Three

THREE

MICHELLE SETTLED in at her new corner with relative ease.

No other drawing artists frequented the place, only the occasional food vendor cart and one, aging guitarist who called himself ‘Patrick.’ The short, gray-haired musician swayed as he played, warbling through pop songs that played over a local radio station; he listened to music with one neon green ear bud--connected to a cheap FM player--letting the other end dangle down the front of his faded corduroy jacket. It bounced and swayed as Patrick moved to the music he played. A better-than-average guitar player, the musician seemed popular with most of the folks that passed by. Patrick knew how to read a crowd and played what he guessed they’d like.

Michelle go around his initial suspicion of ‘the newcomer’ by a daily offering of half of her apple or orange. He reminded her of a gnome with his pronounced features and merry personality. Over the ensuing weeks, Michelle allowed him to sit nearby while they ate what lunch they’d each brought with them. Patrick’s spoke little of his background; his life revolved around music, telling tales of the different concerts and music festivals he’d visited around the country. Patrick heightened his act with a split-second study of passing listeners, devising a clever way to coax “charitable contributions” from them without asking.

“I don’t beg,” he told Michelle, her second day on his corner. “I’m a troubadour. I guess what music folks wanna hear, and I play it. More often than not, I’m right.” He urged her to try his method.

“Study the walk,” was the man’s advice. “How people move will tell you all about what music they put into their brain.” Michelle’s guesses were wrong, nearly all of the time, but she felt impressed by Patrick’s uncanny ability.

“I been guessing other people’s music all my life,” he told her, pointing at an oncoming businessman. “That’s a Springsteen guy, if I ever saw one.”

Standing up quickly, Patrick began hitting the side of the guitar with his calloused thumb in a steady rhythm; he sang with vigor about being born in the USA. The oncoming pedestrian grinned at once, giving Patrick a thumb’s up as he steered his steps towards the guitar case. Patrick kept playing the song even as the man walked away. Michelle busily sketched both figures, trying to capture the musician’s pleased expression as he sang, open-mouthed, unashamedly displaying his half-decayed teeth while swaying to the sound of honed guesswork.

Michelle did not see William’s face in any of the crowds. The ‘new’ corner lay several blocks from her former one, in an entirely different direction. Michelle reasoned she was safe from discovery. Who knew his fixed routine better than she? The new location was too far out of the way for him to accidentally stumble upon her, saving herself another bout of embarrassment. Once again, Michelle was lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces, hidden in the swirling bustle of walking, work, lights and food that made up New York City. Her contact with humans now broadened slightly to include noontime conversations with the amiable Patrick. She kept busy, sketching copies of her best-sellers and anything new that caught her attention. In these small ways, Michelle felt somewhat distracted from being left alone with thoughts of William.

At night, however, memories of his shocked expression haunted her and tears of remorse and loneliness fell to her pillow. As silly as it was to think on it--and torture herself, Michelle fell asleep each night accompanied by a purely feminine regret, for losing something she had not even had. Each morning she rose and admonished herself for crying over nothing.

A week after the move--on a gray Monday morning--Michelle caught sight of yellow police tape on her route to work, visible between a small group of onlookers. Michelle edged closer, suddenly feeling just as curious. One portion of the sidewalk was blocked off around an alleyway entrance. Police cars stood parked on the sidewalk, the lights on top rotating in mad circles, and an officer directed honking traffic around the scene. A coroner’s van drew up and parked where it was able to squeeze in. Two uniformed men emerged and withdrew an empty gurney and folded body bag. An officer lifted the tape for them as the men directed the gurney to the alley.

The sight of the van filled Michelle with a peculiar type of dread. She’d seen the dark, windowless carriers of the deceased before. As certain as death might be for everyone, eventually, that van seemed to visualize it, thrusting the result into the public eye in with stark finality. People in the crowd talked among themselves; some yelled questions at a nearby police officer, who stood by the tape, preventing the curious from crossing, or looking into the alley. About to step away, Michelle overheard a snatch of conversation between two older women. Well-bundled up, they stood with produce bags in hand, discussing the latest statistic.

“Just nineteen years old,” one woman said, shaking her head. “Another girl raped and murdered at 2 o’clock in the morning, no doubt.”

“Lord have mercy,” her companion replied. “Out at that time of night, alone? What was she thinking? I don’t even walk alone in the daylight no more.”

“Young women these days don’t have no sense,” the other one said, plaintively.

A nearby businesswoman, in a beautifully tailored suit, turned and gave the two older women a cold look.

“What do you mean by that?” she demanded. “A woman should be allowed to walk anywhere in this city, no mater that time it is! Do women need be escorted everywhere, too? This isn’t the damn 1900s!”

One of the older women sniffed; she seemed unaffected by the younger woman’s belligerent tone.

“Are you tellin’ me,” she hazarded, stepping a bit closer, “that just ‘cause there’s rules... there ain’t no bad guys ‘round?” The older woman gestured towards the alleyway. “They don’t follow the law. Why don’t you go ask that dead young woman what she thinks about it?” The dark alleyway drew the businesswoman’s gaze, almost involuntarily. “Go on... ask her about her rights,” the older woman continued. “You might just get an answer, if you hurry; they ain’t done zipping up the bag, yet...”

Giving her a narrow look the businesswoman turned on her heel without another word and hurried away from the scene. The older women gave a final sad shake of their heads before walking on together. Michelle stood still, as they faded from her peripheral view, still staring at the coroner’s van.

“Nineteen,” she thought.

She’d been nineteen, not so long ago. A year consumed with classes, tax law lectures, accounting software and drawing classes squeezed in between working part-time as a waitress at an off-campus bistro. It had been a draining year, with no rest. Each night she’d drop into bed, exhausted, only to stumble awake in the morning to the ringing alarm and the smell of strong coffee. The debate of perceived rights and ignored rules notwithstanding, there simply wasn’t time at nineteen--for her--to be haunting alleyways in the wee hours of the morning, whatever the inducement.

Despite Michelle’s scarcity of funds, time she had in abundance now but, any inclination towards ‘adventure’ was dampened, rather effectively, by the scene in front of her. There was nothing about that van, the alley, the police tape or the sad comments of the older women that invoked curiosity, especially as the coroner’s assistants came back out, pulling and pushing the laden gurney around a pile of flattened boxes.

“Whatever she went looking for,” Michelle thought, looking at the shape laying within the black body-bag, “I hope it was worth dying over.”

Someone stepped in front of her, blocking the view. The person rose on tip-toe to try to see into the alley. Backing out from her fellow onlookers, Michelle hurried towards her corner once more. She stayed a bit closer to Patrick all day, huddled into her coat, going the motions of selling drawings out of sheer habit. The sketchpad on her lap remained blank for a while, but eventually the pencils emerged.

The very tone and appearance of the city seemed to have shifted in Michelle’s mind. The landmarks were ignored altogether as she sketched. She drew faces instead, stealing furtive glances at the pedestrians. All movements and expressions seemed darker, as if hinting at the promise of harm, or having endured it. Faces covered the paper in harsh, thick lines, the normal fineness of her work obscured. Details in the eyes and features were lost. As Michelle sketched, she did not note the sounds of birds or the voices of children in the air. She heard police sirens and shouting, arguments and cursing. Even Patrick’s music medley did not penetrate the moody air around her.

Noontime came and went. Patrick sat near her, but one look at the sketch pad quelled any suggestion conversation. As the afternoon waned Michelle vacated the corner early, hurrying home with a brief nod in Patrick’s direction. The police tape was still up around the alleyway; a lone police cruiser sat guarding the crime scene but the coroner’s van was long gone. In Michelle’s mind, however, she still felt its presence, like a ghostly reminder of violence.

Later that night she sat on her bed, looking over the day’s sketches. A mild sense of horror came over her at the sight of all the menacing and fearful expressions she’d drawn. Wiping away tears from her face, Michelle wrote the date in the corner of the page.

“Murder scene aftermath,” she wrote. “19 yr. old woman.”

Never one for written journals, Michelle relied on pictures to aid her memory, especially as the weeks and months in this city blurred into years. Glancing at the armoire, her gaze rested on a cardboard box, once meant to hold legal-size file folders. Many a sketchbook lay within, filled with drawings that she knew would not sell, depicting nameless faces or figures in conversation or attitude, sporting no other marker but a date or a location in the city. The majority of them pictured moments of happiness or beauty, families, couples, public artwork or children playing... things she’d noted and stopped for, sketching eagerly before the moment was lost.

Letting out a sigh, Michelle looked back at the sketchbook on her lap. The faces thereon seemed so different, as if all her fears had been pulled out and ruthlessly applied to the page. Patrick’s reaction to them had not escaped her notice. He’s drawn back, letting slip a worried expression and chose to keep his own company. With a trembling hand, Michelle took up her pencil once more. In the only unmarred corner, she drew an ethereal-styled image of the coroner’s van. Drawing it brought her comfort, however, allowing the moment to escape her mind and sink into the page. Once finished, she flipped the page over. Blank and smooth, the creamy surface of a blank page hinted at regeneration.

“Tomorrow is a new day,” Michelle whispered aloud.

The walls of her room seemed to hold her safe within them. Here, she was at least protected from the night�"and those that roamed within its shadow, seeking only to take and harm. “Let them keep what they have to offer,” Michelle muttered, putting her sketchbook back in her bag. “I will be happy with what I have.”

Putting off the darker thoughts of the day--as one might remove a soiled coat--Michelle busied herself with laundry and a utilized the remains of a bottle of cleaning solution in her tiny bathroom. If she could not repair society, she thought, at least she could clean away the accumulated debris of everyday life. As she emptied her trash can down the hallway chute, Michelle began to feel more like herself again.

TWO WEEKS passed by so swiftly it seemed like a blur. Michelle could have sworn the days were growing even shorter than science would allow possible. Sensing that she’d changed back to her old self, Patrick grew talkative again, especially so after she told him about the murder scene.

“This city will eat you alive, if you let it,” he told her. “You gotta find a way around it; you gotta climb over the junk in order to get to the stuff that you need.” He regaled her with a few places that she could go to find cans to recycle for extra cash.

Smiling, Michelle thanked him; she assured the man that drawing pictures to sell was probably a better use of her time, and a little less risky.

Patrick chuckled.

“Can’t argue with that.” He cast an appraising glance over her display board. “You might want to get the bridge from more angles. You might sell more if you got some more building in there, too. This city’s got rich architectural history comin’ out the ears. You gotta capitalize on what’s around you in a place like this.”

“Everyone wants the Empire,” Michelle told him, looking at her drawings. She agreed with the man’s words, but more angles of the building meant more walking, more time.

Patrick shrugged.

“Mix it up a little,” he replied, standing up and tuning his battered guitar. “I used to only play bluegrass, it’s what I like, but I was shutting out the larger portion of my market. This is place is crowded, in more ways than one, but if you got more to offer, you’ll stand out more. You might be able to charge more per drawin’ then. You ain’t half bad.” Michelle nodded, listening intently to his advice. In her mind plans already formed for scoping out new places to sketch.

Switching angles on the landmark sketches and drawings proved a worthy pursuits. The extra time and different routes to work reinvigorated her desire to look for beauty in her surroundings once more. Michelle went a step further and added in pen and ink studies of local, lesser-known architecture, everything from elegant churches to modernist masterpieces and turn-of-the-century mid-rise office buildings. The young artist spent hours at night, hunched over her desk, tracing over the sketches with her fine-tipped pens, taking care to get all the details correct. Little things drew her notice: a carved stone cornice, the clean lines of frame-less glass, an old-fashioned tower’s shadow creeping up the side of a modern skyscraper... new opportunities to stand, star and draw seemed to come from every direction.

