A Thousand Words
Chapter 10
Midnight Snack
"Oh my God," I whispered, "this is your apartment."
He didn't respond. I looked again at the photo I held in my hands.
"And you have a twin."
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Erik sat up, his eyes never leaving me.
"You're half right," he replied. "This is my home. But my brother and I aren't twins, we just look very much alike. Except, of course, for the..." he trailed off, absently gesturing to the masked side of his face.
"But, how... why..." Again, words failed me.
I just stood there staring at him, hopelessly confused. Erik rose from the bed and approached me, then he put his arms around me and guided me back to the bed.
"Come back to bed. It's cold."
When we were both in bed, with the covers pulled up around us, he snuggled up next to me.
"So... you don't live downtown?" I asked.
"At the studio? No. I just work there. Sometimes I sleep there if I'm too tired to come home."
"But you said you..."
"No, I never did. I never said I lived there."
"So why the charade?"
"Think about it: do you think anyone would take me seriously as an artist if they knew I had money, if they knew I lived here?" He gestured around the room for effect. "I would just be some rich man with a hobby, someone to be humoured."
My head was still reeling. This man, this starving artist who wasn't really a starving artist, had deceived me all this time. I wasn't even sure how I felt about it–did I feel betrayed, relieved, angry, happy, sad? I didn't know for sure. But his wealth did answer a lot of questions, including his taste for expensive wines and his tailored suits.
"This way," he continued, "I'm evaluated on my talent and not for how much money I have."
He still had a lot to answer for as far as I was concerned. But right then I had a more pressing need. I was beginning to think we should have joined Nathan and Suzette at that Italian restaurant. "Well, while you tell me the rest of the story, maybe you can get us something to eat? I'm starving."
"Hm. I'm not sure what's in the kitchen, but maybe I can find something for us. Come with me."
XXXXX
Downstairs, Erik guided me to the fireplace and gestured to the array of pillows and cushions strewn about on the floor. He had put on a maroon paisley silk robe, tied loosely at the waist, exposing a broad expanse of his chest. Looking at him made my mouth water.
"Wait here," he said. "I'll be right back." He pushed a button on the wall and roaring flames instantly appeared behind the fireplace screen. Ah, to live the life of the rich.
It struck me then just how different Erik seemed to me tonight. In the studio he was always quiet and introverted, but tonight he was much more relaxed and open, more self-assured. Maybe being in more familiar surroundings loosened him up a bit. Or maybe he felt more comfortable now that I knew the truth about him.
I didn't sit down right away but rather went over to the windows and marveled again at the spectacular view they offered. As I gazed out, the room behind me suddenly went dark. I turned around to see Erik, laden with a large tray, pressing the light switch with his elbow. The only light remaining in the room came from the fireplace.
"You can see it much better without the lights on," he said.
He set the tray down on the coffee table and then joined me at the windows. "It's so different from up here, the city," Erik said to me. "Away from the noise, the crowds, the traffic; it's a completely different place, is it not?"
"Yes, it is," I said. "I just can't get over this view. The only view I have from my apartment is if you lean dangerously far out the living room window and crane your neck to the left, you might catch a glimpse of New Jersey. And that's only on a good day."
He laughed as his arms snaked around me. "So when will I have the pleasure of seeing that?"
"We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?" I answered, raising an eyebrow.
"Come on, let's eat. I'm starving as well."
As we settled on the floor in front of the fire's warm glow, I scanned the offerings on the tray: a bakery box half-filled with pastries, a few slices of leftover pizza, a bowl of fruit salad, a carton of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and a can of Pringle's potato chips. And, to top it all off, a bottle of very old–and very expensive–wine.
"This is your idea of food?" I asked with a grin.
"Sure. What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing, if your four basic food groups are fat, salt, sugar and grease," I replied. "You really should eat better than this. How do you manage to keep your weight down eating this junk?"
"Oh, stop being a doctor," he teased as he poured the wine. "You said you were hungry." Erik unwrapped the pizza, handing me a slice and taking one for himself.
While we ate, Erik told me about himself for the first time: his family back in France, his childhood, the family's fortune, his foray into the business world working in partnership with his brother and his decision to leave the partnership to pursue his one real passion: art.
"How did he take it, your brother, when you left the business?"
He popped a Pringle's into his mouth and munched thoughtfully for a moment. "Oh, not well," he mused. "Not well at all. The entire family thought I was insane–they always had–but especially then, when I announced I was moving to New York to paint. You'd think I had completely disgraced the entire Bolieu family, the way they acted."
"So, that's your family name? Bolieu?"
He smiled and nodded.
"I think they all thought I'd be back within a fortnight, that I'd come to my senses, but I never did. Not even for my brother's wedding."
"That must have gone over well."
Erik raised an eyebrow while thinking back. "Oh, Jacques was fit to be tied."
"I'm sure he was."
"He's very used to having things go his way, you know. Which explains his current foul mood–I understand he's having some sort of marital problems right now."
I took a sip of wine and sat back, taking in all the information I had learned that evening.
"So, am I forgiven?" he asked me after a long pause.
"Forgiven? For what?"
"For not telling you."
I weighed my words carefully before I spoke.
"I can't blame you, not really. I understand why you don't run around telling everyone you meet that you're a millionaire, or a billionaire, or whatever it is you are; that you want to be judged on your talent. I understand all that. But the way you chose to tell me–well, you could have done that a little differently. But, Erik, you haven't done anything that needs forgiving."
