Toxic Bachelors-Danielle Steel

[Dalyia]

“No, the young one,” Adam corrected again. “She's a pretty little thing. She looks like a ballerina, but you can never tell in Europe. Every time I see a cute young thing, it turns out she's in medical school, or law school, or studying to be an engineer or a rocket scientist.”
“Well, you'd better behave yourself. She could be Sylvia's daughter, for all you know.” Although that wouldn't have stopped Adam. When it came to women, he was fearless, and without conscience or re-morse—to a point, of course. But he thought everyone was fair game unless they were married. There he drew the line, but nowhere else.
Like everyone else in the tiny port, they walked around the square and the shops after dinner, and close to midnight they walked up to the hotel from the port. And just as Sylvia had predicted, her entire group was sitting in the bar. They were laughing and talking and smoking, and when she saw the three men walk in, she waved with a broad smile. She introduced them to her friends again, and conveniently, the chair next to the young woman Adam had found pretty was vacant, and he asked her if he could sit down. She smiled and pointed to the seat. When she spoke to him, her English was excellent, although he could tell from her accent she was French. Sylvia explained to Gray that the young woman Adam was talking to was her niece. Charlie found himself sitting between two men. One was Italian, and the other French, and within minutes they were deeply engaged in a conversation about American politics and the situation in the Middle East. It was one of those typically European conversations that go straight to the core of things, without messing around, with everyone expressing strong opinions. Charlie loved exchanges like that, and within minutes, Sylvia and Gray were talking about art. It turned out that she had studied architecture, and lived in Paris for twenty years. She had been married to a Frenchman, and was now divorced, and had been for ten years.
“When we got divorced, I had no idea what to do, or where to live. He was an artist, and I was dead broke. I wanted to go home, but I realized I no longer had one. I grew up in Cleveland, and my parents were gone by then, and I hadn't lived there since high school, so I took both my kids and moved to New York. I got a job in a gallery in SoHo, and as soon as I could, I started a gallery on a shoestring, and much to my amazement, it worked. So here I am, ten years after I went back, still running the gallery. My daughter is studying in Florence, and my son is getting a master's at Oxford. And now I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing in New York.” She took a breath and smiled at him. “Tell me about your work.”
He explained the direction he had been taking for the past ten years and the motivations behind it. She understood exactly what he meant when he told her about the influences behind his painting. It all made sense to her, although it wasn't the kind of art she showed, but she had great respect for what he said, and what she'd seen of his work several years before. He said his style had changed considerably in the meantime, but she had been impressed by his earlier work. They discovered that they had lived within blocks of each other in Paris at roughly the same time. And she said without embarrassment that she was forty-nine years old, although she looked about forty-two. There was something very warm and sensual about her. She didn't look American, or French, but with her hair pulled back and her big green eyes, she looked very exotic, perhaps South American. She seemed completely at ease in her own skin, and with who she was. She was only a year younger than Gray, and their lives had run parallel many times. She also loved to paint, but said she wasn't very good. She did it more for fun. She had a deep love and respect for art.
They all sat there until nearly three o'clock, and then finally the threesome from the Blue Moon stood up.
“We'd better get back,” Charlie said. It had been an enjoyable evening for all of them. He had pursued his conversation among the other men for many hours. Gray and Sylvia hadn't stopped talking all night, and although Sylvia's niece was an undeniably pretty girl, Adam had gotten drawn into a conversation with a lawyer from Rome, and had enjoyed a heated debate, even more than he had enjoyed flirting with Sylvia's niece. It had been a terrific evening for all concerned, and their hosts stood up with regret.
“Would you like to spend the day on the boat tomorrow?” Charlie offered to the group at large, and everyone smiled and nodded their heads.
“All of us in a rowboat?” Sylvia teased. “I suppose we could take turns.”
“I'll try to come up with something more suitable by tomorrow,” Charlie promised. “We'll pick you up in the port at eleven.” He wrote down the phone number of the boat for her then, in case something changed. They left each other fast friends a few minutes later, and all three men looked pleased as they walked back down the hill to the tender waiting for them in the port. It was exactly what they loved about their trips together. They went to fun places and met interesting people. They all agreed that the evening they'd spent with the group that night had been one of their best.
“Sylvia is an amazing woman,” Gray commented admiringly, and Adam laughed.
“Well, at least I know you're not attracted to her,” Adam said as they reached the port. The tender was waiting for them with two crew members standing by. They were on duty at all hours, whenever Charlie and his friends were on the boat.
“How do you know I'm not attracted to her?” Gray asked with a look of amusement. “Actually, I'm not. But I like her head. I loved talking to her. She's incredibly honest and perceptive about the art scene in New York. She's a no-nonsense kind of person.”
“I know. I could see that while she was talking to you. And I know you're not attracted to her, because she's not nuts. She looks about as normal as it gets. No one's threatening her life, she doesn't look as though she'd put up with being abused by anyone, and she doesn't look as though her prescription for antipsychotic medication just ran out. I don't think there's a chance in hell you'll fall for that one, Gray,” Adam teased. She was nothing like the women Gray normally wound up with. She looked entirely put together, totally competent, and completely sane. Saner than most in fact.
“You never know,” Charlie said philosophically. “Magical things happen in Portofino, it's a very romantic place.”
“Not that romantic,” Adam countered, “unless she has a nervous breakdown by tomorrow at eleven.”
“I think he's right,” Gray said honestly. “I have a fatal weakness for women who need help. When her husband left her for someone else, she picked up her kids and moved to New York without a penny. Two years later she was running a gallery, and now it's one of the most successful in New York. Women like that don't need to be rescued.” He knew himself well, and so did his friends, but Charlie was still hopeful. He always was, even about himself.
“That could be a refreshing change,” Charlie suggested, smiling at him.
“I'd rather be her friend,” Gray said sensibly. “It lasts longer.” Charlie and Adam both agreed as they got back on the boat, said goodnight, and went to their cabins. It had been a terrific night.
The entire group came on board the next morning, as the three friends were finishing breakfast. Charlie gave them a tour of the boat, and they motored out to sea shortly after. They were all immensely impressed. It was quite a boat.
“Charlie tells me you travel together for a month every year. What a fabulous thing to do,” Sylvia said, smiling at Gray, as they both drank virgin Bloody Marys. Gray had decided that it would be a lot more fun to talk to Sylvia and stay sober. None of them had a drinking problem, but they readily agreed, they drank far too much on the boat, like bad teenagers who had run away from their parents. Around Sylvia, it was more of a challenge to be an adult. She was so bright, and so on top of things, he didn't want his senses dulled when he talked to her. They were deep in conversation about Renaissance frescoes in Italy, when the boat stopped and they threw anchor.
Within minutes everyone was in bathing suits, diving off the boat into the water. They cavorted like kids, two of Sylvia's friends water-skied, and Gray noticed Adam on the Jet Ski with the niece astride behind him.
They swam and played until nearly two o'clock, and by then the crew had set out a fabulous buffet of seafood and pasta. They sat down to an enormous lunch, with Italian wine, and at four o'clock they were still at the table in animated conversation. Even Adam was forced to be intelligent with Sylvia's niece—it turned out that she was studying political science in Paris, and was planning to enter a doctoral program. Like her aunt, she wasn't anyone to take lightly. Her father was the minister of culture, and her mother was a thoracic surgeon. Both of her brothers were doctors, she spoke five languages, and she was thinking of getting a law degree after her doctoral degree in political science. She was considering a career in politics. This was not a girl who wanted implants from him. She expected intelligent conversation, which came as a shock to Adam. He wasn't used to women her age being as direct as she was, or as serious about their studies. Charlie laughed at him as he walked by—she was discussing foreign money markets, and Adam looked nervous. She had him on his toes, or on the ropes, as he ruefully admitted later. He was no match for her, despite her age.