The positive response--from both pedestrians and tourists alike--surprised even Michelle. The architectural studies sold faster than any other type. Michelle raised her prices to $10 and the sales did not lessen. She offered Patrick a portion of the new revenue, as a ‘thank you’ but he waved it away.

“I’m tickled you took my advice,” he told her, tuning his guitar with little plunks of his fingers. “Right now, you look like you want to hear Beethoven’s Pastoral symphony.”

“And how did I look before?” Michelle asked him, smiling a little at his suggestion.

“Chopin,” Patrick said, automatically. “One of those melancholy nocturnes of his.” The man chuckled at Michelle surprised expression. Without another word, he began to play a lovely melody--written centuries ago�"meant to unfold in one’s mind like a fine, summer day. Michelle closed her eyes and listened, letting herself relax a little. The shadows of the city still lay about�"this she knew--but at the moment they seemed to be held in check by the light.

Later on that week, Michelle came home earlier than normal. After such a flurry of sales, she’d collected more than enough sales to buy warm, winter clothing. Leaving her display and bag in her room, the artist quickly made her way out the Walden-Astor’s back entrance, intent on heading straight to her favorite thrift store, located a few blocks away.

Samuel saw her as she breezed out the door. The guard walked up to her, alight with some secret joy.

“Miss Michelle,” he greeted, walking over to her. “I do hope y’ like Monet...”

Puzzled by his unusual greeting, Michelle arrested her stride.

“Well, he’s a little old for me,” she responded, with a smile, “and deceased... but, yes. I adore his paintings. Who doesn’t?”

Samuel chuckled, his teeth sowing brightly in his swarthy face.

“Me,” he said. He held up one hand. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I like a nice painting the same as anybody but, being dragged around for a whole night lookin’ at art and talkin’ about art isn’t my idea of a good time. Especially on a night the Knicks are playin.’”

“I see,” Michelle said, trying not to laugh. “I take it that Mabel likes Monet?”

“Yes, she does,” Samuel said, taking off his cap and rubbing his bald head. “She been on this impressionist kick for a while now. Her sister gave her tickets�"for her birthday--to some art show tomorrow, at the Guggenheim...”

Michelle’s eyes widened considerably.

“You have tickets... to the Monet showing,” she repeated, quietly. “Twelve of his actual paintings displayed, on loan from the Louvre?”

Samuel nodded.

“You know more about than me,” he said. “Mabel’s mother has the flu something bad; she called this mornin’, wantin’ her to come over for a few days.” As the guard spoke, his smile returned. “My mother-in-law don’t need me along�"in fact the old battle-axe requested I did not come�"so, instead of being at some art show I get to hang with my boys at the game. I figured the tickets shouldn’t go to waste, so, why don’t you go... and take a friend?”

He held out a small, thick envelope towards he. The famous museum’s logo sat emblazoned on top, heralding itself quite effectively without words. Michelle looked from it back to the good-natured security guard. “I would love to see those paintings,” she conceded, “but, it’s too much, sir. I can’t accept them.”

“You can,” Samuel told her, smiling. He pressed the envelope into Michelle’s hand. “I insist. They can’t be refunded now and you’re the only artist I know.”

Looking down at the tickets, Michelle felt her eyes mist over.

“I’m eternally grateful to you both,” she said, meaning every syllable. “Please tell Mabel the tickets are appreciated.”

“I can see that.” Patting the young woman on the shoulder, Samuel put his cap back on and straightened it. “But I would take warm beer over wine any day,” he finished. Michelle smiled at him.

“Well, then I hope you have a wonderful time.”

“You too, Miss Michelle.”

Michelle shook the man’s hand. The middle-aged security guard turned back to his duty, giving her a small salute. Michelle returned his wave and jubilantly resumed her errand, which was now infused with added incentive of preparing for the evening’s event.

The word “evening” made Michelle stop in her tracks. Opening the envelope, she discreetly looked at the lettering printed on the tickets. Tomorrow night’s showing opened at 7PM, well after sunset. Taking in a long breath, Michelle debated with herself for a moment, wondering if she should run after Samuel and give the tickets back. She hesitated, however. The museum in question was in a fairly safe part of the city; she’d walked by the building a few times, early in her sojourn. Being surrounded with strangers inside the museum didn’t strike her as unsafe, but getting there at night was a different matter. The cheapest methods were the subway or taking a bus. Michelle did not feel comfortable with either option at night, and she didn’t care if it was cowardly to think along such lines.

“Daddy would agree with me,” she thought. So would her mother. They would both advise her to go, but to “use her head.”

Visualizing her clothing money, Michelle subtracted an adequate sum for taking a taxi cab to and from the museum. Doing so shortened her list of items to buy somewhat, but just the prospect of seeing those particular paintings... to gaze at them as long as she wanted stole away any feelings of remorse. “Now, if I can just find an affordable dress...”

The woman behind the store counter looked bored with life. She took no notice of incoming customers--other than a cursory glance--and continued swiping her finger across her cell phone screen. An armed security guard nodded at Michelle, keeping a sharp eye on the figures heading towards the Exit. Securing a small, plastic cart Michelle passed the front counter feeling anticipation creep up within her.

Several customers browsed up and down the dress aisle, effectively blocking ti for the moment. Michelle headed towards the coats, watching for an opportunity to head over. Slowly and carefully, the young woman perused racks of coats with an appreciation borne of want. This particular store had access to some of the better neighborhoods in the city. Quality items hung among the cheaper garments, like hidden gems waiting to be uncovered. Feeling thick woolen fabrics and fluffy fleeces, Michelle hoped that the affluent men and women--that had donated these fine items--had some idea of how much happiness their cast-off clothing brought to so many. The reduction of waste appealed to her most, knowing that by shopping there, the clothes would not end up in a landfill, where no one could use them.

A hint of rich-brown wool caught Michelle’s eye. Buried between a tawny, fringed monstrosity and a black dinner jacket hung a long, mahogany-colored pea coat. Digging it out, Michelle looked over every inch of the garment with a critical eye. The wool felt thick and exquisitely warm; the label boasted a coveted phrase: “cashmere blend” and despite a small tear in the right sleeve--and a few missing buttons�"Michelle put the garment up to one shoulder. It hung down well past her knees; the back and sleeves had been tailored to fit a previous owner. Michelle mentally sorted through her grandmother’s button-box�"back in her hotel room�"trying to remember if there were enough brass or tortoiseshell buttons within it to replace the current ones.

Flipping over the price tag, Michelle let out a breath of relief. Fifteen dollars would allow her to purchase a quality coat, the cost of three drawings and the subsequent hours selling them. The coat was tucked carefully into the little cart as Michelle moved on the sweater aisle. From there she selected thick socks, a pair of jeans, a warm hat and a set of lightly-used fleece gloves, somewhat matching the brown present in the wool coat. Michelle sorted through the purchases, silently adding up the amounts and calculating tax. A few shirts, marked at half-price, joined her, cart as well as one replacement pair of work boots.

“Not too heavy on the wear,” Michelle thought, inspecting the soles. The faded words “water resistant” on the inside label clinched the sale

The dress rack silently beckoned. Michelle saw an opportunity to get in behind another shopper and took it. Maneuvering around browsers, repeating a polite “excuse me” or waiting for someone to finish looking were all part of the process. Michelle waited by her cart, thinking on how long it had been since she had an event to dress up for, taking heart in the number of items hanging in the long row.

After a half-hour of careful searching she found a long, pale-gold gown, overlaid with antique-style lace. It featured a low, square neck and slim sleeves, giving the garment it the look of a medieval ‘cotehardie’, one of the first fitted dresses. Michelle lay the fabric against her wrist; its hue seemed to go well with her skin tone. More attracted to the pink-shaded dresses, the young woman knew this one would go better with her hair and eye-color. Though the gown was not brand new, a dry cleaning and a few judicious alterations would do wonders for it. The attached chain-style belt would be the first thing to go, Michelle decided.

“I’m glad I kept a pair of heels,” she thought, putting the dress in her cart. She supposed most women in America would make fun her if they knew she kept only two pairs of shoes at a time. The lack of room aside, the need for more had simply not arisen. She passed a display of sandals and smiled ruefully. “I’ve never even been to the beaches, here,” Michelle mused to herself, as she navigated her way out of the dress aisle.

Deliberately avoiding the other aisles the young woman walked to the check stand with her treasures. A display of lovely scarves drew her notice for a moment, but she turned away. The budget had been written and so it was done. Standing in line Michelle resisted tapping her foot on the floor; she could not wait to get home. She unfurled her precious paper money at the check-stand, watching as the clerk took each garment off the hangers and folded them into plastic bags featuring the thrift store’s logo. Michelle left the store, feeling the satisfactory weight of both practicality and beauty in each hand.

Once back in her hotel room, Michelle washed her hands thoroughly and spent a few minutes locating her sewing kit; she found it eventually, stuck behind her box of sketchbooks. Sitting on the floor by the plastic bags of purchases, the young woman drew out the pale-gold dress. It looked even better out from under the florescent lights of the store. Turning it inside-out, Michelle located the woven strings that held on the chain belt and clipped them with scissors; the clinking brass links came away easily. Inspecting the hems and lace with her fingertips, Michelle found a few small rips, mostly from wear and tear; using a cream-colored thread, she repaired repair them where it wouldn’t show, unless one was looking very closely.

After hanging up the dress on the umbrella hook--by the door--Michelle began mending the wool coat’s sleeve. Carefully pinning the right sides together, she selected thick brown thread and a stronger needle. With the aid of a thimble, she pulled the needle in and out of the fabric in a series of tiny ‘whip’ stitches. Satisfied the repaired seam would not unravel, Michelle began clipping the existing buttons from the coats’ surface. After a few moments of searching in the armoire, she located an old, metal, hinged box that had once contained bath-salts. It was filled with hundreds of buttons of every shape and size. Her Gramma Betty had started the ‘button box’ when she was a young bride; it was passed down to Michelle’s mother and then to herself.

Poking around the multicolored array of round, plastic and metal buttons Michelle found suitable ‘antiqued’ brass buttons, with an embossed thistle on the front surfaces; several were tied together with string to the old-fashioned back loop. They looked slightly too small for the holes, but a few hidden stitches--on the bottom of each buttonhole--solved the issue.

As she sewed the buttons on, Michelle felt unusually industrious. Draping the coat and gown over her arm, she left her room and took the stairs down to the first level, making her way to the Services section. Speaking to first one employee then another, she sought out the manager, one Mrs. Carlyle. The woman’s stern demeanor belied an excellent manager underneath. Michelle had met her briefly when she first came to live on the second floor; she’d impressed Mrs. Carlyle by finding an applicable tax write-off for one of her most used supplies. With her signature curt nod, Mrs. Carlyle took the proffered garments, and said she personally see they were sent out with the evening dry-cleaning.

Thanking her, Michelle jogged back up to her floor and did the rest of her laundry, herself; she spent a happy hour putting away the washed clothes, still warm from the dryer. As the young woman closed the armoire doors, relief washed over her like a warm tide. The rage of winter and all its icy threats, combined, were broken by the simple shield of warm clothing and a room to weather it in. The CD player played a rousing waltz and Michelle gave in to a step and twirl to the music in what space was available to do so.

The following day, Michelle planned on quitting the streets early. Patrick absorbed her happy news of the art-show tickets with a straight face, but Michelle thought he seemed pleased. Her suspicions were confirmed when she presented him with her spare ticket; he held it close a moment, then grinned.

