Chapter 10: Cant Take My Eyes Off


"How big are they, as tall as trees?"

Words, a question. I felt the sun burning a hole in the back of my neck where I turned away from the balcony and the day and the voice.

"Taller than trees…wow! That's tall. Can you see the river from your room?"

My brow twisted and my legs stretched as I yawned myself into a drunken point blank of alertness. I turned over in the bed, searching out the mold I could hear. There were two legs, one perched upon the other, in that strange way she has of standing like a flamingo, at the sparkling edge of the distant balcony. I smile into the pillow, half watching and fully listening.

"I know, sweetie. The boats are fun to ride on, make sure Grandpa takes you."

She shifted legs and I adjusted to the brightness.

"How's Ollie?"

I scratched my face and sat up finally, covered less than modestly.

"Aw, well tell him that it's just a short vacation and he'll be home in his bed before he knows it."

I heard the double meaning and smiled. Ollie wasn't afraid of a bit of solo travelling, my little girl was.

"I love you, Bug."

I could hear the timid response that Madison would give in the back of my mind. Our coy child. And then, there was the spawn.

"Let me talk to your brother, honey."

Maxwell. Pirate, outlaw and bank robber. He never played the good guys, ever. And that's really what I loved most about him.

"Max!"

As I was saying…

Her voice gave it away early. "Why would you do that!? Don't give your grandparents trouble."

I laughed and started to dress as I heard the dwindling conversation that I could only half understand. I saw Roxanne move from side to side on the balcony a few times, but her face never revealed itself past her hair blowing in the breeze. It wasn't until I managed to find my glasses lost in the piles of clothes on the floor, that I heard the end of the phone call, the teary goodbye with a sniffle, and eventually, felt two arms leaning on me from my hunched position.

"Morning."

I pushed on my glasses, too lazy to worry about contacts, and stood straight to meet her.

"Morning," I kissed her nose and she grinned wide. "You smell good."

She looked at me kind of funny and moved the hair from my eyes.

"I smell like Italian food and sex."

"Like I said," I teased, leaning down closer to her face, "You smell good."

"Oh, well in that case…grazi."

I smiled and kissed the corner of her mouth, then her chin, and finally her nose again before I grabbed her hand and led her out of the bedroom, down the long hallway, and the stairs.

"So your son has decided that carrying around and firing his toy guns in the middle of Chicago is a good idea."

With a laugh, I pull her along still, trying to picture it.

"I know this has to be your doing."

She stared at me with a fierce grin as we walked toward the kitchen and stopped at the archway.

"Okay, I read him a couple of little stories about John Dillinger. So what? He's a boy."

Roxanne just shook her head at me, trying her damndest not to laugh. I know she wanted to.

"Do you know what he told his grandmother when he tried to gun down and kick a police officer on the street?" My brow turned up curiously, forcing myself to imagine it, my son, three foot two, taking down an inner city cop in Chicago.

"What?"

"He said that he was out to get revenge. He said he was public enemy number two."

At that was it, what made the both of us laugh out together. For a five year old, Max had a way of saying things, whether he understood half of them or not, that turned heads and made even the best of saints become sinners. My kid, yeah, that sounds about right.

Finally, the laughter stopped and I asked, "Hungry?"

"Yeah," she replied, stumbling between me and the arch, blocking it. "But let's go out. Let's find a real Italian café or something. What do you say?"

"I think that's a gr--"

I was stopped from letting her know how brilliant an idea it was, by the ring of my cell phone on the kitchen counter. I moved past her to grab it and saw that it read, Jack.

"Who is it?"

The phone rang once more and I glanced back at her, "It's God."

She laughed and I answered it, for my publisher, friend, and the man who paid our bills.

"Hello."

"Hey Mort, didn't wake you guys did I?"

I watched as Roxanne slid through the kitchen, beginning to dig through cabinets for breakfast. I think she assumed that I would be a while and that any plans for a genuine Italian café meal, were doused.

"No, no. We were just debating going out for the day actually."

"Oh good, you can ship those next chapters to me."

I walked across to meet her before she could open the fridge door and I slammed it closed with a smile, shaking my head 'no' at her.

"Sure, man. I'll send them before noon while we're out this morning."

