In honor of successfully wrapping up another chapter, here is Chapter 44!
"Don't make me look fat." Nettie Adlam insisted as she took her seat on the soft white couch at the back of the studio. She threw her toothpick-thin legs onto the cushions, her strawberry-blonde hair bunched up at her shoulders. She wore a very provocative black suit and four-inch matching pumps, giving the look of a professional hooker. Patrick shook his head. How did he get saddled with clients like this? She was barely legal and yet she walked around his studio as if she was somehow above him, her fingers brushing over equipment that, should she break it, would cost half his yearly paycheck to replace. It had taken three years to get his studio just as he wanted it. Almost instantly, he had done away with the white sheet he often found at Sears Portrait Studios and other such places, because he thought it incredibly tacky. He had spent four years learning about bending light and catching shadows. He didn't go halfway when it came to his work and it severely pissed him off when others in his field did just that. Oh well. Their loss was his gain. Quite literally since Miss Adlam had recently left her previous photographer and sought him out. His business was based on his reputation and he was never actively available to anyone. Sharon Stone could storm into his apartment demanding that he take her picture and he doubted he would blink an eye. Actually, first he would ask how she was referred to him, then he would say something she would find incredibly adorable and, after all of that…"Did you hear me?"
"I couldn't make you fat." Patrick replied in a professional tone, a voice in the back of his mind saying that the model in front of him couldn't weigh ninety pounds.
"I'm here because I was told you're the best." Miss Adlam went on.
"I am. You're in good hands." Patrick answered noncommittally. He was in photographer mode now--checking his camera, taking a few practice shots to be loaded onto his LCD monitor, cursing his decision to buy a tripod--so he didn't hear her go on and on about how different her life was, who she had been introduced to, or even which movie producer thought she would be perfect for the leading role in his next movie.
"I wasn't ready!" Miss Adlam complained, folding her arms across her unappealing A-cup chest. Her suit nearly swallowed her up and he desperately wanted to force-feed her something if only to prove to himself that she wouldn't pass out during this photo shoot.
"Those weren't the custom shots. It'll just be one more minute." Patrick said through gritted teeth. Why hadn't he majored in still-life photography? At least fruit was healthy. At least fruit didn't talk back to him.
"Some of us have lives." He heard her grumble.
"And some of us have deadlines. Do you want to reschedule this? I have something open around this time next year." Patrick figured he should at least offer it to her.
"Next year? I can't possibly put this off until then! These shots are supposed to go in next month's issue of Vogue!" She shrieked and Patrick narrowed his eyes at her.
"You might want to reconsider your tone." Patrick threatened softly.
"I have anger issues." She countered, flipping her hair from side to side.
She had some issues alright. "Get it under control." Patrick ordered.
"You can't talk to me that way!" She shrieked again and Patrick was about ready to sacrifice his pricey equipment for some peace and quiet.
"Get out of my studio." He nodded toward the door.
"What?" It was as if she had been so bored by the entire exchange that she had actually blocked it out. "Why?"
"Get the hell out of my studio!" Patrick roared, clicking off his camera and closing the distance in-between them. He brought his face down so that it was level with hers. "I can't work with you."
"But you're the best!" She pleaded. The desperation was obvious in her tone. Shunning her this way would mean public humiliation. He would be on the phone with Cruz as soon as she was gone, defaming her newfound popularity. She would be considered used goods and no one would hire her for anything else.
"Do I need to call your agent and tell him what a pain in the ass you're being?" It cracked him up that he had to talk to her as he suspected her father had done when she had lived at home to get his point across.
"N-no." She shook her head. "Let's get this over with."
"Let's get something straight. I am the professional. No one has even heard of you. This is my life's work, little girl. I do some of my best work here. You will sit down, shut up, and leave me to it. "
"You're kind of scary." She whispered.
"Sit down." He snapped, pointing toward the couch.
"Jacket on or off?" She wanted to know.
"On. I'd like to at least give the impression that you're not anorexic." Patrick explained.
"I gained five whole pounds this week."
"And that puts you at what? Ten?" Patrick needed to shut up and do what he was being paid to do, but something about her made him see red. Why couldn't she be even the slightest bit intelligent? A year from now she'd still be nobody no matter who she was forced to sleep with in that time. It was a pathetic way to live your life, but he wouldn't go so far as to say that he pitied her. It was sick the kind of effect she would most likely have on the insecure twelve year old girls in the world.
"I didn't say anything about your two-day beard, Mr. Professional." She sneered.