“Thank ye kindly,” he told her; his eyes twinkled with humor. “I’ll have to find my ‘dinner jacket’; should be in one of my boxes. I hope they put on a good spread.” Michelle let out a soft laugh.

“I don’t know if there’s food,” she admitted. “If so, it’s probably a few, tiny hors d’oeuvres and champagne; nothing substantial.”

Patrick shook his head a little.

“No food? Well, then,” he said, scratching his beard. “I suppose good ol’ Monet is worth being a bit hungry for.”

“I am looking forward to going by myself,” Michelle told him. Anticipation colored her words. “No one to distract me... or tell me that they think Monet was just half-blind. So what? He still painted the most beautiful pictures… and when I look at them, they fill my mind with breezy thoughts of sunshine, of idyllic afternoons and naps in flower-scented gardens...”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Patrick told her. “If I see you I’ll just sagely nod and move on, like them aristocratic rich folk do.” He lifted his chin a little and played a few bars of ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ on his guitar. With a laugh, Michelle began to pack up her display. There was just enough time to get back to her hotel room, get ready and then fight the evening traffic to the museum.

MICHELLE LEANED into her armoire, searching for her pair of fancy shoes; a sharp knock came at her door when. Peering out the peephole, Michelle saw Mrs. Carlyle from the laundry downstairs; the woman held two garment bags. Taking out one of her precious five-dollar bills, Michelle slipped on sweatshirt and opened the door. The woman handed her the clothes and made a face at the offered tip.

“While I appreciate the gesture, Miss Gregory,” Mrs. Carlyle told her. “I am not a bellhop.” Retracting her hand, Michelle thanked the woman instead and withdrew back into the room.

Laying the bulkier coat on her bed, she eagerly removed the plastic from the pale gold dress. The gown looked much improved, in her estimation, clean and professionally pressed. She wanted to try it on right away, but her hair was still wet from the shower. Laying the gown carefully on the bed, Michelle disappeared into the bathroom. Using the hotel dryer, she dried and brushed her hair, stopping every few seconds to look at the clock; the biggest mistake in this city was underestimating the time one would sit in traffic. Taking up the small travel-size taking out her curling iron from the cabinet, Michelle put soft curls on the ends of her long, reddish-brown tresses. Parting her hair on the far, right side, she tucked the front ends behind her ears and pinned them, allowing the rest of her hair to tumble down her shoulders.

Holding her breath, she slipped into her gown. Michelle looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, feeling an odd sensation of nervousness. She let out a sigh of relief; the color blended well with her skin tone, giving her a healthy glow; her eyes blazed out pale gold, with a hint of green. Encouraged, Michelle quickly brought out the remnants of her makeup box. Using a cotton swab she accessed the layer of foundation clinging to the bottom of the bottle, topped with a little face powder. Skipping the eyeliner, Michelle used brown mascara and finished with some mint-flavored lip gloss.

Looking in the mirror, Michelle almost didn’t recognize the pretty girl looking back at her.

“I haven’t seen you in a long time,” she said, softly. Donning the brown coat, Michelle slid her new hat and gloves into the pockets. The coat felt as warm as it looked; its brass buttons twinkled in the soft light. Looking down at her feet, Michelle made a face. “Idiot,” she muttered, wiggling her bare toes on the carpet. Digging in the dresser the young woman found a pair of non-torn nylons and located her high heels. Brushing off the brown suede with a damp towel, the young woman hoped no one would notice their rumpled appearance. Thankfully, the dress’ hem covered most of the shoes up. Michelle had seen long gowns like this recently, on display in store windows. Modesty was apparently ‘in’ again.

“Lucky me,” the young woman said. “I get to be fashionable and warm.” The thought made her smile.

Glancing at the clock, Michelle grabbed her ticket and put it carefully in her coats inside pocket. She put the tube of lip gloss in her other pocket, deciding against taking a purse. She imagined that purse snatchers scuttled about in the shadows of such gala events; if she stuck to the crowd and got out of the cab in well-lit areas, she reasoned she’d be safe enough.

Stepping out the door the young woman hesitated at the familiar stairwell entrance. Turning around, she walked all the way down the hall to the main elevator. Normally, dressed in her street clothes and carrying her vending display, she never took the elevator; she did not want to bring any ill -repute to Mr. Chan--or the hotel--because of her appearance. Tonight, however, she felt equal to everyone.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped inside. A young man, sharply dressed in a neat black suit and silver tie stood within; he smiled at her. Nodding politely, Michelle stood in the farthest corner from him, as the elevator doors closed. After a few moments the man cleared his throat. Michelle didn’t look up; she smiled at the floor until the doors opened at the lobby. Her fellow passenger motioned for her to precede him and Michelle walked out into the grand foyer. Her dress swirled around her ankles as she moved and Michelle resisted an urge to sashay.

The Walden-Astor lobby--famous for its elegant lobby�"boasted seasonal garlands and crystal decorations, professionally designed and applied by people who were paid far too much. Michelle knew this for fact; she’d seen the receipts. Smiling, she walked on and admired the view.

Heading out one of the grand glass front doors, Michelle halted as icy air enveloped her. Her breath turned into an opaque cloud before her face. Though protected by the new coat, Michelle could feel the chill wrap around her throat.

“Should’ve worn a muffler,” she silently chided herself. Racing into her pockets, she pulled on the new gloves and hat, careful not to mess up her hair. A nearby valet, well-wrapped against the night air asked if he could call her a cab. Michelle nodded; she watched as he strode out and signaled; a waiting cab flicked on it lights and drew forward. Giving the valet a tip, Michelle ducked into the cab.

“The Guggenheim, please,” she said. The driver nodded in response and drove off without a word. Michelle settled back for the wait, estimating it would take thirty minutes to go the forty-two blocks to the museum.

Outside the museum a line of cabs, cars and limos stretched around the corner; horns beeped loudly and the vehicles jostled for attention from the valets. Michelle leaned forward, cash in hand and asked the driver to let her out. He nodded and took the fare. Once free of the street, Michelle worked her way to the museum’s entrance and joined a queue of people, waiting outside. Bright banners hung from the building on poles emblazoned with the name of the famous French impressionist; two, huge searchlights pointed straight into the sky on either side of the entrance, as if to say ‘Monet has arrived’. Lovely couples strolled up and down the wide, white staircase in the biting air, looking as if they attended such functions every day.

Waiting her turn Michelle nervously clutched her ticket. The idea of being closeted in a building with all these stranger set her a little on edge. She hoped they would ignore her completely, and allow an unobstructed view of the paintings without brushing up against her, or possibly attempting conversation. Michelle took in a deep breath and forced herself to calm down.

“Nobody knows who I am, or what I do,” she thought.

The couple in front of her moved forward; Michelle noticed the bottom of the woman’s black dress dragged slightly on the ground, effectively picking up the dust. Little crystals, sewn all over the fabric, clinked as the woman moved. Smiling, Michelle wondered how much the man had paid for his wife to wear a sparkly dust-mop. The couple handed their tickets to the doorman and went inside. Doubts inundated Michelle as she approached the doorman and guards. What if she was here on the wrong night? What if the ticket was no good? Maybe Mabel’s sister had bought them from some con-artist making forgeries? What if...

The man clipped her ticket and handed it back with a smile.

“Enjoy the paintings, miss,” he said, opening the door. Giving the man a wan smile, Michelle stepped inside.

Insignificant. She felt every letter of that word standing inside the bulwark building of artistic expression. The very air felt intimidating. Despite this, Michelle remembered that had come to see paintings, grandeur notwithstanding. Soft lights beckoned from the far end of the spiraled, iconic antechamber; through tall, glass doors Michelle glimpsed couples walking and talking in one of the exhibition rooms. Peeking amid the milling people was a painting, hung on a gray-hued wall, lit perfectly by tiny spotlights. Monet’s own works lay just inside those doors.

Excitement flooded her. Briefly, Michelle felt a bit silly feeling so thrilled at seeing paint on canvas, held in with wood, but she knew from whence those emotions sprung. The paintings were beautiful monuments, testifying that one would indeed live, work, love and die but that pieces of that life could be preserved, and appreciated. Eyes aglow, the young woman walked forward, grateful to be among those allowed to see and enjoy.

The museum offered a coat check for the event. Unbuttoning her overcoat, Michelle enjoyed the way the heavy, embossed buttons felt in her fingers as she pushed them through the buttonholes. She tucked her hat and gloves into the pockets and reluctantly handed the coat across the counter. The black-clad youth slipped the coat onto a hangar, tagged it and gave her back the bottom portion of the ticket. Michelle uttered a low ‘thank you,’ before turning away. With no pocket, nor purse, she walked towards the glass doors and slipped the ticket stub discreetly into her bodice.

Insecurity gripped Michelle as she entered the first exhibition room; she resisted the urge to find the darkest corner and hide. Glancing around, she did not see Patrick the street musician anywhere but that did not surprise her. The ticket was worth a lot fenced. Forcing herself to act like a normal person, Michelle slowly made her way towards the first painting. The people milling around seemed more interested in conversations with one another than actually looking at the art, enabling Michelle an unobstructed view.

Exquisite. No other word even came close, but then the young artist did not see a mere collection of framed artwork. The people around her faded, the wall darkened and the painting itself blazed forth, filling her view completely. Every brush-stroke beckoned; each color called out for attention. So ensconced was she in her perusal that a nearby server had to call to her three times. Michelle jumped as a middle-aged man in a server’s tuxedo lightly touched her shoulder.

“Wh-what?” she said, uncertainly, blinking at the waiter.

“Wine?” the server asked, offering his tray. The gleaming, stemmed glasses were half-filled with wines both pale and vibrant. Michelle shook her head.

“Oh... I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered. “I don’t drink but, thank you.”

“We have sparkling cider, miss,” the server said, holding out a tall, thin flute. Minute bubbles in the golden liquid rose, disappearing as they gained the surface. Accepting the glass, Michelle inhaled the sweet fragrance within.

“Perfect,” she told the server, smiling at last. The man nodded and swept off, balancing his tray with deft precision. Michelle turned, free to lose herself in the painting once more.

Across the room, a man stared at Michelle--as she turned back to the painting�"a look of undisguised astonishment on his face. William Montgomery stood still, rather wondering if his eyes were functioning correctly. The young sketch artist--that he’d sought these last couple of weeks--was standing not thirty feet away from him. He was certain it was her... Michelle Gregory. The girl who’d drawn the incredibly-accurate portrait of him and then yelled at him; the girl who’d run away embarrassed, never to reappear. She was the very last person he expected to see here.

William had done more than simply walk her corner. The private investigator he’d hired turned up information corroborating her claims: the years at Stanford, her professional certifications. More information came to light, or sobering nature, like her parent’s auto accident and the fact that over two previous, she’d been sacked from a very prestigious accounting firm after working there for less than three months. The PI found a former coworker, who willingly reported that the young Miss Gregory was “brilliant” at her job, but was fired since she wasn’t willing to bend the rules for a wealthy client.

There the trail went cold. Her old landlord thought well of her but did not have a forwarding address. There were no post office boxes with her name attached to them, and none of the employment agencies had heard from a Michelle Gregory in over a year. Her credit history showed no open credit accounts, and no activity in almost two years. William even request the man try code-calling the local hotels and inquiring after her; not surprisingly, most refused to give out any information on who was or was not a permanent resident. It was almost as if the young sketch artist had fallen off the proverbial map.