She stopped and leaned on the appliance under my gaze and body, just eyeing my conversation.

"That's great. The board's excited to read it."

"Good to hear. I do aim to please…"

The word barely escaped my lips when I felt Roxanne tug me toward her, the delicacy of her fingers suddenly lost somewhere inside of my jeans. And of course, all she could do was laugh at my crossed brow.

"How's the view from up there, buddy? That photo you sent was wild."

She squeezed my hardened flesh, pinching it in places and softening her touch in others as her mouth nibbled on my chin and jaw. I could hardly keep the phone to my ear or register the question being asked of me to answer. The pain, the pressure and smothering bliss of that one, single hand, undid me.

"Mort?"

"Huh? Oh…the view…" I looked square and deep into her eyes as she rubbed the flesh harder within the restricting denim, "It's uh…beautiful…" I sighed, holding her green eyes the same way she held my secluded, harrowing member in her tiny hand. Locked.

"Good, good. And how's little Miss Roxy Love doing? Did you tell her how much I loved that Buddy Holly editorial she 'donated' to the Stone this month?"

She could hear all of it while I could only maintain one syllable at a time, trying too desperately to control the sound of my grunting and gasping. Her thumb rubbed the salted, burning head of my cock as the rest of her fingers clenched tightly around it, pulling and pumping me ever closer to her and the refrigerator.

"I told her…she said you're still just trying to compliment your way into her pants."

Roxanne laughed, Jack laughed, and I was in agony, biting my lip to focus on ending the phone call.

"If I thought I could trust you not to turn into one of your characters and kill me, man, I just might try harder…"

I forced a chuckle, contained a cry for help and let that one word, harder, service my need to let go completely. I felt a warm rush of energy and wetness run down inside of my jeans a moment later, then fell against her, the appliance, and breathed heavily as she kissed me lightly.

"Anyway, I'll let you go ahead back to the trip. Thanks for sending that stuff bud, I appreciate it."

"No problem," I sighed.

"Keep me posted on the rest."

"I will."

Roxanne giggled against my lips, unapologetic for the state she'd put me in.

"Have fun and talk to you later."

"Thanks Jack. Later."

I hung up, fast. I threw the phone to the counter and pushed all of my weight against her again, pinning her.

"You're too easy," she laughed, "And besides, you were just asking for morning assistance."

I shook my head, "Man oh man, I was warned about Rolling Stone's female journalists once…"

"Oh yeah?"

I nodded. "Cheap con artists, feisty, sneaky, dirty whores, he said. Don't trust them and whatever you do…don't let them get you naked and full of whiskey ale. Your good story will be theirs by sunrise."

"I guess you didn't listen very well."

I nipped at her bottom lip and kissed her hard, before breaking to respond.

"Yeah well, my source was a drunken bastard in a bar. So I ignored him."

She twisted her brow up at me as I moved away to zip up and button my jeans and headed for the front door, not saying another word but smiling to myself the whole way as she followed on my heels.

Finally, while she struggled to pull on her shoes, she asked, "Which drunken bastard in a bar was this?"

I unlocked the door, tilted my head back with a wild grin and pulled it open.

"I think he said his name was Thompson."

From the corner of my eye I saw her jaw drop, heard a gasp and ran out the door before she could catch me laughing at her shocked growl.

"What?! Morton Rainey…"


To our misfortune, there was nowhere to ship or bind together the pages of Mort's edited chapters in Positano; although I suspected as much. One of the local fishermen on a back road through town told us that the drive to Naples was only a half hour and that we could find everything we needed there. This made me happy, mostly because I had hoped to take a trip to Naples while we were here. I hadn't been there since I was in college, for a two week trip with my art history class. A part of my life that had in many ways, gotten lost along the way to becoming a writer, a journalist, a mother and wife.

So we drove and Mort finally gave in and told me the entire story, start to end and every minute detail in between, of his adventures with Dr. Thompson in a Brooklyn bar. When I wasn't laughing, I was debating him on it. And when I wasn't debating him or laughing or talking, I was taking in the view from the passenger's side window. There were vineyards and fields of anther, lilac, and sunflowers as far as the eye could see, on either side. It was breathtaking, literally in my case.

"I'm glad you picked Italy. I had a feeling you might."

I turned to him, resting my head on the seatback and smiling.

