Sorry for the delay on this chapter. The holidays were nuts! Absolutely insane! Took me three weeks just to write this, lol.
No Erik in this chapter, sorry. But some familiar faces.
Thanks as always to my most excellent beta and friend, Musique et Amour and all the folks at PPN for all their squees and encouragement!
I woke up early this morning around 4am
With the moon shining bright as headlights on the interstate
I pulled the covers over my head and tried to catch some sleep
But thoughts of us kept keeping me awake
You'll Think of Me, Golden Road, Keith Urban
Chapter Three
There were a number of things in a young boy's life that were paramount to everything else. Things that were to be appreciated, valued, enjoyed, and treasured. To be revered, to humble one, to leave one with a sense of joy that would carry one through the rough times.
One such thing was a day out of school.
And Seth was enjoying such a day.
School was canceled. Canceled! Man, oh, man! How did he get so damn lucky!
From the corner of his eye he snuck a look up at his mother, just to make sure she hadn't heard the cuss word he'd been thinking in his head. Sometimes he thought that maybe she could. She seemed to know everything. Got on a guy's nerves! But she was too busy wrinkling her nose down at her cell phone as they hurried down the street and around the corner of Mass Ave. to scan his brain, apparently. It was cold, a lot colder than yesterday was and she had her fuzzy pink gloves on and her fingers were fumbling over the buttons on the phone.
"Shit!"
"Oooo, you said a dirty word." He wiggled his brows up at her, grinning in triumph that his mom had said a swear word in front of him, then ducked, shrieking with laughter as she switched the phone to the other hand and aimed for the back of his head with her hand. She missed – deliberately – then pulled him tight into her side, growling.
"Shut up, you. I'm an adult. You're nine, bubba. No cussing."
"Yeah, but what would Grandma say?" He just loved throwing that up to her. He loved it when she rolled her eyes like the girls in his class when one of the guys farted really loud.
"Grandma isn't here, now is she?"
"Newp."
"Then hush it. I can't get the number in this dam-darned thing." Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth and gnawing, she turned to him with a "Hey!" as he jerked the cell phone out of her hands and pushed # and 3, the speed-dial for Valerius Galleries, then handed it back to her.
"That's what speed dial's for, Mom." He smirked up at her, quirking one brow, a really cool, snarky expression that he'd practiced in front of the mirror in his room until he'd got it just right. The girls at school liked it. The guys thought it was tight.
She just scowled down at him, then put the phone to her ear. He grinned to himself. It was always friggin' neat when he got something over on her.
But man! A day outta school and it wasn't even planned or nothing! Somebody had thrown a stink bomb through one of the third floor windows and stunk the whole place up. It musta been a hell of a stink bomb to close the school for airing out. Way he saw it, he owed someone a big thanks. He bet it was Andrew Benton.
Andrew Benton was eighteen and a senior at IPS 23, and he smoked, and he had a band, and a kick-ass tattoo on his arm, and long hair dyed black and electric blue and a van with a bed in the back, and once, Seth had seen him skip-out and pick up a sophomore in that van, and he heard the next day he'd poked at her in the back. Hey, he may have only been a fourth grader, but he knew what poking was.
Not that he'd ever do it. Sick, man, just sick. Why a guy would want to do that was just...yuck.
"Mom? It's Kris. Hey, I have a big favor to ask you." From the corner of his eye, he saw his mom's bright blue-green gaze turn on him with what he could only describe as a maniacal gleam: he'd read that in a book once and thought it was a pretty cool phrase. "Actually...I'm going to do a favor for you. Want some cheap child labor for the day?"
"Aww, man!"
Valerius Galleries, located on Madison Boulevard and the next door neighbor to Turn The Page Bookstore, was owned and operated by Marius and Valerie Dresden. An art gallery that catered to accessible art – mainly photography – and the educating of the general public, it had existed on the corner of Madison Blvd. and Massachusetts Ave. for nearly twenty years now and continued to do a brisk business, continually luring new photographers and artists seeking a venue for their work.
Two stories high, set in the same chestnut brick and gray stone facade that made up all the businesses along Madison, the interior was as startling a contrast to the exterior as the jewel tones and mosaic touches that made up Turn The Page's decor. Here, in the gallery, it was all about simplicity. Glossy, stained oak floors, walls in a cool, soft white, furniture in an understated cool moss.
The photographs, some in brilliant, full-color, others in gritty, yet stunning black and white and the oils, watercolors, and sketches that hung upon the walls were the main focus of the open, airy rooms.
The gallery hadn't opened at this early hour, yet there she stood, a long coat of soft dove gray wool draped over her shoulders, her slender and elegant frame silhouetted in the double doors, a picture of perfect calm and equanimity. Some might say she looked cool and distant.