Each day William walked by her vacated corner, entertaining the mild hope that he’d see her sitting, selling her drawings, to no avail. Each day he walked onward, to lunch, wondering if they’d somehow switched places in the scheme of things, where one would look for the other and never be acknowledged. Yet, here she stood--in the very same exhibition room as he--looking as if she’d stepped right out of one of the paintings on display.

His eye had been drawn to her hesitant body language the moment she entered the room. The girl in the pale gold gown appeared inexplicably familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He’d studied the young woman as she moved, trying to remember who she was. He was about to walk over to her when she turned to face a server. Oddly-beautiful eyes looked out from her face; pale gold, with a little green in them. William knew her at once. Drifting closer, he weighed what to say to her; he couldn’t imagine admitting he’d been investigating her whereabouts, but he wanted her to know how much he’d been trying to find her.

“Hello. I hired private investigator to find you. Want to go to get some dinner?”

William shook his head, a rueful smile lifting one corner of his mouth. The smile melted away; his own immediate jump to dating took him by surprise. He looked at the young woman again. She hadn’t moved from the first painting; she was just gazing at it, standing like a graceful statue.

“She definitely cleans up well,” he thought. The muted gold shade of her dress complimented her dark red hair, and stood out as a nice contrast from all the gray and black the art-loving community seemed to find so necessary at event likes these. William felt a desire to see her eyes again, to make certain that this young woman was the very same sketch artist. Perhaps she would go out to dinner with him. There were so many things he wanted to ask her.

“Surely she wouldn’t run again,” William thought. “Well, here goes nothing...” Taking a large drink of champagne William began weaving his way through the surrounding crowd, toward Michelle.

Lost in an imaginary color-strewn world of light and reflection, Michelle could almost see the painter, himself, standing in his Giverny studio. In her mind she could tubes of paint littering the floor and a wooden palette sitting on a nearby stool. Paintbrush in hand, Monet stood with a serious expression on his face, his feet apart in stubborn stance. At that moment, the master painter was merely a fellow human... a little-known artist with stains on his clothes, wearing an odd, unfashionable cap that ‘unsettled’ everyone but himself.

Michelle was comforted by the scene. Although fame and wealth were considered by most the ultimate goal of life, she felt glad the artist had not lived to witness the frenzy of popularity that ensued after his death. She suspected he would have hated gushing fans and hordes of visitors invading the serenity of his beloved haunts.

“Undiscovered artists are... happier,” she murmured.

“I agree.”

A man beside--and slightly behind�"her spoke, but Michelle did not look at him. The voice was pleasant and refined, but horribly familiar. The painting in front of her blurred. Staring ahead, Michelle’s hand unconsciously gripped the glass of cider.

“It’s Miss Gregory, isn’t it?” came the voice again. “I found your name on your drawing. Michelle Gregory.” The man’s head leaned a little more into her peripheral view. Michelle couldn’t get her voice to work; she wanted to say something but nothing would come out. She could feel his intent gaze on her face. “You’ve gone pale,” the man continued, quietly. “Does this mean you’re going to yell and toss your drink at me?”

Mortified, Michelle turned away, feeling an overwhelming urge to bolt. A hand on her arm stopped her.

“Please don’t go.” The man moved to block her way. “I meant no offense. It’s just... last time you ran off and didn’t come back. I know... I looked for you.”

Venturing a glance up, Michelle eyes met William’s. A concerned expression lay in his dark blue eyes. His fine, gray-wool suit, gray shirt and dark gray tie suited him well. After her behavior the day they met, Michelle felt surprised that William was even speaking with her.

“I am so sorry,” she blurted out. “I’ve never acted that way before, and oh, your poor mother! She probably thinks I’m a mental case... and she bought my picture. I am so... sorry.” Unable to continue, Michelle looked down, biting her lip.

A soft chuckle brought her gaze back up. The blue-eyed man smiled at her.

“Truthfully, Miss Gregory, your words were justified... however dramatic,” he told her. “I should not have assumed you were homeless.”

“I’m not,” Michelle returned, lifting her chin a little. “But, I do sell my drawings out there; I have, for two years now.”

“As I found out. Shall we start over?” The man held out as hand to her. “William Montgomery,” he said.

The polite tone of his voice set Michelle at ease.

“Michelle Gregory,” she returned, taking his hand. “But... you already knew that.”

The man’s palm felt a bit rough. Michelle unconsciously studied it; she’d expected a soft, manicured hand but his had calluses and a healing scrapes on the side of it. William noted her scrutiny and grinned.

“Oh… I build furniture,” he explained. “I have a little wood shop, in the storage area of my apartment.”

“Oh.” Realizing she was still holding onto his hand, Michelle quickly let it go. “Um... as your occupation?” she asked, looking up at him.

Momentarily, Will found himself caught in the young woman’s gaze; her eyes were just so unusual. She stood, looking stunning in her pale, gold dress. Nothing quite whispered femininity like lace, in his opinion. Michelle’s dark sable-colored hair glowed in the soft overhead light. Leaning forward a little, William inhaled; he could faintly smell the lightly floral scent of apple blossoms. He imagined them picnicking together, in some sunny apple orchard, the air around them scented with rosy flowers. In his vision Michelle was smiling at him--relaxed and happy�"and he was leaning in for a kiss.

“Mr. Montgomery?”

A soft voice interrupted William’s reverie; the orchard disappeared, but Michelle was still in front of him.

“Erm... no,” he stammered, attempting to clear his head; his brain was reeling from the vibrant, imaginary scene. “Hobby. During the day I’m a corporate lawyer… Brownstone & Peters. I only wish carpentry was my sole occupation but, one must pay the bills.”

He gave Michelle a wistful smile. A part of him longed to make artisan furniture all day;, to feel that unique tactile quality of sanded wood and help pieces take shape, watching them age over time and grow in value.

The young woman in front of him studied his face for a moment and then took a sip of her cider.

“Not much money in hobbies,” she said. “Being a ‘starving artist’ is not for the faint of heart.” William noted her wry tone. Leaning forward, he allowing himself a smile.

“You may be slender, my dear, but hardly emaciated,” he said, lowering his voice.

Michelle’s face turned a satisfactory shade of pink. She looked away and drained her glass. William halted a nearby server. “Two more champagne,” he directed at the man.

“Not for me, thank you,” Michelle managed to say; William’s admiring scrutiny made it rather difficult to speak clearly. He raised an eyebrow at her.

The waiter recognized Michelle, and held out a different flute.

“Sparkling cider for the lady,” he quipped. Michelle nodded and let William relieve her of her empty glass.

“No alcohol, eh?” William remarked, taking a drink of his champagne. “You’re a bit dressed up for a Puritan.”

Blushing again, Michelle wished she could think of something clever to say. Her father had known how to backhand a witty remark; she wished he were there.

“I’ll go with honesty,” she thought. At the very least, it would ward off a lesser individual. “I have never liked the taste of alcohol,” she explained. She took a step towards the next painting as she spoke. William fell into step beside her. “It’s not a religious thing. Just more of a personal preference. Have cooked with wine before, though.”

“Have you?” William responded, smiling. Michelle gave him a sidelong look.

“Yes,” she said, wishing she’d not given out so much information. “Once in a while.”

Pleased with their conversation thus far, William found it rather difficult to concentrate on the paintings he had paid to see, when a living one was standing right next to him, delicately sipping her drink. She seemed to be enjoying the cider very much; she inhaled its fragrance a little before each sip.

They approached a large painting, one that nearly covered the wall. Michelle’s eyes grew wide at the sight of it.

“I can see him,” she said, almost too softly to be heard; William caught it, however. Lifting an eyebrow he looked over at her.

“Who?” he inquired. Michelle started and then looked a trifle embarrassed.

“Oh... sorry,” she said, apologetically. “I didn’t realize I said that out loud.”

“Whom did you see?” William asked, gently, leaning closer to her. He already liked the way her soft voice threaded its way through the surrounding chatter.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Michelle took a deep breath.

“Monet,” she admitted. She pointed to the floor in front of her feet. “He must have stood just this far away to paint this part. I can see him, in his paint-spattered clothes, his garden clogs... wearing that little cap that he loved... but everyone else hated it.”

William smiled but did not interrupt, fascinated by the change in Michelle face. The shyness was gone; her face almost seem to glow as she described the scene in the studio, the painter’s face and how he held the brushes.

“So,” he said, when she paused for a drink. “What do you see him doing... in your mind?”

Looking at the painting again, Michelle’s mouth curved into a little smile.

“He’s gripping his hair, like all painters do, saying: ‘That corner is all wrong! I cannot work hungry... Alice! Where the hell is my lunch?!’”

William threw back his head and laughed, hard. His companion’s expression and the subtle French accent she’d lapsed into struck him as hilarious. Two nearby middle-aged women seemed bothered by his outburst and moved away, whispering. Michelle, on the other hand, was delighted; she sipped her cider and enjoyed the sight. To her, William’s laughter sounded like cheerful music, and made him seem more human.

“You have quite an imagination, Michelle,” he said, recovering his composure somewhat; his eyes looked brighter with humor. His teeth drew Michelle’s attention.

“So much for the stereotypical Englishman with crooked choppers,” she thought. William’s were white and straight. “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery,” she told him, turning towards the painting again.

“Please call me William,” he offered. “I’m used to being addressed that way at work, but this is hardly a business setting, wouldn’t you agree?”

Playing nervously with her drink, Michelle suddenly felt inadequate to come up with a good response.

“It isn’t, but... I just met you,” she blurted out. “I’m not... comfortable addressing you like a friend.” Avoiding his gaze, Michelle returned to her study of the painting.

Surprised by the young woman’s frank answer, William was uncertain whether he should be intrigued or insulted. The merriment and warmth generated in the last several moments seemed vanish at Formality’s sudden appearance.

“Interesting,” he returned. “I assumed it is a common thing--in this country at least--to exchange names when meeting someone for the time, and--from there--to begin getting to know that person better.” He could hear the coolness in his own voice as he spoke. “An exchange of information then follows, perhaps jokes, a sense of mild camaraderie ensues, enabling a more solid connection to be formed. The establishment of trust, if you will.”

Michelle grew more alarmed by the second as William’s impromptu speech rolled out; he seemed starchier with each new word.

“But, assumption is the mother of all... mistakes,” she said, suddenly.

Both William’s eyebrow rose this time. Michelle inwardly cringed and wished herself mute. The phrase was one of her father’s most frequent quotes, taken from his favorite war movie; he’d changed the original version to be more appropriate for young ears. Apparently, the man standing rather stiffly beside her had heard the original. “My parents,” Michelle began, groping for anything to ease the weird tension in the air, “raised me to call all strangers “Mr.” or “sir,” “ma’am” or “miss.” It’s, um, an ingrained habit by now and... difficult to break.”

As she stumbled through her explanation, William seemed to relax a little. A moment or two drifted by before he spoke again.

“Hmm. I almost find that... charming.”

“Almost?”

“It’s a tad formal, don’t you think? I was only trying to be friendly.”

“I, um, figured that part out,” Michelle returned. “Hence the outpouring of unnecessary background information.”

The young woman’s quiet voice--with its hidden dagger of honed honesty�"appealed to William more than he cared to show. Thus far, Michelle’s vocabulary betrayed signs of an advanced education, but then it seemed to spiral downward when she was nervous, then bound back again at unexpected moments. William hid his interest under a polite smile, one he so often--at work--its application felt like breathing.

“Then I should reciprocate,” said he. “Perhaps we could eat dinner together, later and thereby share more background information. If you would allow me to join you... Miss Gregory.”