"I wish it were under better circumstances though."

He frowned and I moved my palm to rest on his cheek as he drove into the outskirts of the city.

"We're safe. That's a good enough circumstance."

"Yeah, you're right," he took my hand in his and held it tightly the rest of the way into Naples.

After much difficulty, we found a clear parking spot on a narrow street in the darkest part of town, the part that was supposed to be harboring this binding and shipping store. We got out and walked for what felt like forever, hand in hand like the other obvious lovers in the city, and eventually found the tiny, derelict looking shop on a corner twelve blocks from the car.

"Sure that's it?"

Mort eyed the place with a thoughtful brow and then turned to me with a nod before he started pulling me toward the door. I hesitated though, not feeling up to standing around while he printed out and bound 100 pages of text.

"What's wrong? Not going in?"

"Actually, I think I might just keep walking around here. I saw a gallery back down the street I wanted to stop in."

He pouted a little, "You sure?"

I nodded with a smile and leaned in to kiss him quick but lovingly.

"Be careful."

"I will. Just call me when you're finished, I'll come back."

"Alright."

He kissed me once more on the forehead before turning for the store again. I started down the sidewalk, but could feel his eyes on me the entire time, two nervous wrecks burning me. I stopped halfway down the street and spun back with a grin and hands on my hips. Mort looked after me nervously for one more second, but agreed with a nod and wink to let me go and then he moved inside the shop door and out of sight.

I shook my head with a quiet snigger and began walking again, "Worry Mort."

The tapered street was filled from side to side with stands of flowers, fresh fruit, handmade cloths and jewelry of all kinds, and even a few different penny musicians. I dropped euro in each of their cases, a firm supporter of all things music from my dedicated years at RS, and continued on until I made it to the end of the road again, where the tiny gallery sat uninhabited and without guest. I thought maybe it was closed, until I saw a shadow moving around inside and went in.

It was everything that a subtle, street corner art gallery in Naples, Italy ought to be. Wood floors, scratched a bit but worn only to a fine age. Blank, stark walls of stucco, covered in rows of large canvases, and scattered studio lights overhead. It was cute, artsy, and very much the kind of thing I needed.

I began to slowly walk around the circular shape of the building, and eye each piece carefully. They were beautiful, too beautiful for words really. They captured life, wholesome, untainted life in this place. There were paintings of little girls on bikes, one of a young boy fishing on the Naples coast, and others of nude models in dark windows of apartments and bars.

Incredible, I thought to myself, covering my mouth with one gasp after the next. So incredible.

Very little could have torn me away from my steady movement down the first wall of art, very little, except a piece that even from the corner of my eye, drowned me in elegance and grace. I shot a glance back to the second wall, at the end, and almost half hidden behind a sheet falling from the ceiling where construction was taking place.

My brow twisted and my mouth grew dry with anticipation as I moved closer and lifted the cloth from my view to see the canvas in full.

"Oh my gosh…" I murmured under my breath, jaw gaping and hands shaking with thrill.

The painting, almost as perfectly drawn as a camera would enhance a photograph, was a full blend of light and dark strokes, heavy and delicate, formed and unformed lines. The brush had created an image, which at first glance was a flower, at second was a coastline and the sun high above, and at a third, unwavering focus on the depth of the image, became something else entirely, something I couldn't really make out. It hurt so badly, to want to know and to not have an eye for it, at least from this angle.

I was usually good at recognizing art, especially difficult art. This angered me as I struggled on.

My concentration though, was again broken, this time by a soft and masculine voice.

"Ciao."

I turned my face up and over to see the rich, coffee eyes of a man, a much too handsome man.

"Hello."

He smiled from the corner of his mouth, in a way like Mort, but different.

"Drawn t' this one are ye?

I realized suddenly that he wasn't Italian. His accent was different, rawer. Irish.

"It's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it."

"Really?" He acted surprised and leaned on the construction ladder that was nearby, eyeing me, then the painting, and then me again. "This one doesn't get attention very often. Good t' see it's made a friend."

I giggled shortly and re-focused back on the painting.

"You should buy it. Ye seem like an avid collector."

"Me? No…"

I slowly, timidly looked at him again.

"Only a longtime admirer of fine brush strokes."