Kristen knew she was a rock in a storm.
"Mom," she said simply and pressed her cheek to the smooth, soft skin of the older woman, the scent of her light, floral perfume always a familiar comfort.
Valerie pressed a kiss back to her daughter's freckled face, then pulled back glancing at her grandson. She beamed a wide smile, lines appearing faintly at the corners of her pale, jade-green eyes, and pulled him tight for a smacking kiss against his lips. He colored, muttered an "Aw, Grandma," but squeezed her waist anyway.
"So, a day off school, hm?" She winked at him, then slid an arm about his shoulders, tugging at the slick blue material of his windbreaker. "Shouldn't you be wearing something warmer than this?"
"I told him to, Mom, but you know how he is. He's got a sweatshirt and T underneath." Compromises, she believed, made up motherhood.
The trio walked into the warm gallery, already scented with coffee and the freshly baked cinnamon apple fritters that Valerie had bought from the Abbey that morning and the older woman shrugged off the coat, then hung it neatly in the small closet of the sales office.
Kristen couldn't help but feel a small bit of envy for the way her mother could wear clothing. In the same soft green as her eyes and fitted to her lithe, elegant form perfectly, the pantsuit and matching cream silk blouse seemed to have been made to be worn just by Valerie Dresden. The neatly pinned up brunette curls shot with faint streaks of silver only added to that perception of cool, precise character.
Valerie had made many sacrifices in her personal life during those first few years of Seth's life. Both of her parents had. There had been disappointment in her becoming pregnant, yes, but never had there been disdain, anger, or insults. There had been support, love, and strength offered to get through when Ray had cut his losses and left. The Chesney's had claimed that she'd lied, that the baby wasn't his, that Ray would never do anything of the kind, like get a sixteen year old sophomore pregnant when he was an eighteen year old newly graduated senior bound for fame at Notre Dame. So her parents had been...everything during that miserable time in her young life. Her mother had baby-sat while her father had ran the gallery, and often visa-versa, if Valerie had photo-shoots for Time or Life or National Geographic.
The older woman made a sign of surprise in her throat when her daughter gave her a fierce hug from behind, then kissed her cheek again before backing out the office door. Shooting a look at her son, whose mouth was full of donut, she shook a finger.
"You. You behave. Mom, if he gives you any trouble, call me or come next door. I'll take him after lunch."
"Sure, hon, no problem. I've got some lovely new raw wood frames that need staining and prepping. And I know just the man to do it."
"Grandpa?"
"You wish."
"Aw, man!"
Kristen left Valerius Galleries with a grin on her face. 'Child Labor Laws' he would cry out about later with much indignity. It never failed to amuse her how much he protested working in either shop...yet he bragged to his friends that he was on the payroll and the only guy in the fourth grade to have two part-time jobs.
Mareka was already seated upon the concrete stairs of the shop, wrapped in her vibrantly purple faux fur coat, a book in her hands. At the click of Kristen's loafers upon the pavement, she glanced up over the edge of her reading glasses – which were only for fashion, or so she claimed – and raised a brow.
"You're late."
Rolling her eyes, Kristen trotted up the steps and dug out her keys to unlock the two panels of green metal grate that barred the front door. Sliding both into the places with a rolling click, she unlocked the main doors, then held one open for her friend. "I'm not late and you know it."
"I know, but I had to reset my breaker box and I thought I was late so, ya know, I was just gonna accuse you of being late first."
"Am I to perpetually be surrounded by silly people?" She shut the doors, relocked them, then breathed out a sigh at the familiar and educational smell of books and old, polished wood. "Are you sure Seth's not yours?"
"Kid's not pretty enough to be mine."
"Oh, you're so fired."
Mid-October meant one thing: Halloween.
Kristen had a strict rule when it came to major holidays: no decorating or putting out appropriate inventory until two weeks before said holiday. From her own experience it was just a bit annoying to wander through a store and see stock and decorations for a holiday six weeks in advance. Most people simply didn't begin to think about shopping and planning for those occasions until just about two weeks beforehand and doing so early just felt...too commercial. Holidays were about joy and the pleasure found in seeing children's faces light up with the wonder of it all, the anticipation. There was nothing commercial about that. And the last thing she wanted Turn The Page to be about was commercialism.
So it was that very morning that her and Mareka finally whisked down the boxes marked "Halloween" with little grinning pumpkins drew on them with Sharpies, and began opening them with childish glee to make the bookstore into a werewolf's cave, a vampire's castle, a witches's hut, or a ghost's haunted mansion.
It was another reason why she'd been all too willing to drop Seth off at her mother's gallery and let him spend the day performing "child labor". The fully decorated shop was one of his biggest thrill's of the year and she was looking forward to surprising him with it when she picked him up for lunch.
