Burn (Songs of Submission #5)(26)
Author: C.D. Reiss

When I pulled the dress out of the bag, I saw another, smaller bag was attached. I opened it to find a pair of red-soled shoes inside. Oh. Could it be?

Removing the cream halter dress, I found a pair of five-inch stilettos in a matching cream. Fuck, they all had shoes. Which meant I needed another hour. I had to look at every dress in the bag, every pair of shoes, and God help me, two of the black ones had scarves.

There was a knock at the door two rooms away.

“Mon? Come on!” It was Darren.

I ran through the bedroom, the living room, the dining area, and called through the foyer, “One second!”

Red dress.

But when I got to the closet, I realized I didn’t want to look like a bitch on fire. I didn’t want to be dangerously sexy. I wanted to be sweet and approachable. I slipped on the cream dress. I looked pretty. Like a woman of grace.

CHAPTER 27.

JONATHAN

Plan B was on his way to the museum from the airport. Petra had gone to her doctor’s appointment and gleefully told me she’d have to stop flying in a few months. I envied Jacques.

I’d left Feran with Monica and Darren, sent someone else for Plan B, and drove myself to the museum. I was much more comfortable at B.C. Mod than at the Eclipse show. My wife held little sway on this side of the border, and my place on the finance committee came not through family connections but a love of art Lanie Jackson had noticed when I donated some postmodern pieces to the burgeoning museum.

It was a small space and would never be the Moma or L.A. Mod, but Vancouver didn’t need a palace. It needed something intimate, like the city itself.

That night would be a smallish, boozy affair with collectors and fellow curators. It was Monica’s moment, and without Kevin around to suck the wind out of her, she could enjoy it. At the entrance, a string quartet played lilting top forty classical with a pianist at a black baby grand. I said some hellos, shook some hands, laughed at a couple of stupid jokes about L.A., and got a whiskey. I eventually found the Unnamed Threesome by following the sound of Monica’s voice.

It wasn’t the same piece. Though her voice, layered forty times like angels singing, then screaming, then moaning, was perfect, the piece wasn’t as good. Adequate. It would do. It wasn’t shameful, and it didn’t look wrong as much as it looked somehow aborted. I couldn’t figure out if the difference was that I’d seen it in its complete state and my eye had been colored, or if it truly did have something truncated about it.

Samuel Kendall approached me, hand out, wearing the same black turtleneck he always wore. “Did you see the Simulcra Brothers piece in the West Hall?”

“Not yet.” I pointed at the truncated house. “Got stopped by the voice.”

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I saw it in L.A.”

“Ah, so you saw it complete.” He ground his teeth. He was not a happy man. “It was good. Amateur mistake.” He wagged his finger at me. “Never deal with amateurs.”

I swallowed my drink and smiled. “Amateur comes from the Latin agent amatus. To love. Never worry about love. Love delivers. It’s the incompetent professionals that’ll screw you.”

Kendall laughed bitterly. “Every freaking time.” He looked over my shoulder. “Who is that?” I followed his gaze to Plan B, who had just arrived.

“Harry Enrich, the president of Carnival Records. Great guy. I have some property for him to look at. He’s thinking of opening a mini-studio up here.”

“Who isn’t?”

Harry came my way with his wife, Yasmine, on his arm. He was a small man with wiry hair and cheeks that were never free of late-day shadow. “Jonathan, you’ve met my wife?”

“Nice to see you again.”

“Beautiful plane,” she said.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

I introduced them to Kendall, and Harry didn’t waste a second before asking him, “Who is this?” He pointed at the ceiling. “I know that voice.”

“She just walked in,” I said, knowing I was smiling.

She’d chosen the cream dress with the tiny sequins. As willful as she was, she proved she was mine with every small, seemingly inconsequential decision. She looked breathtaking, even on Darren’s arm, leaning on him as if he were her brother. In my mind, he was. She waved when she saw me and made her way to the bar.

“Don’t recognize her,” Harry said.

“Monica Faulkner.”

It rang a bell. In the tilt of his head and look in his eye, I knew Harry recognized the name. I also knew he didn’t know it well enough to be attached to any notion of how she should be signed or branded. That had all been Eddie’s idea.

CHAPTER 28.

MONICA

I dragged Darren through the lobby and into the galleries without telling him I was looking for Jonathan. I found Jonathan by our piece with three other people, including Kendall of the black turtleneck. The other man looked like Harry Enrich from Carnival, but he couldn’t be. Jonathan looked more relaxed and comfortable than he had been at the Eclipse show. More affable, somehow, better in his own skin, if that was even possible.

“I need a drink,” I whispered to Darren.

He nodded and pulled me back to the lobby. The string quartet and pianist, two women dressed in long black skirts and three men in tuxedos, played a Brahms’ Hungarian Dance like a dirge. It somehow worked. Gabby and I had taken a ton of gigs like this through high school and college. Little parties and big events full of wealthy people trying to act wealthy. They paid crap, but we figured we would have been practicing anyway.

“What are you having?” Darren asked, somewhat less comfortable in a suit and tie than Jonathan. He cast his eyes down to his phone.

“Whiskey rocks. Who’s texting? Kevin? Is he okay?”

“No.” He tapped the bar then shook his head as if a fly had landed on his hair. “No, I mean it’s not Kev.”

“Okay?”

“Adam has landed.”

“Is he coming?”

Darren rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Well, if he’s here and he came to see you, you’d better think of something fast. Like a piece of pie or a cookie. You don’t want him to waste the trip.”

Our drinks came with a flirty glance from the bartender to me. He had arched eyebrows and full lips, reminding me of Kevin..

Christian Rondo, one of the artists who had helped us that afternoon, introduced us to Donna Santonini. Meeting her made me blush because not only was her work unforgettable, it was also  p**n ographic and arousing and high-minded, all at once. I loved her, told her so, and met seven other people in the next ten minutes.