He brought his hand to my face and caressed my cheek.
"But answer one question for me?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Why did you tell me you couldn't pay me for the sittings?"
He studied me for a long moment. "You had no expectations that way. Am I right?"
I cocked my head, not entirely sure what he meant.
"You had some sort of need of your own to fill by posing, didn't you? To prove something to yourself? You don't need the money. Tell me truthfully: would you have done it if I had paid you?"
I thought about that for a moment, then I shook my head. "No, I don't suppose I would have."
Erik picked up the carton of ice cream. He pulled off the top, grinning and looking very much like a little boy sneaking a forbidden snack. We both picked up spoons from the tray and dug into the smooth, rich ice cream, savoring the flavor. It was Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch.
I enjoyed a few spoonfuls of the ice cream and left the rest of it for Erik. I reached for the bowl of fruit salad. I took a bite of the sweet chunks of fruit, and with my usual grace I managed to dribble some of the juice onto my chin. This didn't go unnoticed by Erik; he grinned at me.
"Still haven't mastered the use of the spoon, have you?"
He leaned towards me and licked the syrup dripping from my chin.
"Mm, you taste good," he murmured into my ear. Still chilled from the ice cream, his lips caressed the curve of my chin, and I shuddered involuntarily from the shock of the cold. He merely grinned and brought his lips higher to meet mine. Such a sweet, tender kiss; he tasted of vanilla and toffee.
That tiny amount of physical contact was more than enough to start my heart racing again, but I couldn't resist the urge to have a little fun as well, so I dipped my spoon back into the ice cream carton. Then I smeared it on the unmasked side of his face.
Erik flinched. I immediately assaulted him, licking the sweetness from him. "You don't taste so bad yourself," I said.
The ice cream, already softened, began to melt from the warmth of Erik's skin and the heat from the fire. It started dripping down his face, forming small rivulets and falling in droplets onto his chest. I followed each trail, licking the sweetness, lowering my head to lap up the melted cream on his chest like a hungry kitten. He groaned.
He obviously enjoyed this game, for he laid back against the cushions and untied the sash of his robe, baring himself to me. Then he reached out to me, grabbing a handful of the sweater I wore–his sweater–and began tugging at it. I sat back, just out of his reach, and pulled it the rest of the way off. I tossed it aside.
Not quite ready to give up this flavorful game, I peeked into the bakery box to see what was inside and grinned slyly at him as I took out a cannoli. I dipped my fingers into the soft, gooey filling and spread a thin layer on the smooth skin of his chest and abdomen. He stifled a laugh at the coldness of the creamy pastry filling as I bent over him and began to lick him clean. I hadn't eaten one of those things in years; I had forgotten how delicious they were. Or, maybe it was Erik that tasted so good...
While I consumed the last of the pastry filling, Erik prepared his assault on me: he had a huge creampuff in his hand. He pushed me off of him, onto my back, and with a big grin on his face and unmistakable mischief in his eyes he was preparing to smear the entire thing all over me.
Then I heard the unmistakable chirping of my cell phone.
I groaned.
Erik lifted his head. "What is that?" he asked.
"My phone." I started to get up to answer it.
"Don't."
"I have to. It's probably the hospital." I fished the phone out of my coat pocket.
"Are you on call?"
"No, but they would still call in an emergency." I flipped the phone open and answered without checking the number on the screen. "Hello?" I said into the phone.
"Chris? Where are you? I've been calling your apartment for hours!"
It was Randy. I wanted to wring his neck.
"Why are you calling me? It's..." I looked at the screen on my phone for the time. "...one-thirty in the friggin' morning!"
"I was worried about you, sweetheart."
"I'm just fine!" I flipped the phone shut and dropped it on my coat.
I wished I could have slammed the phone down into Randy's ear. Sometimes I miss old-fashioned telephones.
I turned back to Erik, hoping to pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted, when my blasted phone rang again. Erik and I exchanged an exasperated look.
This time I glanced at the caller ID before I answered.
"Damn, it is the hospital this time," I said to Erik, crestfallen.
I flipped the phone open again. "Hello?"
"Christine, this is Henry. I am sorry for calling you at this hour, but we're severely understaffed here. Three doctors called in sick with the flu, and we are swamped. We desperately need you to come in."
I glanced at Erik. I had a feeling he knew what the call was about from the expression on my face.
"Dr. Denton?" The voice on the other end of the line was anxious.
I mouthed "I'm sorry" to Erik.
He nodded to me in understanding.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," I said to Henry over the phone.
"Oh, thank you so much. We'll be waiting."
I flipped the phone shut again.
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Dressed in record time, I stood at the front entrance. Erik had dressed in his trousers and sweater while I put myself back together.
Erik helped me into my coat. He put his arms around me and pulled me close for a good-bye kiss.
"When can I see you again?" he asked.
"I'm off on Wednesday," I offered. "Maybe we can do something during the day."
"I think that sounds perfect."
We kissed again.
"May I ask one more question?" I inquired.
"Absolument. What is it?"
"The painting. Why did you hang it in your bedroom?"
He laughed softly; it wasn't quite the response I expected from him. I could feel the vibration of his laugh in his chest.
"Do you really have to ask that?"