 'equal rights' position. Trying to meet status quo.
But as mad as I was at the time, I had to forgive them. They weren't the only ones to assume that I hadn't earned my position, or that I'd slept my way to the top. How else could I have managed to burst through the glass ceiling so quickly and to their prying eyes, so easily? At times, I want to scream and rip my degrees off the wall and throw them at whoever it was that day to slide a look at me from the corner of their eye. 'I've earned this!' I want to shout at them. I've gotten over the urge to drag them to Marla's office to see my personnel file. To point out the years I spent in sales for the company, building a client base so dedicated, they've stuck with us through the threat of hostile takeover-more than once. When other investors pulled their support at the hint of trouble, some of my oldest clients bought the abandoned shares. They sit with me on Redwood's board now-influential men and women who have helped to develop the division into one of the most successful cosmetic companies worldwide.
I finger the strands of black hair clutched in my grip as I slowly slide the brush down its length. I struggle to overcome the wave of self-doubt that often accompanies such reminiscences. 'You earned this,' I scold myself once again. Sometimes, even I find it hard to believe that my rapid climb to the VP spot in cosmetics had nothing to do with my looks or my heritage. I'm beautiful. I know it, others know it. I try not to dwell on it too much. I like to look nice, to receive attention from others-to be told I'm beautiful.
I'm often told that I'm conceited. I'm not. I don't compare my beauty to any one else's. I don't need to. I've been told how beautiful I am all my life. I've had it ingrained in me since before I could walk. My mother, a former model, continued her career vicariously through me. Submitting my pictures first to baby magazines and clothing catalogues, then parading me in a long succession of child beauty pageants.
I was taught that beauty mattered-that you were judged on how you looked, how you spoke, and how well you could sell your body. I was thrilled at first. I can remember posing in photo shoots with my mother-Mother's Day inserts and JC Penney catalogues. Then no one wanted my mother any longer; they wanted me. I developed early, bypassing training bras for large, 32D cups. By eleven I was taller than most fifteen-year-olds. I can remember being watched as I walked down the street with my mother, made up for a shoot or on the way to a pageant. I swayed my hips and stuck out my chest as my mother instructed, ignoring the leers and catcalls.
I held myself still as foreign hands adjusted my breasts just so and ignored the lingering touch as it measured my inseam. I won trophy after trophy and continued modeling. I finally gave up the pageants-it was too much of a struggle for a Latina contestant to win against the American apple pie beauties. I continued to model, having no real alternative. My mother drew the line-model and help support the family, or find another home, another hand to feed me. I knew it was more than just the money. My mother wasn't ready to let go of the dream, as if somehow, my success could be attributed to her.
At seventeen, I was looking forward to college. I'd taken all the exams, applied to different schools. I was trying to choose between a career in medicine and a career in business when my world fell apart. I'd been accepted into NYU, was clutching the acceptance letter in my hand, when my father told me. Mother was out, hadn't had the nerve to stay and be the bearer of bad news. The money was gone. All of it-every cent I'd made as a child model, every penny I'd earned was handed over to my mother as my guardian. Spent on new clothes, makeup, hotels, and photoshoots. None of it set aside to provide for my future.
My father was on social security-hadn't been able to work. I never realized that the money we lived on, the money that made the house payment every month, that kept the lights on and food in the refrigerator had come from me. I was the sole breadwinner in the family. I blamed my mother at first. I couldn't believe that she could betray me, use me like that. It wasn't until years later that I came to peace with her, who she is. I still send her money every month. Between what I send, and my father's social security check, they manage to survive.
I went to college. I continued to model-not by choice but by necessity. I was forced to take out loans to pay for the first semester. I found myself ineligible for grants due to the reported income the previous year. I applied for scholarships, but received only a pittance from that arena. I'd always felt that I was judged just another pretty face at the interviews. My grades were good, but there had been no time for clubs or extra curricular activities. Nothing that said I was special.
I knew I was more than just a pretty face and I was bound and determined to prove it. At the end of my first year of college, I was on the honor role and had earned a Presidential Scholarship, paying half my tuition. I joined DECA. I found myself concentrating on the business aspect of modeling and applied for an internship with the modeling agency that held my contract.