The invitation hung in the air, as if were lightly suspended from the gallery lighting. Michelle felt like refusing and accepting at the same time and the conflicting thoughts irritated her. If they were alive, she knew, both her parents would likely have invited this polite individual to their home, for dinner. Her father brought home dinner guests often, sometimes out of the blue. Her mother once told her that food was his favorite way of gauging someone’s character. On the other hand, she thought, perhaps William was just asked her out of pity, still unable to drop the ‘homeless’ thing.

“I’m not saying you look like you need to eat,” the man continued, forestalling her thoughts.

“Dinner... where?” Michelle asked him. A public restaurant wouldn’t be bad, if it was close. She’d brought enough cab fare to get back to the hotel, plus a little more.

“There’s a little place a few blocks from here,” William told her. “It’s called ‘Marie’s’. I go there often for a quiet dinner.”

“Is it well lit?” Michelle felt a bit silly for asking, but met William’s gaze nonetheless. “The restaurant, I mean... the exterior of it.”

With an effort, William quelled a laugh. The young woman’s question was practical, he supposed, but as over-the-top as her avoidance of first names. However, the inquiry did shed a bit of light on her guarded behavior. William supposed that a young woman, alone in this city and with access to the nightly news reports, might tend to view each and every street therein as a crime scene waiting to happen. Her parents were dead, he reminded himself, soberly, and she was an only child. All that aside, he felt vastly amused by the idea that Marie’s--an upscale dining establishment, with impeccable credentials--was somehow surrounded by predators, lurking in the shadows.

“The exterior is very well lit,” he assured his companion. “I believe they also employ an off-duty police officer, to patrol the adjacent parking lot and back alley. I’m fairly confident he’s armed as well. Most likely to the teeth.”

Michelle’s lips pressed into a line. Mockery she could handle. Fear was an entirely different matter; she wasn’t ashamed to admit hers, but the man’s implied scorn stung nonetheless.

“Hilarious,” she responded. “I hope he can afford to eat there, as well.”

William grinned at her, something which surprised Michelle greatly.

“You’re quick when properly provoked,” he said. “A far better reaction than the last time we spoke.” Michelle opened her mouth to respond but William continued. “Over dinner we can have a long, ardent discussion on the growing gap between the wealthy and working classes, as well as the importance of lighting in night-borne business�"if you like--but first, I find it necessary to establish whether or not you’ve already eaten.”

Michelle studied the man’s face for a moment; she inwardly debated whether or not to argue with him, take the bait or simply turn away. All these weeks, she’d imagined what kind of character the 12:06 man of her portrait would possess; was he all business, with a soft spot hidden somewhere, or was he a suave heart-breaker? William did not seem to fit either of those categories. Michelle even found his frank, unapologetic responses appealing. At the very least, dinner would not dull... if she accepted his invitation.

“I was going to eat after seeing the paintings,” she said, at last. “You can’t really enjoy this on a full stomach.” Unconsciously she lifted one hand and gestured towards the paintings.

William’s smile grew. Offering her his arm, he stepped closer.

“I couldn’t agree more. Shall we enjoy them together?”

Gathering what courage she possessed, Michelle gently took his arm.

“I promise not to talk your ear off,” she told him.

“Rubbish. If you would be so kind, please tell me what you know about each painting, and if you see the artist again. That was quite... entertaining.” They strolled onward as he spoke. “I am certain that Monet, himself, would be flattered to know a young artist took the trouble to research his life, in order to view his works in their proper context.”

“It’s not a lot of trouble to find out that information,” Michelle told him, looking at the canvas in front of them. “There are journals, articles and stories aplenty. His paintings just seem to speak to me. When I look at them, Monet does not seem so intimidating; he’s just an artist, a fellow human being.” She took a drink of her cider. “I really researched him out of selfishness, to be honest.”

William gave her a puzzled look.

“Selfishness? Care to explain?” Michelle cleared her throat.

“I view paintings as monuments, to the artist’s life. Even when they are gone, part of them lives on in the painting.”

“Like a photograph?” William asked. His companion made a face; she hid it again, but not quickly enough. “What... don’t you think photography is art?”

Michelle darted a glance around them; no one stood within earshot.

“Yes, but... in a different way,” she answered quietly, looking up to meet William’s gaze. “Photographers capture beauty. Artists do the same, but they have to work harder for it.” She gestured towards the painting again. “This took days, maybe weeks to compose, mostly from memory. He agonized over the light, re-doing it again and again until it matched the moment in his head exactly. There was no instantaneous click of a shutter, here. No backup image to look at, or tweak with software.”

William followed her gaze to the painting, feeling somewhat impressed by the young woman’s answer. The slight to photography notwithstanding, she’d given her honest�"if undiplomatic--opinion of a subject she felt passionate about, and shared it with him. This, in his opinion, was progress.

“Selfishness,” he mused aloud. “Do you say that because you want to be remembered by your art after you leave this Earth?”

Michelle nodded. William immediately thought of the portrait she’d drawn of him; it was likely now framed, displayed in his mother’s house and--he had no doubt--proudly being shown to all those in her nearer circles.

“My art teachers were all either progressives or historians,” he said, looking at the painting before them. “They viewed the impressionists in a variety of ways: rebels, untrained folk artists, even narcissistic.”

“They could have been all those things at once,” Michelle put in. “We’ll never really know.” William smiled.

“Certainly, but I like your way of looking at paintings better... as not merely a captured memory, but one with the added complexity of work and tedious effort.” He took a sip of his champagne. “Perhaps I am just finding a parallel with my own hobby.”

“Hand-made furniture? Yes, but... that’s also different than photography, being a far more practical form of art.”

Concentrating on the painting, Michelle did not see the fond look William gave her. He doubted that she could have given his hobby a better compliment.

“I agree with you,” he told her, “about the differences between artists and photographers. But I’m glad you said it quietly; I believe there are a few well-known individuals of the latter variety, here, in the room with us tonight.”

Michelle’s lips curved into a half-smile as he spoke. William noted that she had a single dimple on the right side of her face. An urge to reach up and brush it with his fingertip flickered through his hand, but he did not, having no intention to scare her off. Pretty much all of William’s carefully-weighed assumptions about the young woman�"gathered over the last two weeks--had proven incorrect. She was not in need of rescue, nor was she mentally ill or spoiled. Intriguing she was, however. Suddenly, William realized that all thoughts of work had flown to the back of his mind, and stayed there, the moment he’d seen Michelle standing in the room. He felt himself relax a little more as they moved on the next painting.

In the hours that followed no two people in the museum enjoyed themselves more than they. Their conversations were filled with more merriment than either had allowed themselves for some time. Looking at Michelle--as she reverently spoke of Madame Monet’s death--William was suddenly struck by the vast amount of time he spent in his office. This little slip of an American sketch-artist felt more passion about these paintings--and knew more about them--despite his careful education and the facilitating refinements of higher society. He could see life and beauty residing in Michelle’s eyes, and a part of him longed to share in it.

Lingering beside William, Michelle felt more than a little envious of each couple she saw; they were able to go home with their respective companions, while she merely had the pleasure of William’s company for but a few hours. Unwilling to let the opportunity pass her by, she reveled in every second and prodded herself to come a little more out of her habitual shell. So far, the man had retained his polite demeanor, without any suggestive remarks. As the minutes flew by, Michelle grew more comfortable talking with him and managed to avoid stupid-sounding remarks, mostly.

A few minutes to 9PM, Michelle looked up and saw that they stood in front of the last painting. A small amount of apprehension flooded her. She was about to go to dinner, with him… the man she’d watched walk by each day, the unattainable man of her portrait. William hadn’t rebuffed her company; he’d sought her out and in lieu of the look of disgust she had once envisioned he’d searched her eyes with interest... and a healthy amount of uncertainty.

William did not look uncertain now. He smiled at her and gestured towards the glass doors.

“Shall we?” he asked. Michelle thought the phrase was underestimated for its beauty. Nodding, she took his arm, feeling the first throes of delight.

“Just for dinner,” she thought, “I won’t have to be alone.”

At the coat check, she let William hold her overcoat for her. He, in turn, liked how his companion snuggled into its woolen depths; he was loath to cover up her form in such heavy layers but part of him admired her bravery for choosing such unfashionably dull colors. Most of the hanging coats were ether sleek black or bright reds and blues. But, Michelle was not an artist for nothing; the brown hues of her coat and gloves matched her skin well, allowing the reddish hue of her hair and her unusual eye color to be her only ornaments. William held the entrance door for her, rather hoping that her hair color was natural.

Outside, Michelle stood by William as he signaled for a cab, trying not to look as excited as she felt. It had been over a year since she’d been able to even think about dining out at a proper restaurant, let alone with company. William observed her expression as the cab drew up.

“You’re all bubbly,” he said, smiling a little. “You don’t even know where we’re going.” Michelle looked at him with her adorable dimpled smile. Instead of replying, she got into the open taxi door and scooted over.

“Marie’s, you said.”

“But, you haven’t eaten there... or you wouldn’t have asked about the exterior lighting.”

“You can’t draw that conclusion, maybe I ate there during the day.”

“I can. They only serve dinner.”

“Well... nuts.”

William let out a chuckle. He admired the young woman for trying to banter with him.

“Where to pal?” The driver’s impatient question drew William’s notice. Leaning forward he spoke the street address before settling back in his seat. The taxi began edging its way out into the evening traffic, amid a few honks of protest.

“We could try another place, if you like,” William offered. “Do you have a favorite food?”

“I like a wide variety of cuisines,” she replied. “Except for sushi,” she corrected, wrinkling her nose. William laughed.

“Good heavens, no,” he said. “Not on a cold night like this.”

“Tonight kind of feels like hot soup and fresh bread meal.”

Agreed,” William said. “Where we’re going, they have an excellent clam chowder this time of year, and they make their own buttery rolls in-house.”

“Sounds delicious,” Michelle returned, resisting the urge to lick her lips. Hunger had been building in her since lunch. She was glad of the taxi’s loud engine; the noise should cover any gurgling sounds emanating from her stomach.

Sitting beside one another, the two felt oddly comfortable with the lull in the conversation. William didn’t know if he’d ever met a more pleasant girl in his life. Glancing sideways at her, he watched as she sat, hands serenely folded in her lap; she looked out her window with the rapt attention of a child on holiday.

“Why did you move to New York?” he asked, suddenly curious. The investigative report he’d received on her did not include everything.

“For work,” Michelle answered, turning to face him; her expression sobered a little as she spoke.

“Johnson & Black, was it?” William asked, before thinking better of it. Michelle’s eye widened a little, but then she smiled.

“So, you can use Google,” she said. William snorted.

“Yes, I have fingers,” he said, wryly, “But no, that information was not Online. You, Miss Gregory, have an unusually small digital fingerprint. No social pages, no tweets, no pictures Online, and virtually no credit history for the last two years.”

Michelle looked at him for some moments in silence.

“Did you use your firm’s investigator, or did you hire one?” she asked.

Though quietly spoken, the question was nonetheless grave. William admired her perception. He noted the cab’s slow progress through the traffic; they had plenty of time for a full explanation. Discussing all this now would make the meal a bit less awkward, he thought.

“Hired,” he told her, frankly. Michelle didn’t flinch, or ask the driver to stop the cab. “So far so good,” William thought. He waited for the next inevitable question, and was not disappointed.

“Why?”

“I wanted to confirm your claims... the ones you shouted at me, the day we met.”