By noon, when an unsuspecting customer came wandering in, they were greeted by the eerie howl of a distant wolf, the rattle of chains and a witch that swooped down from the ceiling with a cacophony of cackles. She sincerely hoped that no heart patients happened to find that particular addition a little too surprising.
On every wall hung thick, milky-white cobwebs, complete with long-legged spiders. Coffins took up every corner, some half-opened with surprises lurking within in the form of paper-wrapped mummies and wax vampires. 'Monster Mash' played appropriately.
Changing into a black velvet dress that flowed about her ankles and cinched tight under her breasts with a faux deep purple corset, Kristen covered her short dark curls with a wig of crimson waves that swayed at her waist with every move. She even made sure to add a rivulet of blood dripped from one corner of a mouth fitted with Scarecrow brand plastic fangs. She wore the same costume year after year, but the kids never tired of it though she knew it embarrassed Seth a bit to see the other guys refer to his mom as a "hottie".
"So he just...left?" Mareka, garbed out in full Gypsy gear, even down to large gold coins that clacked about her hips, turned a glance over her shoulder as she rung a family of four up, then having finished, leaned against the counter. "And you weren't rude, were you? You didn't go all, 'Ew, don't touch me!' on him?"
She'd been telling Mareka about her encounter with the street musician the day before, still perplexed over his volatile reaction.
"No, I swear I didn't. You know me! I even hate the thought of hurting someone else's feelings. It's such a nauseating sensation...No, all I did was pull away and that was only because the spot was burning like hell and I just...didn't want anyone to touch it. I can't stand someone touching my wounds." She shuddered, then ran a hand along the back of her neck under the wig. "And he acted like...like I'd just shot him through the heart. It was...odd." And more disturbing than she cared to admit. She had dreamed about his eyes last night, how they changed in an instant before he walked away.
"Hm...you ask me, he was hard up."
"Mareka!"
"Well! He just...dives across the street to check on a complete stranger, then tries to touch you...I think he was hard up for something. Money, drugs, you." When Kristen's cheeks went pink under the make-up, she rolled her eyes. "He's all but homeless, Kris. Those people...you give them money, they spend it on their next fix. Maybe he wanted to get you alone and get his hands on you..."
"Oh just stop." It bothered her, deeply, to hear Mareka voice the very same things she'd woken up thinking about. Maybe it was foolish and sentimental, but after listening to the beauty that came from that solitary man's hands every morning and evening to and from her home had made her feel, in some way, that she knew him. And it discomforted her to know that he could have meant her harm all along.
"It really bothered you, didn't it?" Her friend asked the question gently and quietly, setting a hand on her shoulder. Kristen simply shrugged, then being a horrible liar, sighed and nodded.
"I'm not used to people not liking me."
"Oh, sweetie. Get used to it."
Seth's reaction had been pure pleasure for Kristen. She'd gone to pick him up from the gallery in her full Wal-Mart vampiric glory, which he had, of course, been quite disgusted by, then led him back to Turn The Page, letting him enter first.
There was little she treasured more than her boy's childish giggles of delight – even if he quickly smothered them with a "Yeah, real cool, Mom."
Later that afternoon, when Seth was firmly put to work shelving in the children's area – which he claimed he was far too old for – Kristen took a glance about the now quiet store and decided to straighten up a bit. The usual lull on a weekday between three and four o'clock was always a welcome respite for both her and Mareka. The other woman had decided to take her cup of afternoon coffee up to the cozy ring of chairs in the fiction stacks and keep an eye on her friend's son, more for the enjoyment of talking to a funny kid than for believing he might misbehave.
With the shop silent save for the murmur of woman and child upstairs, Kristen ran a dust rag over the long wall of classics in the lobby, took a moment to read a favorite passage of Pride and Prejudice, then, seduced by the late afternoon sun skittering through the trees that lined the street outside and the promise of a cool breeze, stepped outside, tucking her hands into the bell-like sleeves of the gothic costume.
Traffic was slower this time of day and the street mainly quiet but for the occasional bus traveling past or minor parking dispute for the much sought after meters. A dozen or so pedestrians and shoppers milled to and from the shops along Madison Boulevard, carriers in their hands full of purchases or a packed late lunch from the Abbey or Aesop's Tables across the street.
From down the boulevard she heard her name being called and stepped out further upon the walk to wave to Antonia George, Mareka's mother. The older African American woman ran her own franchise of Origins, a organic based cosmetic and bath line that Kristen adored – especially with her discount. With a smile, the tall, svelte woman disappeared back into her storefront and shifting her skirts aside, Kristen took a seat on the stoop, chin in palm, and studied the other shops that lined her home away from home.