His twisted smirk made my chest well up for some reason and I tried to ignore it.

"Besides," I choked out, "I wouldn't have the heart to take it away from its home."

The man looked at me kind of funny but smiled all the same.

"It fits in right here best, next to the others. I would feel too guilty moving it."

"Oh well, I'm sure t'would be just fine in th' company o' such a beautiful woman as yerself."

I gulped nervously and forced a grin before attempting to concentrate on the painting again and find the underlying message of it, the one I felt was there and I was still missing. I must have looked awfully intent on the task too, because a second later I felt a warm hand on my arm, leading me backwards carefully.

"Your lookin' too close there, lassie. The answer's right ere'…"

He planted me in a certain spot; one that I noticed was marked with scratches on the wood where he or other admirers must have stood at one too many points. This made me happy for some reason, even as this strange but beautiful man held onto my shoulders, brooding over me from behind.

A second later I felt his delicate hands, obviously artist's hands, tilt my head to the right a little.

"Just ere', like that. There ye go."

Then he carefully pulled back on my shoulders to make me lean ever so slightly.

"Don' worry, I got ye."

For whatever reason, I trusted him where he held me up from falling, especially when he finally whispered in my ear, "Now look at it. Tell me wot' ye see."

I did as I was asked, trying not to notice the rigid, musky scent of tobacco and Chianti on the man holding me. I tried to ignore the fact that he was gentle but strong, that his breath was warm on my neck and ear, and that his smile and eyes were haunting me already, and I couldn't even see them.

But I did re-examine the painting, and to tell the honest truth, I was in complete shock at what I discovered from this odd, stranger induced position in the gallery. There, five feet beyond and hanging at what appeared an angle from my head tilt, was the most magnificent piece of art I'd ever seen, again. Only this time, on its side and rounded out in a much different manner, it took on an entirely truer form.

"It's a woman…" I whispered with a childlike excitement.

"Tis'. Anything else?"

I eyed it more carefully, watching the movement of the brush trades on the papered canvas, following along the curvature of the woman, only to come to one lovely conclusion that nearly made me tear up.

"She's pregnant, isn't she?"

I could almost hear the smile of the man above me as he helped me to stand up straight on my own again.

"Yer right talented at that, ye know."

Catching his wide brown eyes again, I breathed out a giggle. "Thank you."

"No one's e'er come in ere' an seen that. They always miss th' child's weight in th' woman for some reason." He glanced over my shoulder at the painting again himself, a curious distortion in his brow, and then he found my eyes again, vividly. "How'd ye see it so well?"

"I'm not sure. I guess I just opened my eyes to it."

"Hm." He scratched the rough hairs on his chin and walked around me to examine it a little more, dumbfounded by my ability to read art. I wasn't sure if it was an uncommon thing on his corner or not, but it worried me that I was out of my league here. Thankfully, when he turned back to me, he was only smiling.

"I think ye should take it."

"I'm sorry," my mouth gaped, "What?"

"The painting. Seems t' have finally taken t' someone's eye. I've waited a long time fer it too. Years."

"I'm really not looking to buy art, I was just--"

He cut me off instantly, "It's not fer sale anymore. It's a gift, don't ye see."

I was shocked, to say the least. My hands trembled under his dark and mysterious gaze, pulling me in where I didn't think I wanted to go. Be careful, I heard Mort saying over and over in my head.

"I appreciate that, really I do, but I have no way of getting it home. I'm only here for on a short trip…"

I attempted to bargain with his kindness, but he continued to insist.

"I'd be more than glad t' ship it to ye, in America I presume?"

I nodded because he was right not because I wanted to take his painting free of charge.

"I really couldn't accept something you've worked so hard on. It deserves a high price."

He just looked down at me richly, luring me to accept.

"Ye don't understand, yer a price enough for me. My art as' to suit a person fairly before I'll let it leave ere'. An' you…" he gestured toward me with a step closer, "…you've been claimed by this one. I know it."

Part of me wanted to walk out, go back to the shop and find Mort. And another part of me wanted to stand there and beg the man to reconsider his choice to give away his talent for free. And still another part of me, wanted to accept the gesture, the reward for having merely stumbled into his gallery for a peek. All I could do though, was let myself sink into his eyes, like they were the rich waters of Ireland or something. I hated myself for it, but it was impossible to turn away.