Michelle felt her face warm in embarrassment; she assumed she’d be hearing about her infamous outburst more throughout dinner. “It all ‘checked out’, as you Americans say,” William continued. “You are indeed a Certified Public Accountant--with a degree from Stanford--that cannot find work in New York City, despite working briefly for a very prominent firm in that industry.”

As William finished speaking, Michelle let out a frustrated breath. Strung together that way, her story sounded pathetic.

“I wasn’t fired justly,” she told him. “And I was blacklisted... or I would be working right now, in a proper job. Just so you know.”

Beside her, William hid away a smile. Even in the dim light of the cab, he could see a slight upward tilt to the young woman’s chin.

“But, I do. The man I hired is top notch. I’d be afraid to be on his bad side, truth be told.” William adjusted his seat a little. “He found a former co-worker of yours; she spilled the entire story.”

“Which co-worker?”

“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. The woman did tell him that you were very good at your job... though a trifle anti-social.”

Michelle gave him a rueful smile.

“That’s code for no office romances,” she told him. Her words coaxed a chuckle from William.

“I gathered that,” he said. “Is it true that you told your boss where she could stuff it?”

“Not in those words,” Michelle replied, quietly. She let a small pause ensue before speaking again. “I don’t know if it’s the same where you’re from, but taxes here are incredibly complicated. It’s like a giant dance of paperwork and receipts, and when it comes together it can be mathematically satisfying to see the numbers all match up and to get the client the best deal possible...”

William listened to her speak, finding himself drawing parallels with his own work.

“And when it doesn’t add up?” he asked. Michelle turned away, looking out the window again.

“There are popular loopholes that many companies chose to take, hidden in all that confusion and regulation, supported by slurred figures and lost data and the fact that the IRS audit teams are always overworked and understaffed.”

“I’m guessing all that is code for ‘illegal’,” William ventured. His companion nodded. “Why not testify, then? Make them remove the blacklist, at the very least.”

“I signed a non-disclosure agreement upon being hired,” Michelle replied. She turned to William. “I assume you’re familiar with those, being an attorney.” William nodded, once. “Even if I did go back on said agreement and manage to find a prosecutor that had a boss with no ties to any of the large accounting firms, I’d still be in the same boat. Most firms allow those practices to some degree, especially the larger, more influential ones. By objecting, I sealed my own fate.”

“I see your point.”

“There’s more,” Michelle went on. “The CFO of a particular company--that Johnson & Black handles accounts for--is the daughter of a respected New York City judge.”

“Ah. Is this a company that favors the illegal loopholes you spoke of?”

“One of them. It was the one I was fired over at any rate.”

“Hmm,” William returned. “That does put a damper on the notion of whistle-blowing, then.” Michelle nodded, but didn’t answer.

The slow-moving moving cars and lights outside the window drew her attention. She wondered if any of her former co-workers were riding in the cars around them, at that moment. The statistical probably of such a thing occupied her thoughts for some moments.

“Your story makes mine look downright dull by comparison,” William said, after a while.

Michelle turned to him.

“How rude of me not to inquire about your work,” she offered. “Please excuse me... I tend to pity myself more than asking other people questions.” She was surprised by William’s laugh.

“I’ve heard of worse flaws,” he told her; a look of amusement filled his eyes. “Clearly denial isn’t one of yours.” Hiding a smile, Michelle affected a shrug

“My father used to say that admitting one’s flaws is half the battle,” said she. “I’d like to politely inquire about what you do for a living, since you can’t pay the bills with your furniture.” She earned another smile from William. He seemed flattered that she’d been paying attention to their earlier conversation.

“I head up our firm’s Contracts & Negotiation department,” he told her. “Which sounds a great deal more elegant than it is. Think of it like being an accountant of words and clauses, but on a massive scale and equally as complex as your taxes.”

“Sounds like it,” Michelle responded, politely. “Words and clauses aren’t really my strong point.”

William gave her a knowing grin.

“Well, thank you for not feigning an interest,” he told her. “I find that rather refreshing.”

“I can relate a little,” Michelle told him. “Most folks find what I do enormously boring.”

“Something else we have in common, then, other than a love of impressionism.”

Michelle nodded. The alternating looks of amusement, bewilderment and admiration on William’s face provoked a self-perpetuating interest all their own. No, dinner would not be dull, she mused.

“Heavens, traffic is such a nightmare in this city,” William said, looking out his window. “But we’re nearly there, in spite of it.” He pointed ahead. “One restaurant with a well-lit exterior, as promised.”

Leaning forward a little, Michelle followed his gaze. The cab slowed down in front of a cozy-looking building, set back a little from the street, next to a secure parking lot. William opened his door and offered Michelle a hand out.

“Would you mind if I paid the fare?” Michelle asked as she emerged. William gave her a puzzled look, his hand already inside his inner coat pocket.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“I have enough cash on me to pay the fare,” Michelle told him, “or half the dinner. Either one.”

Not for the first time that evening, William felt the need to repress an incredulous laugh. He had no intention of making the young woman pay for her own meal. Chivalry wasn’t as dead as all that, whatever the prevailing sentiment on the subject was.

“The fare, then... if you insist,” he told her, stepping back. Michelle leaned down by the front passenger window and spoke to the driver. After a moment she counted money, folded it and handed the fare to the driver and stepped back to William’s side.

“This place looks lovely,” she said, nodding towards the restaurant, as the cab sped off behind her.

“It is,” William agreed. He offered her his arm once more. “I’ve eaten at a number of spots in this city, but is my favorite.”

Housed in the bottom floor of a three story Georgian-style house, the restaurant boasted landscaping and a front staircase. Inside, the restaurant looked even more inviting. A few tables stood, covered in black tablecloths. Semi-circle booths hugged the dark, fabric-covered walls, ending with a long bar at the far end of the opened room. Deep shades of rich red, black damask upholstery and soft, glowing candles added to the warmth and elegance of the space; dark-clad waiters drifted through the room like black swans on a midnight lake. A myriad of pleasant scents drifted in the warm air, above all the sublime scent of fresh-baked bread.

The maître d’ nodded at William and without a word escorted them to a nearby booth.

“I guess you do come here often,” Michelle said, removing her coat; she scooted behind the table, trying to do so without mussing her dress. William slipped in next to her, pleased that the close quarters of the small booth, allowing him unobstructed observations. “Yes, well… working as much as I do, dinners at home are not conducive to deadlines. This place is close to work, and quiet.”

“One needs some quiet,” Michelle agreed. “Even in New York.” William smiled.

“Especially here,” he said.

Laying his coat beside him on the seat, William turned to his date. The pale gold gown looked even better on her in the softer light. He especially liked her long hair, spilling over her shoulders, looking touchable and soft. She wore no jewelry and just a little makeup, with none of the heavy lines around her eyes. Michelle Gregory appeared simply as herself.

His scrutiny was not lost on Michelle. It had been years since she’d gone out on date, but the discomfort stemming from being studied felt familiar, regardless of the passage of time. She pretended to occupy herself with looking at the menu. William did likewise, though he did not resist a glance or two at her over the menu.

They both ended up ordering clam chowder and fresh rolls. While they waited for the food, William amused Michelle with stories of his childhood in London.

“... yes, I was a little ripper, then,” he said, smiling. “The fire department came out and everything. We were only having our own little Bonfire Night celebration… didn’t mean for the whole field to go ablaze.”

Michelle laughed behind her hand at her companion’s admission of youthful--albeit unintentional--arson.

“I bet your mother has a bunch of stories to tell about you,” she said. William narrowed his eyes at her.

“Dear lord, don’t even joke about that,” he stated. “She’d go on all day about her memories of me as a ‘darling’ little boy. She still does, you know, to complete strangers.”

About to ask if her mother did the same, William stopped himself in time. Michelle saw his expression however. Her smile faded away a little.

“How far back did that investigator of yours go?” she asked, quietly.

William leaned back in his chair and gave her a wan smile. They might as well get it all out on the table.

“High school, or thereabouts,” he said, carefully. He waited for her to speak. When she did not, William cleared his throat. “My father died when I was in middle school,” he told her, gazing at the candle on their table, sitting in its swallow glass dish. The flickering light reminded him--vaguely--of the dozens of candles lit around the church alter, at his father’s funeral. “Heart attack. But, as annoying as my mother can be, I am glad I didn’t lose them both.” He felt Michelle’s gaze on his face and glanced at her. The young woman looked at him with an uncertain expression, as if weighed whether or not to believe him. “I have that investigator’s number,” he continued. “If you’d like to return the favor of looking me up.”

“No thank you,” Michelle replied. “I’m sure he’s out of my price range, but I’ll be sure to look you up Online.” William felt a grin steal over his face.

“You do that. I already told you worst thing.”

“Arson? Yeah... that’s pretty bad.” William chucked at Michelle’s grave tone.

“I don’t suppose you did anything bad as a child, eh?” he inquired.

“Well, I never set anything on fire, but I did play a few pranks,” Michelle confessed. As she poke, she absently re-folded her table napkin.

William set his elbows on the table ad leaned forward a little.

“Do tell,” he murmured; his eyes held a strange gleam.

“Uh... alright.” William’s mischievous expression set Michelle off kilter a little, but she plunged into her story regardless, hoping to amuse him. “There were a few... but the best one was getting back at a group of popular girls, uh, after they had their jock boyfriends toss me and my best friend into the school dumpster behind the cafeteria.”

William’s eyebrows rose slightly.

“Now, why would they do a thing like that?” he inquired. “Come on... what did you do to get them mad?”

“It’s more like what we didn’t do,” Michelle told him; her dimple showed once more. “Rachel and I pulled some of the best grades that year; we were girl ‘geeks’. The popular girls, like in many schools, spent too much time at parties and not enough actual studying.”

“I see,” William said. “She didn’t like you and your friend?”

“Not quite,” Michelle said, titling her head a little. “We weren’t really in her circles... so I doubt she’d ever have noticed us, until she wanted us to sell her some term papers.”

“I gather you said ‘no’,” William put in.

“Correct,” Michelle returned, smiling. “Apparently, since we wouldn’t sell her the papers, no one else would, either. And then someone recorded her asking for them and told the principal.”

“So, the little b*****s thought tossing you in the dumpster was revenge-worthy?” William asked. Nodding, Michelle laughed inwardly at William’s pronunciation of ‘b*****s.’

“Cafeteria dumpsters,” she corrected. “Full of a week’s worth of slimy, decomposing leftover food, baking in the early summer sun.”

“Disgusting,” William replied. His companion nodded.

“Get’s worse. They closed the lids and shoved a stick through the lock ring.”

“Oh my... how long did it take for someone to find you?”

“Less than an hour,” Michelle answered. “It was roasting in there, but luckily a cafeteria worker let us out.”

“You were lucky you both didn’t get heat stroke,” William remarked.

“True. But we had time to think in there. Those girls were pretty dumb to mess with kids that got ‘A’s’ in chemistry. The heat just gave us an idea to get back at the whole group, using heat’s antithesis.”

William leaned forward; he enjoyed seeing Michelle more enlivened; her bright eyes were visible proof that the young woman was growing more comfortable around him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so enjoyed someone’s company by just sitting and talking.

“What did you do?” he asked. Michelle smiled.

“We waited until after Gym class--when ‘the b*****s’ were showering�"and Rachel and I each grabbed a CO2 fire extinguisher; we spent a glorious half minute freezing all of their clothing, solid... and their bags, and shoes.”

William’s eyebrows shot up. He chuckled imagining the scene.

“Why, you little minx…” he told her. “In do hope they had a change of clothes on them.”

