Lee Ann brushed her chestnut fringe from her forehead, exposing her neatly formed, quizzical eyebrows. “Brandon?”
He shook himself. “Sorry. No—she tends to take Mondays off here and there in summer. Do you need something?”
She flashed her trademarked reassuring smile. She really was the only person he knew who could pull off a canary yellow dress. “Oh, I see. I have a client looking for her. Should I tell her to try again tomorrow, or—?”
Brandon neatly affixed a magenta post-it to the catalog page. “Who is it?”
“Emily Koser?”
He looked up, furrows creasing his brow. “Really? She specifically asked for Lydia?” The Koser account was shared, but he supposed it really wasn’t that surprising as she had handled all of the calls. From the client’s perspective, Lydia was calling all of the shots. The thought would have normally quickened his pulse with silent outrage, but instead he simply felt a wash of exhaustion as he pushed back from the work counter and stood. “I’ll talk to her. Thanks, Lee Ann.”
Emily Koser stood in the center of the gallery scrutinizing a large canvas that had been decoupaged with turn-of-the century tarot cards. Brandon was still trying to get a read on her. The flowy wrap she wore over yoga pants didn’t hint at the depth of her pocketbook. Nor did her unfussy, tousled blonde bob. “Ms. Koser, it’s nice to see you again,” he shifted effortlessly into house-front mode.
She turned and faced him with intense blue eyes, like two wafer thin discs of ice. She paused a moment, then pointed at his chest accusingly. “Brandon,” she announced with a small measure of triumph.
“That’s right. I’m sorry if you were expecting to see Lydia today–she’s not in. But I’m hoping there’s something I can help you with,” he said apologetically.
Emily adjusted the sunglasses on her head and waved her hand at his words. “Oh my gosh, please. Please, no worries! I stopped in on a whim with a few items to–well, actually I’m just as thrilled to run them past you!”
Brandon smiled. “Of course.” He shifted his gaze toward the tarot card canvas. “It’s an interesting piece, isn’t it?”
She turned and glanced at the collection of vintage cards, which assembled to form a large collage in red, yellow, and black. Each individual card held its own unique engraving, but the overall impression was stunning grid of intricate line patterns and vintage fonts. Emily made a show of biting her finger abashedly.
“Is it crazy that I like it? It’s totally wrong for the space we are designing, isn’t it?” she said nodding, as if she had already received his confirmation and was agreeing with it.
Brandon came to stand beside her. “Actually, I think it could be really brilliant for your space. It would be great above a sideboard or entryway table. And since we are really planning on using accessories for the main sources of color in an otherwise very neutral space…” He traced his finger over a few of the cards at the bottom of the collage. “It would complement the hues in a vintage Persian quite beautifully.” He turned to see that she was studying him.
“It was your idea to show me the German faucet, wasn’t it?” she said after a moment. The slight narrowing of her eyes made Brandon feel as though she was trying to size him up the same way he was her. He remained stoic.
“The Dornbracht. Perhaps. What did you think of it?”
A grin spread across her face like the slow spread of an egg yolk in a frying pan. “I loved it,” she said wickedly.
Brandon felt his own smile stretch to mirror hers. “Let’s sit down and talk, shall we?” he said suggestively, and ushered her to his desk. He leaned against it as she sat her bag on one chair and sank into the other. His eyes flitted to it. It was an understated brown leather tote, but he recognized it was a Christian Louboutin. Gotcha, he thought.
“You’ve had all the ideas about our little project, haven’t you?” Emily said, settling back and crossing her legs. The two ice discs sparkled with a cold fire. ‘Little’ was hardly the adjective for the quickly burgeoning Koser account.
“We’re a team. It’s a combination of our experience and perspectives that help us to pull together a design that speaks to you.” It was a well-rehearsed line he had honed over the years, but he could tell by the arch of her brown that she smelled the bullshit.
“Don’t get me wrong–we really like Lydia,” she said bobbing her head slowly. “Super, super nice. But I suspect the talent is really here.” A finger lifted from the arm of her chair and traced a small circle in his direction. When he didn’t speak, she cocked her head. “I’m right, aren’t I? Ever think about starting up your own firm? You’d be so great,” she exhaled.
Brandon thrust his hands into his pockets and chuckled at the floor. “Funny you should ask.”
“She, what?!” Lydia’s shriek crackled in the RAV’s speakers. Brandon winced and notched the volume on the call down on the steering wheel.
“She offered to help bankroll my new studio.” He couldn’t keep the smile from his voice as he sped home. The dappled shade raked over the car and flickered through the windshield, sending small explosions of coral and indigo inside his head.
“But you wouldn’t ever do that,” came her voice assuredly. Brandon made a high pitched hum of dissent–the kind that meant wellll. “What?” Lydia’s voice was suddenly flat.
“Look, I didn’t have a chance to tell you that I heard from the bank today. They’re approving the loan, but not for the amount I asked for.” It stung to say it out loud. Her sigh heaved across the microphone of her cell.
“That really sucks. Banks suck. But I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“This is my way, Lid. Emily Koser and her husband. I’ll take the bank loan, and they’ll cover the rest. They have some kind of corporation. They invest in small businesses all the time.” The car was silent for a minute as she considered this. Brandon slowed as the Prescott Building slid past. The afternoon sun was slanting across the facade, bathing the street before it in a golden light. “It’s going to be mine,” he said softly. “I’m going to do this.”
Another sigh. “Just be careful. Have another set of eyes on whatever offer they make.”
A tone sounded and a message alert badge appeared on the touch screen. Brandon scooped his phone from the cupholder and saw the notification–a text from Kyle saying he could swing by the house in twenty minutes. The ache rose in his throat and a heat surged between his legs. “You know I won’t do anything foolish, Lid. Hey, we’ll talk later. I’ve gotta go.” He tapped the end call button and accelerated.
Anthony stared at the monitor on his desk. The blue-white of its light reflected off the shrink-wrap of the case of Vitamin Water that shared the work surface with the computer as well as a tightly-packed lasagna of accumulated junk mail. It had taken over two weeks for him to get around to editing the mud accident video, and now that he finally had he was staring at the upload button and hesitating. He was certainly no successful YouTuber. His channel was an eclectic assortment of clips at best, showing anything from birdwatching to Jeep tire rotation. And what was already up was only received by a tiny smattering of anonymous viewers. But this particular video wasn’t really about…anything.
So a guy’s boots got a little muddy. Who would watch it? Or care?
Marbles leapt to the landing strip between the Vitamin Water and the edge of the desk with astonishing deftness. “Whoa, bro,” Anthony chuckled as a warm, dry nose nudged his chin. He scratched him by the tail, which quivered in response. A windowed envelope containing a life insurance policy offer slid to the floor. “What do you think? Should I just post it already?” he murmured into top of the furry head. When a gravelly purr sounded in the response, Anthony grinned and punched the upload button.
He stood and stretched, Marbles watching from the desk with his mostly-unseeing eyes. “Post it, don’t post it. Wouldn’t make any difference anyway. Right?” He glanced down and eyed the Newell Ridge boots, which he had half-heartedly cleaned off with the hose and set to dry on the kitchen floor the day he had christened them. There they had remained, adhered to a petrified sheet of newspaper. He peeled them from their papier-mâché tray and examined them in the dim light. Part of an obituary remained glued to one of the soles.
“Maybe I should invest in a pair of rubber boots,” he muttered. Marbles rasped a meow. Anthony carried the boots down the basement steps, and casually plopped them against the decaying stone wall at the front of the house.
Shoe Horny 