As a model, I'd often been approached by small, start up cosmetic companies, wanting someone to represent their company. I turned them down-well, except for one. Wildflower. An 'all natural' brand created by a shy, mouse of a girl in my marketing class. Made and bottled on her family's farm in Illinois, Wildflower proved to be a line worthy of representing. Fortunately so for Nancy, who dropped out of college her junior year. She said it was because it just wasn't 'her thing' as she put it. I suspected it had more to do with her wildly alternating bouts of depression and euphoria. I'm sure that neither she nor her family expected the cosmetic line to really go anywhere, just another product of a manic episode.
But I liked the line of cosmetics. They didn't make me break out, and I had several people ask me what brand I was wearing the day I debuted the line. I used the product line to develop my own business skills and made it into my graduate project. I based my master's thesis on the starter up company. I hadn't invested in the company however, just developed and marketed it. It was a hit. It could have been big.
It's as dead as Nancy is today.
Working with Nancy was never easy. She questioned every decision I made, every step I took. She designed her own logo and attempted to force me to use it, threatening to fire me if I refused. I called her bluff and hired a student from advertising to develop the logo. 'Wildflower: Natural, fresh, beautiful'. I don't think Nancy ever forgave me for that, but I could never wrap my mind around 'Wildflower: Be Wild'. I almost laughed the day Nancy tossed that one at me-instantly my mind was filled with images of bright pinks and loud blues and oranges. I felt like I was back in the eighties.
I planned on continuing to work with the rapidly expanding company after graduation. I accepted my master's degree, feeling more pride than I ever thought possible. I left to spend the summer with my family in Argentina, leaving the company to run itself. I was confident that nothing could go wrong. Well, Nancy can be more influential than I ever gave her credit for. In a bout of mania, Nancy decided to expand. She purchased a building to house the company and signed contracts with printers for labels and advertising. She found investors and spent the money on a new car and wardrobe.
The company was bankrupt by the time I returned from Argentina. I was flabbergasted. The investors had filed lawsuits against the company. Nancy of course turned to me to bail her out. I told her in no uncertain terms that I couldn't help her and to get a good lawyer. I let Nancy's family know how I felt about them not intervening and stopping Nancy. But they'd been living with Nancy and her bipolar disorder her entire life-they truly believed this was just another flash in the pan for Nancy. They'd never realized how successful the company had become. I couldn't really fault them.
Nancy committed suicide before she even came to trial. I blamed myself for not seeing how sick Nancy was. For not noticing how close to the breaking point she really was. Her family tried to assure me that Nancy had struggled with her bipolar her entire life, often succumbing to the pull of the mania. Nancy attempted to live a normal life, but didn't like the way the cocktail of medications she took every morning, noon and night made her feel. As an adult and in charge of her own medical care, she often skipped doses. Nancy, like many sufferers of bipolar disorder, finally came to an early death.
I looked around for awhile, sending out my resume to as many companies as I could. When I walked into my interview at Redwood, I felt like I was coming home. Marla interviewed me first and then the president of the cosmetics division. I was hired and started out in sales, traveling the country marketing the company's cosmetic line. I moved quickly into the VP spot-I'd always felt as though I were on a fast track. Despite what others may think, I'd always attributed it to my former experiences, not my looks or ethnicity.
Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I glance at the clock on the wall. 5:37PM. Damn, if I don't hurry I'm going to be late. With only a few sweeps of my brush, my hair is held on top of my head, only a few stray clumps surrounding my face. Picking up the small triangular sponge, I dab on thick, pasty goo that is supposed to cover up all my blemishes. I grimace at the finished result and reach for the bottle of makeup, shaking it and spilling it onto the sponge. It only takes seconds to smear that expertly over my face and finish it with a few strokes of powder. Much better, I think as I smile my sexiest smile into the mirror.
I reach for the tiny compact housing my eyeshadows and growl when the doorbell rings. What now? If it's someone selling magazines I may just have to kill them. I do not have time for this. I stand and draw my white, silk robe tighter around my body. I stalk over to the door, wanting to fling it open and give whoever it is a piece of my mind. Instead, I do the sensible thing and peer down into the peephole.
I can feel the tension drain from my body as I see who is standing outside my door, patiently waiting for me to open it. I open the door and smile tenderly at my visitor. I receive a goofy grin in reply as a bouquet of roses is drawn from behind my guest.
"Blair, you shouldn't have," I say as I take the flowers and hold them to my nose. They smell divine and I close my eyes as I inhale their rich scent.
"Yes, I did. I couldn't come by empty handed, now could I?" Blair asks.
Before I can answer, I'm in Blair's arms receiving one of the sexiest kisses I've ever had the pleasure of enduring. The man can kiss and has no shame when it comes to showing off that particular skill. I have no problem with that as long as I'm the only one he shares it with.