Michelle shrugged, smiling.

“I don’t know,” she said. “We left the locker-room too quickly to check.”

“Did they get back at you?”

“I don’t think they had a chance to. The ‘leader’ was suspended a few days later for buying a term paper Online.”

“Sounds like you had fun, getting your revenge,” William told her.

“We did,” Michelle replied said, sighing a little. “It was quite a sight to see. Pressurized C02 comes out at negative one-hundred and thirty degrees.”

“Heavens, that’s cold... even in Fahrenheit.”

“Cold enough to shatter the clothes if they were touched. They must have, too... you could hear the cries of anguish all the way to the quad.”

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, William watched his date smile at the table; she appeared lost in youthful memories.

“I think that is one of the best pranks I have ever heard of,” he stated. All of the sudden, his stomach rumbled; the tips of William’s ears turned read and his shifted in his seat. Michelle pretended she hadn’t heard. “It’s a busy night. Service is a little slow,” William joked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I bet the food is worth the wait,” his date responded. Her gentle tone put William at ease.

“It is,” said he. “Like all good things,” he thought. William watched her face for a moment before clearing his throat. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Miss Gregory,” said he.

A wave of nervousness welled up in Michelle as he spoke. She forced herself to meet William’s gaze, however. “That portrait you drew of me... had you been watching me long?”

Michelle took in a steadying breath.

“Not really watching, per se...” she said, feeling a blush creep up her neck.

William held up one hand.

“No misusing a legal term with a lawyer present,” he told her, cracking a smile. His joke eased the tension a little.

“Touché,” Michelle replied. “You just, um, you walked by every day at the same, exact time. I really only saw you for a few seconds… walking in the one direction, but never back.”

Smiling at the young woman’s nervous tone, William switched his gaze to the vase on the table.

“I see. There’s an English-style pub down the block from your corner, where I go to lunch. Afterwards, I walk around the block, back to work. Exercise, you know.” He gave Michelle a sidelong glance. “You drew that picture of me, just from that?”

His companion looked surprised and shook her head.

“Oh, no,” she told him. “There was this little boy... he ran into you one day.” Her smile returned as she watched William’s eyebrows draw together in puzzlement.

“I remember,” he said, brightening. “The little urchin was running from his mum; he slammed right into my leg.” He shook his head, grinning at last. “He reminded me of myself... when things were simpler.”

Looking at Michelle, William saw a soft look present in her eyes.

“You smiled at him,” she said. “I had never seen you smile before, but when you looked down at the boy there was… a glow that spread over your face, and the warmth of it radiated in that dismal crowd. I couldn’t rest until I’d put that expression on paper.”

William forgot his grumbling stomach and leaned towards her a little. This girl fascinated him with her optimistic manner of watching the world, seeking out beauty, let alone harboring the intelligence to catalog and reproduce it later. He felt he could talk her for hours, and not run out of things to say. He was tempted to launch into a discussion on Monet just to hear her sweet voice more and watch her lovely mouth form words.

Realizing he was staring, William straightened up, shaking his head a little. What spell was he under? He’d known this young woman only a few hours, and he’d spent nearly every moment enjoying himself. For the first time in years he looked forward to eating with company, something he normally avoided. William liked his solitude; it was habitual and pleasant, with no pressure to be this or that or act properly. But, after being in this young artist’s company for a few hours, the very idea of eating alone just no longer appealed. Suddenly, William could see Michelle sitting with him, and talking�"just like this--for every meal that he’d ever have.

“William?”

Michelle’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts. She gave him a puzzled look. “I hope you’re not offended.”

William grinned down at her; she’d spoken his first name and didn’t even realize it.

“Not a bit,” he told her, warmly. “I was merely thinking how long it had been since I’d had such pleasant company.”

“I’m glad I’m not boring you.”

“Quite the contrary, I assure you.” William looked at her with a grin. “And I would like to point out that you called me by my first name, just now.”

Michelle’s eyes widened a little.

“I... did.” She blinked and then gave him an apologetic look. “That was unintentional.” William chuckled.

“Exactly,” he murmured. He decided to let the subject drop. “Do you know, that I have never brought a date here, to this restaurant?”

At his words, Michelle smiled once more. She put one hand to her chest I feigned shock.

“You don’t say,” she told him. “I thought you’d make a habit of asking out underprivileged sketch artists.”

Chuckling, William lowered his eyelids a little.

“Only the pretty ones that run away,” he said in a low voice. He got what he was after; a rosy blush stole over Michelle’s face and she looked away.

Dark-clad waiters approached their table, bearing gleaming white soup-plates. A large, wicker cornucopia basket of rolls was set down on the table and the servers swept off, leaving the two hungry guests to themselves. They exchanged a look of mutual relief... food. William felt genuinely famished; he’d worked though lunch that day. He watched Michelle from the corner of his eye as she expertly flicked out her napkin and laid it across her lap.

“You’ve done that before,” he observed.

“Yes,” Michelle replied. “I was a server at a four-star bistro during college. I’m resisting polishing the silver.” William chuckled as Michelle critically eyed her fork; how fun it would be, he thought, to tell the owner that his silver did not measure up to the standards of an unemployed sketch artist.

They dipped into their dinner with relish. The savory, thick soup was creamy and delicious, with the fresh, buttery rolls as the perfect accompaniment. William and Michelle spent several minutes just eating in the warm atmosphere. The clink of glasses and the soft murmurs of quiet conversation sounded now and again but nothing disturbed the peace.

Michelle enjoyed every morsel of her food. The creamy, warm chowder it reminded her grandmother’s cooking. As she ate, Michelle thought of her kindly ‘Gramma Betty. The lady had lived and cooked in her little cottage on the Chesapeake Bay. Though well off, the woman has always done her own cooking. Each Christmas, Michelle and her family flew out to see her. They’d make the special clam chowder together as well as dozens of different cookies, making the most marvelous mess and cleaning it up after. Later they’d sit out on the snowy veranda and watch the stormy, gray water of the bay, well-bundled-up with hot cocoa in hand. Deluged with fond memories, Michelle smiled down at her bowl, lovingly dipping a piece of bread into the soup.

Enjoying his dinner, William still managed to study his guest from the corner of his eye. The young woman did not eat as though starving, but with such enjoyment he couldn’t help but smile. Rarely would women eat well on a date, in his experience; they usually ordered a small salad and nibbled away daintily, pretending they did not feel anything as archaic as Hunger.

Michelle, on the other hand, gingerly took a second roll and sighed contentedly.

“This is so good,” she said, when William looked over. “It’s just like my grandmother’s chowder.” William felt interested to know more but his companion didn’t elaborate. Wiping his mouth with the napkin, he relaxed back against the booth.

“One of my grandmothers used to make lemon curd on toast for breakfast,” he said, laying his napkin on the table. “She’d take it out on a tray, so we could eat in her conservatory; it was the best breakfast, sitting out there, or so I thought, what the flowers and plants inside and the rain running down the outside of the glass.”

As he spoke Michelle leaned forward a little, drawn to William’s happy expression.

“That sounds a lovely time,” said she. “And so was this... thank you for the soup, and for your company. I have not enjoyed an evening so much in a long time.”

William heard the sincerity in Michelle’s voice and looked at her. His eyes dropped to her hand as it rested on the table; it looked lonely. He gently covered it with his own.

“Same here, Michelle,” he murmured. Michelle felt the air leave her lungs, momentarily.

“We barely know each other,” she thought, slowly moving her hand away. She hoped he would not be offended or mock her.

“Dessert?” William asked, instead.

“Um... dinner was perfect,” Michelle replied quietly. “Nothing more is needed.” The corners of William’s eyes crinkled as he grinned.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he mused, aloud. “I’ve never known a woman to turn down...” He glanced down at the gilt-edged dessert card, “a confection titled ‘Dark Chocolate Mousse Cake’?”

Michelle forced herself not to lick her lips.

“Someone allergic to chocolate?” she ventured.

Grinning, William shook his head.

“If you were, you wouldn’t have phrased that as a question,” he told her. Michelle wrinkled her nose a little.

“Your observation skills constitute an unfair advantage,” she told him. “Just so you know.” Chuckling William beckoned at a nearby waiter.

“My profession demands it,” he returned. “Want to share one? It’s a fairly large slice; I doubt I could eat a whole one.”

Surprised by the suggestion, Michelle nodded anyway; sharing food was an action normally reserved for intimate couples, in her mind. Looking at William, however, Michelle saw he was leaning back comfortably, apparently unconcerned with the doubts she was obliged to feel for him.

The cake lived up to its rich-sounding name. William watched as Michelle savored her bites, wondering how long it had been since she’d eaten cake, or chocolate. He knew so little about her day to day life. Her credit report provided no details about groceries, restaurants or clothing stores. Then again, the spare information thereon wasn’t really surprising. All the accountants he’d even met tended to be on the more frugal side, arguing for use of credit cards only to get and maintain one’s credit in a responsible manner, often waxing poetic on the misuse of revolving balances. William ate another bite of the cake and then urged his guest to eat the rest. The young woman didn’t put up the pretense of an argument, and he liked her better for it.

William signaled for the check.

“May I leave the tip?” Michelle asked him, laying down her fork. As William began to object, she unconsciously laid her hand on his arm. “Please?” she asked. “I would feel... better, if you would allow me to.”

“Good heavens,” William thought. “Have you any idea what allowances I’d make for you?” Keeping this to himself, he smiled instead, giving her a single nod. Michelle’s answering smile was reward enough.

Taking out a ten-dollar bill, Michelle quickly folded and re-folded it into a series of tiny triangles, carefully drawing it out into the shape of a little, flying bird. Her hands flew so swiftly that William hardly knew what she was doing until she placed the little green crane on the table.

“I love doing that,” Michelle told him. “It’s different.”

“Well, aren’t you clever,” her date said, flashing her a grin. “The server won’t forget a tip like that.” William signed off on the check and grabbed his coat. “Now, my origami-folding companion,” he said, leaning towards Michelle a little. “I am sorry that our dinner has come to an end.”

“I agree with you. This entire evening has been… wonderful.”

To William’s puzzlement, Michelle grimaced after she spoke.

“Something the matter?” he asked her.

“It’s such a trite word,” his companion said, wistfully. “I wish no one had ever used the word ‘wonderful’ so I could use it to describe tonight without sounding like I’ve never picked up a dictionary...”

William laughed; his date looked rather adorable with her nose wrinkled up.

“Ah, Michelle--if I may call you that--I have not laughed so much in ages,” he said, scooting out from the booth.

Offering a hand to the young woman, William noted the soft warmth of her skin when their hands met. Clearing his throat, he helped Michelle into her coat; the subtle scent of apple blossom perfume, or scented shampoo rose to greet him. As they walked out of Marie’s, the idyllic orchard vision from earlier haunted his brain with a vengeance.

“Apples aren’t even blossoming this time of year,” William thought.

Michelle unconsciously slipped her arm through his as they gained the front stairs. Compared to the warm restaurant, the air outside seemed frigid. Turning his collar against the wind, William smiled down at Michelle.

“Let me see you home,” he said, as they descended the stairs. “Honestly, I would love to take a stroll with you, or get coffee... anything other than end our evening.” William surprised himself by blurting out such information. It sounded rather desperate.

“But?” Michelle rescued him.

“But... I have to work tomorrow,” William admitted, heavily.

“So do I,” his companion said. “Such is life, as the French say.”

“C’es la vie,” William corrected, smiling a little. Michelle smiled back.

“Yes, I know, but my accent is probably insulting,” said she, drawing another chuckle from her date.