"It's called dedication…you know for those of us who don't have a ten o'clock bedtime." Patrick thumbed his 35mm back on and peeked through the lens.
"It's called sloppy. If you're at all interested, I can send my stylist up here--" She suggested.
"Miss Adlam, shut up. You're going to smear the picture if you keep talking."
"Is this better?" She squeezed through her tightly clasped lips.
"Silence. History is being made." Don't strangle her. She's a kid. Take the picture. Take it right the first time. Don't fuck it up. Don't fuck it up. "There. Now, get out."
Robin smacked herself in the neck with the forest-green clothes hanger, debating on the outfit in her hand. The mirror was full-length at least giving her a pretty good idea of how it would look on. She had already selected a pair of white sandaled heels, so really it was just locating an outfit that matched and looked respectable. She had decided early on to not battle with her hair until after she picked the outfit, because she already knew it was going to give her trouble.
"I liked the white one." Morgan announced from the doorway. He was clad in footie Oscar the Grouch pajamas and she noticed him rubbing the sleep from his walnut-brown eyes.
Robin smiled, having not realized he was watching her. "You don't think wearing white is asking for trouble?" Robin chewed on her bottom lip, staring down at the aforementioned ensemble. It wasn't foreign for her to ruin a white dress when red wine was offered at a party.
"I like the fluffy sleeves." Morgan assured her, referring to the tiny pieces of lace that barely covered the top of her shoulders. The dress itself was short and spaghetti-strapped, but the sleeves kept it looking sexy instead of slutty. She did not want to show up at Bobbie's looking sexy, especially since she knew Patrick would be attending. They hadn't talked in almost a week, but she bet that would all change if he managed to get her away from his family long enough to get his point across once more.
"I like it too." Robin nodded, returning the Froot Loop array of colorful dresses to their hangers and placing them in the closet. "Curly or straight?" She wasn't sure why his opinion mattered to her, maybe because he was honest and far too young to understand the importance of a little white lie.
"Curly." Morgan giggled, jumping onto the mattress and resting in-between the two pillows, making himself comfortable.
Guiding her silver earrings into the available holes at the lower tip of her ears, she studied herself in the mirror. "Are your eyes closed?" Morgan put his hands over his eyes. Stripping out of her purple and gray flannel pajamas, Robin latched her bra into place and slid the dress over her head, the silk fanning over her skin. "Okay, you said curly?" She said, watching the small boy drop his hands in his laps only to bring them together and clap in delight.
"Yeah. Little twisty curls." Morgan clarified, opening the nightstand drawer and extracting her curling iron.
"You've been spending far too much time with Aunt Courtney." Robin claimed, reaching across the mattress to tickle Morgan's belly. He rolled onto his side, evading her touch, his giggles bouncing off the walls. "Miss Elizabeth told me that you were with me everyday at the hospital." Morgan's lips pursed together and he could no longer meet her eyes. "I could hear you talking to me." She informed him and his head lifted, his eyes glowing.
"I missed you lots." Morgan wasn't ashamed to admit, crawling over to Robin and giving her a hug.
"I missed you too." Robin whispered, turning to kiss his right cheek.
"Aunt Courtney didn't understand about the crayons." Morgan whispered.
"What about them?" Robin whispered back, biting back a smile.
"That there needs to be sixty-four. One of them broke and now I can't finish my pages." Morgan explained, looking physically pained by the ordeal.
"What color was it?" Robin inquired.
"Wisteria." Morgan replied, gulping down a tear or two.
"I might have it." Robin walked over to her closet, stood on tiptoe, and retrieved a small plastic box with a white lid. It was shoe-box size and dusty with age. She flipped the lid up and it made a cracking noise, proving that the plastic had cracked. Morgan put both of his hands over his mouth, but Robin waved her hand at his concern. She took her spare box of crayons and ran her fingers over each one, pulling out a couple that might have been the color Morgan was desperate for. "Here you go." She handed the violet crayon over and closed the paper box before setting it in the crumbling plastic container.
"But don't you need it?" Morgan wanted to know when he urged her to go to his own room and change into party clothes.
"Maybe I can borrow yours sometimes?" Robin asked.
"Sure, Robin." Morgan agreed, slipping out of the room.
"And that's with the personal massage?" Laura asked the clerk, moving her purse around so she could pluck out her credit card.
"Yes ma'am." The tall and skinny pimple-faced redhead clarified, looking bored with his choice of professions.
"What do you think? We're talking manicures, pedicures, massages, facials..." Laura prattled on.