Pulling back, I grab his hand and draw him into the house. "What are you doing here?" I call out as I disappear around the corner into the kitchen.
"Just thought I'd drop in and say 'hi'," Blair calls back.
I return to the living room, the roses now in a crystal vase and place the arrangement on the fireplace mantel. "Oh, that's sweet," I say as I turn to face him. He's over by the TV, pretending to be looking at the accumulation of photos strewn all over the entertainment center.
"Now, what are you really doing here?" I ask as I walk up to him and wrap my arms around his waist.
"What, I can't just drop in?" Blair asks as he turns in my arms, leaning in for another kiss.
"Mmn," I murmur into his mouth and sag forward for more. He tastes so good and his hand is roaming down my back to my derriere. He's turning me on and right now that is a bad thing-a very bad thing. I pull away and gently swat his arm. "Stop that," I scold.
'What?' his innocent expression seems to say.
"I thought you were going out tonight," I say as I take his arm and lead him into my bedroom. I watch as he shrugs and sits on the bed. He doesn't meet my eye as he runs his hand over the satin comforter. Finally he lays back and stretches his arms out.
"A man could get used to this," he says as he kicks his shoes off and draws his legs up onto the bed.
"As if you don't get enough time lazing around in that bed, you goof," I scoff at him. Turning away, I begin to apply my eye makeup. I almost forget that he is there, until I hear the radio switch on. The volume is still set on high from my CD and is quickly turned down. A chaotic rambling of passing stations grate at my ears until a classic rock station is selected. I'm about to coat my lips with gloss when suddenly Blair is behind me, his hands on my shoulders.
I melt under the sudden onslaught. His hands expertly soothe away tension I didn't even know was there. Then his lips are on my neck and his hands are exploring over the silk robe, playfully arousing me.
"Blair," I say as I lean forward. "I have to get ready. I can't be late for this." I turn to look at him and catch the disappointment in his eyes before he smiles at me.
"I know, Shelli's party. Can't have the bachelorette party without the maid of honor."
"You knew about this Blair. I thought it wasn't a problem," I say, starting to feel the slightest bit irritated.
"It's not," he assures me before leaning down and placing a quick kiss on my cheek. "I just thought I'd come by and keep you company until you had to leave," he fibs.
I glance at the time again. "Blair," I say, almost pleading. I don't want to have to walk out on him, not when something is obviously bothering him. But I only have fifteen minutes until I have to leave. I can not be late for this. Not this. Shelli would never forgive me.
"Really," he says, trying to assure me, but only succeeding in making me even more suspicious.
I stand and walk over to where he has slumped onto the bed. Leaning over, I run my hand over his chest and take his lips with a force only a woman in love can muster. "I wish you could come with me," I say, wanting to make him feel better.
"Yeah, that'd go over really well," he laughs. Then his eyes light up. "I know-I can come along and be the entertainment. I've got the moves, don't you think?" he asks as he stands and begins to sway his hips to the music on the radio. His hands wander to his shirt and he begins to slowly unbutton it.
I ignore his antics and go to my closet and pull out the dress I will be wearing that evening. It's short-only coming to mid-thigh. It's covered in silver sequins and shimmers as the light hits it. I pull it on and turn to ask Blair to attach the skimpy strings at the top to hold the halter top in place. He's stopped his strip tease and is standing there, his mouth hanging open slightly as he stares at me.
"Blair?" I say, waving the lose strings in his face. "Will you?" I ask and turn as he takes the silver strands. I can feel his warm hands as they fumble to attach the strings to the hook at the back of the dress. I know he is finished when his hands slide down my bare shoulders, copping a feel.
"Thanks," I say as I turn and press my body to his. His eyes are wide and he's panting slightly. I grin at him and steal a kiss. I'm breathless when I pull away. "Now, I only have five minutes before I have to leave. Why aren't you with Jim?" I pry before applying more gloss.
I haven't met Jim yet, and now I'm starting to wonder why. Blair says that they were best friends-roommates. That they were as close as brothers-probably more so. I know that Blair says Jim is special-that he can see and hear better than anyone. That his sense of taste and touch and smell are off the charts. Great. So what? But I know that it's important. That if word got out it could hurt Jim badly. That some psycho has already tried to use Jim's abilities for his own dirty deeds.