On her own side of the boulevard, directly to her left, and the last shop on the corner, was Valerius Galleries, then her own humble place of business. Next to Turn The Page, easily identified from the constant barking, was Doggy in the Window, a pet shop ran by a former pest exterminator turned animal rescuer. Finkley Jones only sold the puppies and kittens of rescued pet mamas and reputable owners, something Kristen admired in this time where backyard breeders were a dime a dozen. Gizmo had been bought for Seth there when he'd only been a ball of fuzz and a pink tongue...
Origins and its powdery fresh scents stood next to Finkley's shop, then last was the Abbey, the proprietresses were two young women who had once been dancers but had left the stages of New York to take over for their father when he retired from the barista business. Jamie and Lyssie Sorell were good girls, if a little snobbish at times without meaning to be.
On the other side of Madison and directly across from Valerius Galleries sat Bouquets, a florist's shop. The flora and fauna were always crisp and dewy with perfection, the prices reasonable, and never a delivery made late and those were perhaps the only reason that the shop was as frequented as it was. It certainly wasn't for the proprietor, Jossamee Bouquet, who some described as a "dirty old man". Kristen herself had been stared at one too many times when she'd come in for some fresh blooms for the shop's displays and Mareka claimed he'd once copped a feel of her backside.
Next in line was Aesop's Tables, a small but quaint restaurant and sidewalk café – when the weather allowed – and just as well known for its poetry readings as it was for its Middle-Eastern and Asian-inspired menu. The owner, Orif Rin, was a small, white-haired man with startling green eyes and a quick grin but in truth, little humor. He was often rather detached in conversation, his eyes always drifting out to the street beyond when Kristen had a chat with him over ordering take-out for her and Mareka. He said little though one variable was constant: he always mentioned his son, a former Army Ranger who had disappeared in North Korea and never came home again. There was a picture of him behind the counter, a handsome young man in uniform, dark skinned, smooth hair on his brow, and the same jade green eyes as his father. Orif had held his son in great love and it never failed to raise a flare of sympathy for Kristen to see how he still held the belief that one day his boy would come home again.
Kristen's eyes drifted over to the next shop and she grimaced as a tall, red-headed woman appeared, spitting out rapid-fire Italian and gesturing wildly to the sidewalk and stoop beyond the doorway. Behind Corinna Monticello rushed Piemo Monticello, her harassed and rather small husband, broom in hand, who leaped to sweeping the stoop as quickly as he could, arms flying. His wife stood over him, watching his every move, hands on her trim hips, raining abuse down on his head...or it could have been just random conversation – Kristen certainly didn't know Italian – but in that tone, she highly doubted it. But the proprietors of Monticello Diamonds weren't the happiest of people.
Located directly next to the Monticello's shop was Crackers Comedy Club. Well-known for hosting the best comics state and nation-wide, the brick front building, complete with a red, neon sign in the shape of Charlie Chaplin's face, housed a full bar and small restaurant. The owners, Richie Ferrar and Gill Anderson and their wives ran the popular entertainment club and had since the early eighties. It had even been the sight of a few touring comedic musicals, most recently Menopause: The Musical. Kristen had taken her mother and Mareka hers...all four women had came home stumbling drunk and Marius had maintained that it had been a very good thing he and Seth had a "man's" night out that night.
Next to the comedy club sat what had once been a Rexall's Drug Emporium, but now simply sat abandoned, a For Lease sign in one window and the iron grate rusted...and most likely forever locked. It was here where the street musician came to play upon his violin every morning until the sun began to set.
It was here where he no longer was...
Seated upon the stoop, Kristen frowned at that empty corner where he'd stood for so long and wished she'd handled things differently the day before. Where would he go now, she wondered? Madison Boulevard was located in the arts district of the city, one of the few places where the shop keeps and police would tolerate what were essentially pan-handlers. The term bristled her own fur immensely. When had playing in public, for free, simply for a few coins and others' enjoyment become such a crime?
What if she had drove him off? Perhaps...perhaps she was just attaching far too much importance to herself. It was damned conceited to think that something she had done had impacted a man's life so much. But...what if it had? Would he find another place to play? If he didn't, would he starve, lose his home? Would he wind up arrested for vagrancy and panhandling?
I'll never see him again.
The thought seemed to come out of nowhere and the sense of loss was so keen that she shook her head and quickly stood to her feet. She was letting this get to her far too much, she decided. A complete stranger's absence shouldn't bother her so badly!
Sighing quietly, she shook out the velvet skirts of the costume and moved back inside the shop. From the upstairs she heard Seth and Mareka having it out over who got the last bag of candy corn.
Now, here was something normal.