At least I thought so, until I heard the ring of my cell phone come between us. The man laughed a little when I jumped to attention and I answered it when I saw it read MORT.

"Mort."

"Hey honey. I'm just finishing up, you still busy gawking at art?"

I shuddered at the mention and looked up to see the smiling Irish painter, taking down the large canvas.

"Yeah. I'm really into the work down here. You wouldn't mind going ahead to the post office while I check out the last few pieces, would you?"

Good lie…liar.

The tall man, with his chestnut hair pulled back in a short braid, moved to cover the painting in question with bubble wrap and I just rolled my eyes at this, as I heard Mort's response.

"No, baby, that's fine. Take your time. You want to meet me at that small café we saw near the post office when you're done?"

"Sure, that's sounds good. I won't be long."

"Alright. Be safe, there's weird people around here."

"You're weird," I teased him as the painter caught my eyes from across his register counter.

"I am weird. It turns you on though, doesn't it?"

The man watched me, smiling now and again, and I finally divulged and responded into the phone.

"It does. Remember that for when you see me again."

Mort laughed, agreed and we hung up consecutively a moment later. I walked to the man at the counter across the shop, slowly easing my phone in my purse again.

"I'm sorry for that, it was my husband checking up on me."

"Ah, not an' art guy eh?"

"Sometimes he is." I smiled peaceably and took out my check book. "How much do I owe you for the painting?"

He shook his head at me fiercely, hands raised against it.

"No, no I told ye, it's a gift. An honest gift, from a dishonest gypsy painter."

At this I laughed quietly and put my check book back, not wanting to one bit.

"I feel odd taking it from you, so suddenly. You don't even know me."

"I know ye were drawn t' this work like a fly t' electric light. I saw it th' moment ye walked in."

His eyes lit up when mine did at this statement, I knew he was right about that too.

"Can't I do anything to compensate you for it?"

A simple smirk spread across his face as he reached his hand out for mine. I placed it in his delicately, taken aback by how soft, how warm his was.

"Can I know yer name?"

"Roxanne," I answered with an accepting grin.

"Roxanne, like th' song?"

I had to giggle, it reminded me too much of the first time Mort and I had met, or anyone else in my life for that matter. But this was different, the man's Celtic accent, which was gingered with all of the places he seemed to have travelled to, made it all the more fascinating a question. No matter that I'd had to answer to it a million times before and no matter that I found it odd for him to know The Police.

"Not like the song. Thankfully."

He shook my hand further, lightly, very sensually, and took consideration of the answer with a brief chuckle.

"Well then, Miss Roxanne, not like the song," I laughed a little more with a shy tilt of my head, "I'm Roux, so ye know wot' name t' expect when this…" he gestured down at the large wrapped canvas, proudly, "…shows up on yer front step."

"Roux. That's a very nice name."

"Thanks."

A single moment passed where nothing was said or thought or deliberated. He looked at me and I looked at him and some unwarranted, untouchable connection was made, from one artist, one thinker to another. It was powerful, but from what I could tell, not harmful at all. It was just, oddly wonderful.

And then it was over and he was pushing a pad of paper and pen toward me, asking for an address. I gave it to him, unable to say no anymore, and he very neatly folded the paper it was on and placed it into the front pocket of his beaten and paint covered shirt for genuine keeping.

"Well, I should probably get going before my husband thinks I've been stolen."

Roux laughed and nodded me on as he walked me to the doorway of his shop. I could feel his hand soft and easy on my lower back as I stepped down to the sidewalk again, gave him one last gesture of goodbye and then took off without a second look back. I'd already looked at him too much for one afternoon. I needed to get to Mort, I needed to see the one man who meant everything to me.

Even if he didn't particularly have an appreciation for good art.

This didn't matter, we needed to have our differences; it was what had made us strong in the first place. It was healthy for us to have time to ourselves, where we could explore things we liked separately, things that made us curious without the other one hovering close by in bore…

And yet, I spoke of this in my mind too soon. I turned the corner to where I remembered having seen the café in the car ride through town, and despite my excitement to get to him and enjoy a nice, airy lunch in the city of Naples with my husband I found something else, sitting in the seat that should have been saved for only me.