"It sounds heavenly Laura, but I can't let you do all this." Bobbie laughed, shaking her hair back and forth. "You're throwing the party later tonight. At least let me pay for my part." She rummaged in her purse, determined to find her credit card.
"Nonsense." Laura lightly slapped her sister-in-law's hand and threw her Visa on the table. The clerk jumped a foot in the air. "I do apologize."
"No problem, ma'am." He assured her, swiping her card and handing it back in two seconds flat. "If you'll just take your seats, two of our employees will come and get you in five minutes." He explained, nodding toward the cream-colored couches facing the back window.
Bobbie sank down into the plush cushions and waited for Laura to do the same. Satisfied with her comfort level, she turned towards her sister-in-law. "So how crazy is Luke driving you with that motorcycle?"
"Let's just say agreeing to let him keep it funded our trip today." Laura smirked, snapping her brown leather purse shut.
Bobbie giggled. Her brother had been fighting a one man war against being called old ever since Cameron was born. It was just fine for his younger sister to be a grandmother, but he was far too young to be a grandfather. She had never tried to follow her brother's logic, and she wasn't about to start now.
"Do you think he'll actually get Cameron on it?" she mused aloud.
"God, I hope not. I've got Lulu convinced that that kid needs to be on a horse and I think she's influencing Lucky's decision to return to the stables." Laura replied confidently.
"Good. If you need any extra influence, I'm sure I can convince Lucas and Dillon Lance would love horseback riding lessons."
"How is Lance? I feel like I haven't seen him in ages."
"I'm sure we'll be talking him out of jumping off the roof tonight."
"You're not serious."
"As a heart attack. I suspect when they worked the bakery last week, they weren't watching how many cookies he was sneaking."
"I was going over the list for the party and I noticed that you didn't add anyone to it." Laura veered cautiously.
"Did you expect me to?" Bobbie had noticed Lucky and Patrick had invited Cruz like she had suspected they were going to. It was going to be a long night of being able to see him but not be with him. They had barely had any time together since Robin's accident and she found herself missing him desperately.
"Well, you haven't been answering your phone lately, so I just assumed you were busy with other things...other people perhaps." Laura reached into her purse for her lip gloss.
"I've been helping Lucas at the bakery while Robin is recovering. And then that wedding is driving me crazy!"
"I guess that must be it. Well, no worries, today you're going to leave your stress on the massage table." She leaned in close and whispered, "I don't suppose you'll let me in on the identity of the secret bride?"
"Only if I wanted to lose the commission." This wedding was going to be the death of her if the bride didn't start sticking to a decision she made. At this exact second they were working on theme wedding number 900.
"Ladies." A slim Latino woman called to them, her dark hair pinned up, curls falling in front of her matching dark eyes. "My name is Francesca. Which of you would be Barbara?"
"That would be me. Please call me Bobbie."
"Very well. I hear you're celebrating a birthday today." She smiled at Bobbie's loss of color. "Not to worry. We don't have any balloons or funny hats hidden in the back. Will you come with me please?" Francesca glanced over at Laura.
"Laura, Arturo will be out to meet you very soon. He's finishing up with another client. It should only be a moment."
"Are you going to be okay by yourself?" Bobbie asked Laura.
"Of course. They have enough Vogue here to keep me entertained. Please go enjoy your birthday."
Francesca led Bobbie to the first door to the left at the top of the stairs, reaching past her and pushing the clear doors open. She handed Bobbie a white terrycloth robe. "This is your changing room. As you can see, the door locks from the inside. There are bathrooms and a shower behind the lockers. I'll come and get you in a few minutes. What can I get you to drink? Wine? Cola? Something stronger?" She winked at the last suggestion.
"Do you have champagne?" Bobbie wondered.
"Of course. It's your decision whether or not you want to wear panties during your massage. You can pick any of these lockers and keep your clothing in here. Choose any four-digit code and then simply close it."
"Thank you." Bobbie watched the friendly woman exit the locker room and then sank onto the wooden bench provided.
She was far too old to be lying naked on a table with an unfamiliar person pinching and pulling at her wrinkles. She figured she had aged very well, but the idea of letting a stranger touch her sent a chill down her spine. Still, this was Luke and Laura's birthday present to her and she knew it hadn't been a cheap expense. Plus, Laura swore by massages being a gift from God. "Get it together." She whispered to the empty room, moving to the bathroom and locking herself inside a stall. She undressed hastily, not wanting Francesca to find that she hadn't done what she was told. Bobbie wondered how old the woman was. Her skin was flawless and she had some curves, but nothing about her screamed unattractive. Maybe Bobbie should have agreed to have her hair done for the party.