For the first time in years, William didn’t feel like going home. Most days, he couldn’t wait to get through the door of his townhouse, kick off his shoes and drop onto his favorite couch. Tonight, however, he simply did not want to part from this intriguing young woman, who made him laugh and feel like a normal person. In all honestly, he wanted to bring her home with him, but he assumed that suggestion would definitely scare her off. Still, William stood on the sidewalk, toying with ideas he shouldn’t.

“You may,” his companion told him, softly. William looked at her, momentarily confused. “See me home... if you’d still like to, that is,” Michelle continued. She wondered a bit at the fleeting look of guilt on William’s face, but dismissed it.

“Ah... absolutely,” he said, with a quick smile. Reaching up, he tucked a wispy strand of hair behind her ear.

Michelle drew back a little at his touch.

“I... uh... won’t be able to... um, invite you in,” she told him; she bit her bottom lip a little as she spoke.

“What, no cognac on hand?” William teased her, grinning. Michelle did not smile back.

“No, I just... don’t invite anyone into my room,” she explained; she glanced up at with William with hesitation, as if she expected him to laugh.

William smiled at her instead. Rather moved by her forthright manner, he found it refreshing not having to guess her thoughts.

“I understand,” he said. “And, I wasn’t expecting anything.” His companion’s shoulders visibly relaxed.

“Thank you,” Michelle told him, not really knowing what else to say.

After a few false tries, William got the attention of an empty taxi cab.

“You said�"some time ago--that you lived in a ‘nice’ hotel,” William said, shutting the cab door after them. “Where should I send the driver?”

“Didn’t your report include that information?” Michelle asked him; her smile had returned full force.

William snorted.

“Don’t be daft,” he remonstrated. “I would have found you there by now if it had. You cover your tracks very well, young lady.” He gestured towards the driver’s open window. “I can’t see you home until you clear up the mystery.”

Michelle smiled at him.

“The Walden-Astor,” she stated, lifting her chin a little. William lifted an eyebrow at her.

“Hilarious,” he returned. “You may as well just tell me. I’ll find out sooner or later...”

Looking closer at Michelle’s face, William sobered; she seemed to be holding in laughter, with some difficulty.

“It wasn’t a joke,” she told him. “I did say I lived in a nice hotel, remember.”

“You’re... serious?” William returned. The incredulity in his voice matched his expression. Unable to hold back her laughter, Michelle told William about her arrangement with the hotel in between breaths.

“You little minx,” he said, impressed. “You knew--when you told me--that I wouldn’t believe the Walden-Astor… didn’t you?” Wiping her eyes, Michelle nodded.

“I’ve always wanted to tell someone where I live,” she admitted. “Just to see that reaction.”

Narrowing his eyes at her, William allowed himself a smile.

“You owe me another date for that,” he told her, leaning towards the driver’s window. “To the Walden-Astor!” he ordered, heavy on the pronunciation. The cab sped off, only to slow once more in traffic. For once, William did not mind the languid pace; it meant more time with Michelle.

“So, any other ‘arrangements’ I should know about?” he inquired, after a few moments. His companion gave him an upward glance.

“Nothing bad,” she told him. “Once a quarter I look over the books for a small day spa, near the hotel. They give me a free body wrap and a mineral shower. Those are amazing... just like being in a Colorado hot springs.”

Michelle’s eyes took on a dreamy look as she spoke. In contrast to her formal, cautious expression she looked relaxed, and alluring. William felt tempted to lean down to kiss her.

“Slow... take it slow, old boy,” he thought. He cleared his throat. “Colorado,” he mused, aloud. “That’s where you’re from, correct?”

“Yes. I grew up in Denver, but your report probably already told you that.”

“It did. I am curious why you’d attend university in California, if I may ask?”

“My parents both went there. It’s... where they met.” Michelle blinked; her parents were not a safe subject. Thankfully, William went on talking about her education.

“Graduate of the Stanford School of Business, majoring in Financial Accounting,” he recited. “And a minor in Drawing... a rather odd combination, that.”

“Not a very smart choice, considering what occurred... and how the job market is now. I should have majored in dance, or music...”

“You couldn’t have predicated what would happen at Johnson & Black,” William pointed out. “With four or five people clamoring for nearly every job in this city�"and considering your arrangement with the hotel--I can see why you’ve chosen to keep selling your drawings in Midtown.”

Michelle gave William a side-long look.

“No pitying the bedraggled sketch artist, now,” she said. “I know I have a lot to be thankful for. I may have lost my apartment but at least I don’t have to sleep out on the streets, or in a shelter. Working out there is not so bad, you know. All things considered, it has been great experience for my face studies.”

“Faces, like mine, hmm?” William asked her. “I must admit I don’t recall seeing any other portraits for sale, that day.”

Michelle felt warmth steal over her face again and was grateful for the darkness of the cab.

“Yours was actually the first one that I displayed,” she told him, clearing her throat. William noted her nervous tone had returned. “The tourists buy pen and ink renderings of landmarks, and the locals like the lesser known architectural studies and park scenes, or once in awhile a political caricature. Those are what sell, anyway.” She felt her companion’s gaze studying her face as she spoke.

“Why did you put my portrait out?” William asked.

The question she’d been dreading seemed to echo in the backseat of the taxi, making the space seem even smaller. Swallowing her fear, Michelle decided to go for honesty; so far, it had been a winning strategy.

“I wanted to see if you’d notice it,” she admitted. “That’s about as brave as I get.”

Hiding away a smile, William watched Michelle’s face in the shifting light coming through the windows. Her expression more than hinted at vulnerability, as if she expected him to mock her at any moment. A strong desire to sweep her into his arms came over him, to promise to take care of her, if she’d only agree to stay with him.

William blinked, giving himself a mental slap. Thoughts of companionship, a relationship... even of marriage occurred to him so quickly that he felt unprepared to deal with them. The young woman--seated by him in the cab--was a mere nodding acquaintance, but he wanted her to be so much more, regardless. The investigation he’d had done seemed to fuel the leap into the unknown. Bewildered by his own brain’s leaps into the unknown William gazed at Michelle, thinking fantastic things.

Michelle saw a soft look descend into William’s face. His eyes looked pensive, not insulted or scornful as she expected. She was dying to know what was on his mind but feared to pry. Gathering up her courage, Michelle contented herself with touching the back of his hand.

“I didn’t know your mother would be there,” she told him, earnestly. “I hope she wasn’t too offended by my behavior that day.”

William shook himself out of his mental daze.

“On the contrary,” he answered, sitting forward on the seat. “My mother was only worried about you. She wanted to know what made you take to hawking your drawings on a street corner as much as I did.”

“You’re sure I didn’t scare her?” Michelle asked him. “She was just so kind, and lovely... I hated that she saw me act like that... both of you, for that matter.”

William smiled at her.

“It’s alright,” he said, gently. “We don’t have to talk about that anymore, if you like.”

Nodding, Michelle exhaled, feeling a burden slip off her shoulders.

“Now,” William continued. “Since we are going at a snail’s pace in this cab, perhaps you can tell me where you’ve been hiding yourself all these weeks?”

Eager to launch into a new subject, Michelle told her companion about her new corner. She described Patrick and his strangely brilliant talent, as well as his on-point advice to her.

“Sounds like a clever sort,” William mused aloud, feeling his chin. “He knows his market, certainly.” He met Michelle’s gaze. “Why that particular corner, if I may ask?”

“It was, um... well out of the way,” was the young woman’s answer. William quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Whose way?” he hazarded. “Mine, you mean?” Michelle nodded.

“Your routine is fixed,” she stated. “I was confident you wouldn’t change it.”

Her words provoked a mixture of annoyance and admiration to well up in William. The idea that he was so minutely predictable was a little insulting, but he could not argue with the observation.

“12:06,” he murmured; he gazed past Michelle, out the window. Opening her mouth, Michelle thought better and shut it again; she wanted to apologize for mentioning it, but the man did ask. After a few moments, William looked at her from the corner of his eye.

“I find it interesting,” he said at last, “that you didn’t consider yourself a great enough variable to induce a change in my routine.”

Michelle sat, motionless, pondering his words. She couldn’t tell if she was being complimented or not. Her companion cleared his throat. “But you were,” he continued, leaning forward a little. “I began looking at your corner, every day, wondering if you’d re-emerge from wherever it was you’d gone to. When you didn’t show I began eating in, or working through lunch. It was depressing, to see that empty corner, to be honest. Calling that investigator was a bit out of character, even for me.”

Michelle let a small pause ensue. William’s words inspired what bravery she felt to grow, just a little.

“Did you find out what you wanted to know?” she asked.

“I did tonight,” William told her. “That and more.”

A smile stole over Michelle’s face. Her companion smiled back at her, the ethereal smile she’d captured in her portrait. Something in her wanted to believe this man was truly interested in her, in forming more than cursory attachment, but rational Michelle could not allow that hope to take flight, just yet.

“Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?” William asked her, suddenly. The end of their evening felt closer with each passing moment. Despite their recent acquaintance, he could not let her go without giving her some indication of his intentions. He intended to see her as much as humanly possible.

Michelle surprised him with her soft chuckle.

“In my ugly hat?” she inquired, her eyes bright with mirth. “With my display case and my rug, be-speckled with pigeon droppings? That should go over well in a restaurant...”

William let out a bemused snort.

Grinning, William narrowed his eyes at her.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he remarked. “Take the day off work tomorrow. I will buy all of your drawings.” Michelle hesitated; she bit her bottom lip a little. “You can finally see where I go to lunch,” William continued, encouragingly. Seeing his companion still looked uncertain, he switched tacks. “My mother is in town, visiting again. I’ll invite her to join us, if you’d like.”

Michelle looked a little alarmed at the mention of his mother. William squeezed her hand.

“Relax,” he said, softly. “She’d like very much to see--for herself--that you’re all right.”

Offering William a brave smile, Michelle took in a deep breath. It occurred to her that this was one of those now-or-never moments, the kind one encounters while traveling the path of life; you either take it or forever rue your own cowardice. His mother would be there, she thought. That was safe.

“My old corner then? At 12:06?” she suggestion, trying to sound more confident than she felt. Whatever doubts she harbored, William’s answering smile made them vanish. He looked pleased.

“Not a moment later,” he promised, as the taxi pulled up in front of the Walden-Astor’s grand edifice. Opening her door, Michelle swung her feet out onto the curb.

“Michelle?”

Pausing, she looked back at William uncertainly. “Sleep well,” he said, looking as if he wished to say much more; he held out one hand to her. Michelle smiled at him and shook his hand.

“You as well ... and, thank you again.”

William squeezed her hand a little before letting go.

“You’re very welcome, Michelle,” he said. He meant, ‘You’re very welcome to be a part of my life until I die’, but hoped the young woman wouldn’t guess that. He rolled down the window as she walked from the cab. “Goodnight,” he called after her. Michelle turned and gave him a little wave before disappearing through the hotel’s entrance doors.

Settling back in the seat, William gave the driver directions to his building, unable to stop a slow smile from spreading over his face. His carefully-controlled emotions and thoughts were slipping away from their logical rut at an alarming rate, but it didn’t bother him in the slightest. Letting out a relaxed breath, William pondered the evening’s events, chuckling now and then at the amusing things Michelle had said and done. Her charming traits outweighed the insecure, awkward ones.

“Lovely and shy … but somewhere in there is a minx,” he said, to himself.

For the full ride home, William allowed himself a mental walk through an orchard of blossoming apple trees, accompanied by a smiling girl in a pale gold dress.