I know that he means something to Blair. That the 'bond' for lack of a better word, is important enough to Blair to look past all the hurt and all the pain he carried when I first met him. Blair calls himself Jim's 'guide'. It scared me when he first told me that. The whole concept of 'sentinels' and 'guides' seemed a bit dramatic to me. But Blair seemed so sincere that I found myself believing everything that he said. That he really was connected to this other man whom he had only known for four years. Four devastating, life shattering years.
When I met Blair, he wasn't the man he is today. He was fragile-lost. He had nothing. He was alone. I first saw him at a board meeting. He was pleasant enough. Polite. And he was smart. When he was introduced as Redwood's new Cultural Attaché, I was impressed. His credentials were read off, BA and Master degrees from Rainier. World traveled. Published in countless magazines and journals. Just what this company needed to head off the allegations of cultural ignorance.
Blair was a charmer. I knew that from day one. He had the VPs all eating out of his hands by the end of his first month. When someone had a hard sell, or was worried about the effects the company would have on surrounding lands or some far off culture, Blair was called in. He eased fears and made ingenious recommendations that made for win-win situations all around.
He was taken with me. I knew it-it was pretty obvious after the second time I turned to find him at my side during the board meetings. But he never did anything to distract from the meeting or the business at hand. He never asked me out. I finally got tired of waiting for him and asked him out. I went as far as paying for dinner and the movie we saw. I was hooked when he didn't bat an eyelash at being the one treated on the date. I think he liked the fact that I was being so independent. I've since met Naomi and understand now why he wasn't fazed by me.
At first, he hung back and I thought it was something I was doing, or not doing. I wasn't sure how he felt about me. I'd told him all about myself-the modeling, the pageants, Wildflower. I told him about my family, both here and in Argentina. But I didn't know much about Blair. Oh sure, I knew he was an anthropologist, but I didn't know what he studied. I didn't know what he did before coming to Redwood. I began to have that feeling women get, that small voice at the back of their minds warning them to get out when the going was good.
I think Blair sensed that I was pulling away from him. I was shocked the day that he came to me and asked me to accompany him shopping. I thought he was going to try and buy my affections and lavish expensive gifts on me-based on whatever caught my eye as we shopped. But instead, he asked me to help him improve his 'image', his style.
Blair is gorgeous. I couldn't fathom why he would want to change. But I helped him pick out the classiest suits we could find, with a cut to compliment a more petite man. We went for casual wear as well and when we finished, he looked like he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. I was so absorbed in what we were doing, that I suggested we go all the way and have his hair done. I'd seen a style that would have looked lovely on him, with those curls and soulful eyes. I didn't think anything of the moment of hesitation when he fingered his hair before grinning and agreeing.
When the stylist pulled the cape off and Blair stood up, I almost melted. I was right. The cut complimented every positive feature Blair had. I couldn't help myself-I grabbed him and kissed him with everything I had. The kiss was returned, but when I pulled away, I couldn't help but notice the rapid blinking. I thought he was going to cry but then he pulled away and handed the stylist his credit card. I stood behind him, my arm on his back and gently rubbed.
We left the salon, neither of us speaking. I noticed that as we passed storefronts, Blair would seem to pause, just a second, and look at his reflection. I started to tease him, until I caught the look on his face. It wasn't that of a man pleased and gloating, but one of genuine surprise. Like he didn't know how beautiful he was. That was the day I started to tell him how beautiful, how gorgeous, how sexy he is. I think, maybe, he finally believes it.
I decided that there was much more to this man than I knew and I wasn't done with him yet. He was an enigma. So strong and confident at Redwood, yet so tentative and unsure once he stepped foot out those doors. But I wasn't the only one who something worth waiting for in Blair. I knew Marla saw it-I think the woman seeks out kindred spirits and saw something special in Blair. I swear that she's made him her pet project-signing him up to teach at the Salvation Army and stealing him away for lunch-checking up on him. As for Arthur, I hadn't even known him until Blair showed up for an after work drink with him in tow. I would have said that Arthur is his best friend-would have until Jim reappeared.
But slowly Blair began to open up and relax and those of us who cared got to see a wonderful, warm, witty person. I was shocked when one day out of the blue, Blair began to tell me about his life, pre-Redwood. About traveling with his mom, about starting college at sixteen. About his pursuit of sentinels. About his expeditions to South America. And he told me about Jim; about his perpetual observer status at the Cascade PD. I was shocked and ready to spit nails when he told me about some of the cases he'd been involved in. How close he'd come to dying so many times-how he'd died at the hands of that psycho Barnes woman. And I cried when he told me about his mother sending his dissertation to a publisher, only to have everything he'd ever wanted flaunted in front of his face, his to keep at the cost of his friendship and his friend's safety. I wasn't surprised when he told me about the press conference or that he'd been willing to go so far as to label himself a fraud if it meant protecting someone he loved so dearly.