No, she didn't want to put out her brother and sister-in-law anymore than she already had.
"Bobbie?" Francesca called a split second later. Bobbie stumbled out of the maroon stall, hurrying to her locker and using her birthday as the secret code. Stuffing her clothing inside, she tied the robe tightly around her and opened the door. "Are you ready?"
"Yes. Yes I am." Bobbie declared with a warm smile.
The noon day sun beat down on them as they struggled with the oversized table. Patrick accidentally stepped into a hole, causing him to almost drop his end. Lucky struggled to maintain his balance and keep the heavy top from crashing down on his foot.
"Watch it!" Lucky yelped as he adjusted the weight in his hands.
"Only your dad would dig a hole in the middle of the yard." Patrick grumbled.
"Don't ruin the future home of my motorcycle garage!" Luke shouted from the top of the yard. "It took me forever to find the perfect spot!"
"Jesus. You're going to get somebody killed you kook!" Patrick called across the lawn.
"He'll get himself killed if mom hears about a motorcycle garage."
"How much more of this is there to do?" Patrick asked his cousin.
Lucky shrugged his shoulders as they finally placed the table down in the spot Laura had marked on the map. "Dad, what's left on the list?"
Luke consulted the list of instructions Laura had left taped on the refrigerator this morning before she left for the spa with Bobbie. Somehow she had the notion that if she didn't' write it all down specifically her husband would take over the decorating with his own ideas. He snorted. As if that could be bad.
"You need to pitch something your mother calls a sun tent over the tables." He cautiously kicked a large box by his feet. "This could be what she's talking about."
"What exactly is your role in all of this Uncle Luke?"
"Supervisor my boy. Supervisor."
"Remind me to call that position next time." Patrick said to Lucky.
"Good luck on that one. I've been trying to call that my whole life."
"How did Lucas get out of this?" Patrick wondered, wiping his sweaty forehead with the tail of his gray t-shirt.
"My misguided nephew seems to think I'm a bad influence on Lance." Luke paused as he passed a soda can to Cameron. "You don't think that do you Sport?"
Cameron laughed and shook his head. "No Grampa."
Lucky managed to disengage his son's fingers from around the can of straight sugar. "Later pal. You can have that later." He fixed a stern look at his father. "Gee I wonder where he got that idea."
"You can't cut the kid off from sugar." Patrick argued.
"I can try to keep him from jumping off the roof."
"It was just that one time." Patrick pointed out.
"Once is enough." Lucky held up one end of the box Luke had indicated. "Come on, we need to get this done."
"Sure. It looks easy enough." Patrick shrugged, glancing at the picture splayed across the front of the box.
"Cameron, do you want to go do something fun?" Luke bent towards his grandson, his blue eyes twinkling.
"Yes!"
"Come on then!" Glancing to make sure his son was busy trying to set up the tent, Luke began to move towards the garage. "Let's go for a ride!"
"Freeze!" Lucky had seen his dad start to move out of the corner of his eye. "Where are you going?"
"That's between my grandson and me." Luke countered, hiding the helmet behind his back.
"Grampa take me for a ride Daddy!"
"I gotta teach you to lie kid." Luke grumbled.
Lucky cocked his eyebrow at his father. "A ride huh?"
A crash sounded behind the trio and they laughed at the sight of Patrick trapped beneath the plastic equipment. "Lucky!"
With a wave of his finger, he addressed his father. "You. Don't move. Just supervise. Cameron, you come with me to help Uncle Patrick."
"It's faulty!" Patrick declared hotly.
Cameron cheerfully ran towards his father and second cousin. Reaching Patrick, he patted his hand. "You stuck."
"You're very observant, Cam." Patrick answered dryly.
"He's a genius." Lucky responded, lifting one of the offending pieces up enough for Patrick to wiggle his way out from under it.
"Luke, make yourself useful and get us something to drink." Patrick ordered, gesturing toward the kitchen door.
"I'm supervising." Turning towards the kitchen door, he yelled. "Lulu! Bring us out some beers!"
"Get your own!" a female voice yelled down from the second floor window. "Or I tell mom you tried to get Cameron on the motorcycle again."
"If I go back in that house," Patrick said to Lucky through clenched teeth, "you're on your own with this tent.
"If I go back in that house, my dad takes off on his mid-life crisis machine with my son."
"Let's get this over with."