Burn (Songs of Submission #5)(31)

When he got out of whatever hole he was in back home in Idaho, Kevin would have to dig himself out of an even deeper hole in the art world. I didn’t envy him. As a matter of fact, I felt very, very sorry for him.

CHAPTER 26.

MONICA

We were very close to being late. The piece had gotten up and the music turned on as the caterers finished the buffet and bar. Feran had been at our service the whole time, even shuttling Darren around to pick up a cable he needed to reconfigure the sound. He sped us through the city, around side streets and highways, and got us back to the hotel with seven minutes to spare.

“Dude,” Darren said, “thanks.”

They shook hands like only men can, and Darren and I ran to our rooms.

The door between our suites was open. I peeked into Jonathan’s space and found him in a tuxedo shirt and tie, setting in a cufflink. Clean-shaven, hair neatened for the event, wearing a suit sexier than any lingerie, he silenced my reproaches about the open door just by looking as though he’d stepped out of a magazine.

“You look nice,” I said.

“Thank you. I had some things sent from Yaletown,” he said. “They’re in the closet.”

“I brought my Eclipse dress.”

“No doubt you did.” He tapped his watch. “I’m leaving. But you guys are going to be late if you don’t move it.”

“I have to close this.” I indicated the door.

“Shoo.”

As painful as it was to cut him out of my vision, I closed the door. Of course, I had no intention of wearing any dress he had sent from wherever he said they were sent from. I got out my Eclipse dress, which was the most beautiful thing I owned. I loved it. But next to it in the closet hung a wide garment bag designed for multiple hangers. In this case, seven.

I hung the Eclipse dress in the bathroom, behind the door, so the steam would relax it, and ran the shower. As I undressed, I made it a point to not think about the seven dresses. In all likelihood, they didn’t go with my shoes. I didn’t have the right accessories, and looking at them would only hammer home what I already knew. The dresses had been picked out by someone who didn’t know me, didn’t know my taste, and obviously shopped with an eye to making that gorgeous man’s female interest look like a wet dumpling.

The shower wasn’t the right temperature. Not quite too cold. Maybe it was too hot. That was it. I inched the handle a quarter inch toward cold and ran to the closet as though the bag held candy and opened it so fast the zipper screamed.

“God help me,” I said. “I am not made of stone.”

Seven dresses. Four black. I pushed those to the side. Everyone was going to be wearing black, and time was ticking by. Darren would knock in minutes.

One tonal print. Out.

The last two fell just below the knee. A sparkly, flesh-colored halter with a handkerchief bottom, and a red, low-cut power suit that screamed don’t f**k with me. That was it. And it went with the shoes.

I showered fast, keeping my hair dry. Quick shave. Soap all over. Dried like lightning and out to the closet.

Right. Red dress.

I pulled my underwear out of the bag, and of course, though I intended to wear my regular cottons, the lace and garter were right there. The set was white with gold hooks and clasps. The suspenders were satin with overlayed lace, and the rings holding the straps were as big as quarters. The front was held together with tiny gold hooks. Fuck it. At least I had an outside chance of getting laid in it.

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

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

There was a knock at the door two rooms away.

“Mon? Come on!” It was Darren.

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

Red dress.

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

CHAPTER 27.

JONATHAN

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

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

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

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