A Thousand Words

Chapter 1

I Must Be Insane

For the thousandth time I glanced at the slip of paper clutched in my mittened hand - as if I hadn't already memorized the address scrawled on it and could recite it in my sleep - and looked up at the numbers on the ancient brick buildings lining the street, trying to match one to the other.

It seemed as if I was the only person still alive in the city on this frigid, dark, depressing day as the clunking of my snow boots echoed down the street.

Was it only yesterday when the city looked so beautiful, covered with a layer of gleaming white snow, lit brilliantly by bright sunshine? How could today be so different, with the snow already so dirty, unceremoniously shoved from the streets and into the gutters, creating messy puddles of gray slush? Where had the sun gone; why was it hiding behind masses of dark, foreboding clouds?

All the rest of New York's inhabitants displayed enough common sense to stay indoors where they could keep from freezing to death. But no, not me!

I shivered despite the protection of my heavy winter coat as I kept on walking.

Then I stopped.

"What am I doing? I must be insane!" I said aloud to myself.

This was completely out of character for me. I was, after all, a highly educated woman, self sufficient, self reliant. I had friends, activities, a life.

So what the hell was I doing?

I turned around to go back home, chastising myself for being such a stupid fool to even think about doing something so brainless – not to mention potentially dangerous – but after walking just half a block I found that my traitorous feet had turned back around of their own accord and once again I was headed towards my original destination.

All of a sudden I was there, standing in front of his building, shaking either from the cold or from my nerves (or both), summoning up the courage to go in. I finally climbed the steps of the front stoop, opened the door and stepped inside the tiny vestibule. I found the buzzer marked 4-B and pressed it.

"Yes?"

Even through the tinny static of the intercom, I could tell it was the same voice, with the slightest tinge of a French accent, very proper and... well, sexy. My knees suddenly went weak.

"Um, hi. Uh, it's me, Christine, um, from the ad."

Great. Now he thinks you're a stuttering imbecile. Get a grip, woman!

"Oh, yes. Hello. Come on up. Fourth floor." The inner door buzzed open.

Climbing the stairs, I kept thinking, You've lost your mind. Go back home and forget all about this.

But up I went.

My footsteps echoed in the ancient, tile-walled stairwell as I climbed up to the top floor.

I reached the fourth floor, pausing for a moment to compose myself before I lifted my hand to knock on 4-B, but the door opened before I had the chance.

There he was. I think I gasped; I really can't remember. But before I could say anything, he broke the silence.

"Thank you for coming. I'm Erik."

Erik. The name seemed so very fitting for this man who, despite the fact that he had paint smears on his hands and on his clothes, was obviously a man of style and intelligence. It had to do with the way he stood, with the way he carried himself. His dark, collar-length hair was slicked straight back from his face, but one lock didn't seem to want to cooperate and kept swooping down into his eye. He kept combing it back with his hands - not a smart move on his part, considering the paint on his fingers.

Looking back on that first meeting, I find it strange that I hardly noticed the white half-mask that covered the right side of his face.

I was too busy staring into his eyes. They were the most unusual shade of gray-green I had ever seen, and they were beautiful.

He took a step back and with one fluid motion of his arm gestured for me to enter. As I stepped over the threshold into his studio, I opened my mouth to speak and promptly sneezed at him.

I was mortified! What had I done? I just wanted a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me whole, but to my surprise I found his arm around me as he led me into the room. He guided me to a tattered sofa piled with pillows and sat me down.

"Tea?"

"No thanks," I said through my snuffles.

"It might help with your cold."

"I'm fine," I said, but I wasn't very convincing as another sneeze exploded from somewhere deep inside me. I fished a tissue from my coat pocket and wiped my nose.

"It's really no trouble at all."

He was only trying to help. I finally nodded.

"All right. Thank you."

He disappeared around a corner, and I heard noises coming from what I surmised was the kitchen. While he was gone, I pulled off my mittens and slipped off my clunky snow boots, replacing them with the pair of black high-heeled pumps I had brought in my bag. He re-appeared a few minutes later, carrying a tray laden with two steaming mugs.

He pulled up a straight-backed chair close to the sofa and sat down facing me.

"Sugar?"

"Yes, thanks."

He added a spoonful of sugar to one of the cups and handed it to me. I took it gratefully, more for the warmth it offered to my cold hands than for the liquid it held inside. I took a sip and was surprised at how good it tasted.

"This is delicious," I murmured.

"It's imported," he said offhandedly. "I'm rather particular about what I drink."

I nodded vaguely, not really knowing what to say.

We sat in a rather uncomfortable silence as we drank our tea.

I glanced around the room, noting that it was exactly as I had imagined an artist's studio would be: large, uncovered windows that provided plenty of light; no furniture except for the shabby sofa that I sat on and a few other well-worn pieces that he probably used as props; and canvases propped up everywhere. Some of them were finished works and others were in various stages of completion. They were mostly intimate portraits with a smattering of landscapes and a still life or two thrown in for good measure. They were all exquisite, full of detail and painted in rich colors. To my untrained eye he was an exceptional artist. I wondered how successful he was.

As I finished the last of my tea, he took my mug and set it back on the tray. Then he turned his attention back to me.

"All right, let's see what we've got, then."