When he told me about being offered a badge, a place at Jim's side as a detective, I felt so much pride. Then he told me about being treated as an outsider, being left behind. How Jim didn't seem to need him anymore. How he'd given up his life for this man only to abandoned by those who swore to keep him safe.
How he can look back and say they were his friends, I still don't understand. I'm glad that I haven't met this Jim yet, or any of the men he talked about after coming home from a poker game he'd crashed with Jim. Blair says he doesn't need them anymore. But he does. He still hides his feelings so well, but I can see the hurt on his face when he talks about what Jim and 'the guys' are working on at the PD. Cases that he himself should be a part of. Showing off that incredible intellect. Had he been allowed to let them see. If they had looked.
Not that I begrudge him his work at Redwood. It is, after all, what brought us together. I just want to believe that he is happy. And I guess if that means Jim becomes a fixture in our lives, I can live with that. I say 'our' lives, because I am hoping that the next wedding I stand up in is my own.
"Blair?" I prompt as I smooth the gloss over my lips. I'm still waiting to find out why he isn't out with Jim.
Blair was sitting on the bed again, playing with a loose piece of string. "Jim got a break in a case he was working on and had to go in to the station. No biggie. We'll go out another time." He shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
"Oh sweetie," I sigh as I sit beside him. "It's hard isn't it-not being there with him. Hearing about the cases he's working on, but not being able to help. I'm sorry," I offer leaning into him, offering him my support, my love.
I hear a small chuckle and glance over at him. "What?" I ask, perplexed.
"Sweetie-you have to find something else to say. I do not want to be thinking about my mom when we're together-especially when we're making love."
I frown, struggling to figure out how Naomi figures into any of this. Then it hits me and I giggle. "Sweetie! Oh Blair, I didn't think. I'll think of something else," I promise.
Blair chuckles again, and I can feel him leaning against me, his head lowered for a second onto my shoulder. Then it's gone and he's standing, holding out his hand.
"Come on. I'll walk you to your car." He helps me into my coat and holds the door for me like the gentleman that he is. We near my car and he takes my keys, opening that door as well.
"I love you," he says, and I know he means it. I wish I could just pretend to be sick. Stay here with him and love him all night. But it's not my night, and it's not Blair's. If we don't want to be recluses the rest of our lives, we have to put our friends first on occasion.
"Blair, why don't you go and see if Arthur is home. If he's not, Ken said he was going to be around this weekend, working on the Tafferty account. You know he only tells us that he's working at home so that someone will take pity on him and disturb him. Go and drag him out for dinner. I'm sure he'd appreciate the disruption," I coax. I slide into the seat and pull the door closed. I roll the window down and Blair leans over, resting his elbows on the edge.
"You're just trying to get rid of me," he says, smiling.
"You got it buster. I have to go or I'm going to be late." Blair smiles and leans in and kisses me. I love him so much. "Are you okay?" I ask as I bring my hand to his face and gently brush his cheek.
"I'm good. Just disappointed. You're right. I'll go and see what Arthur's up to. I think he's jealous," Blair adds with a sad smile.
Oh Blair. You just can't win, can you? Instead of voicing my thoughts, I shrug. "He's a big boy. I'm sure he's fine. Just don't forget . . ." I stop, shocked at what I was about to say. To even imply that Jim isn't really Blair's friend. But I have to wonder. Blair always tells me about his forays back into his old life-Jim's life. But Jim hasn't found his way into Blair's. Blair is content to think that this is the way it should be. That someday, Jim will need Blair and Blair will just go running. But what about when Blair needs Jim? When Blair explained it, he stressed that it came down to friendship. Last I heard, friendship wasn't a one way street.
Blair surprises me with one last kiss before pulling his head from the car and slowly standing. "I know who my friends are. I won't forget," he says, an earnest look on his face. And I believe him. He knows that the people you hold near to your heart are too precious to take for granted. I think he just got a little excited when his worlds began to merge. He'll figure it out.
I start the engine and watch through my review mirror as he climbs into his car. He catches my eye and gives a little wave and a cocky grin and I know he'll be okay. Looking out my side mirror and then the window, I turn on my blinker and slowly pull onto the street. He'll be okay.
END