[Dalyia]

Sylvia and Gray spent the afternoon discussing art, interminably, much to their delight. They went from one period of history to another, drawing parallels between politics and art. Charlie watched them all with fatherly pleasure, making sure that his crew was making them feel at home on the boat, and that his guests had everything they wanted.
The day was so beautiful that they decided to stay and have dinner on the boat, at Charlie's invitation. It was nearly midnight before they motored slowly closer to the port, after stopping for a moonlight swim on the way back. For once, Gray and Sylvia stopped talking about art, and just enjoyed the water. She was a powerful swimmer, and seemed capable in all things she did, whether athletics or art. Gray had never met a woman like her. They swam back to the boat, as he found himself wishing he was in better shape than he was. It wasn't something he thought about often. But she was extremely fit, and scarcely out of breath as they got back on board. For a woman her age, or even a younger one, she looked great in a bikini, but she seemed unaware of herself around him, unlike her niece, who had been flirting relentlessly with Adam. Her aunt made no comment, she was well aware of the fact that her niece was a grown woman, and was free to do whatever she wanted. Sylvia wasn't in the habit of running anyone else's life. Her niece could run her own.
Before they left, Sylvia asked Gray if he'd like to go to San Giorgio with her the following morning. She had been there often before, but loved seeing it again and again. She said she saw something new each time she went there. He accepted readily, and agreed to meet her in the port at ten. There was nothing coy about her invitation to him, it was simply a bond between two art lovers. She said they were leaving the day after, and Gray was happy for a chance to see her again.
“What nice people,” Charlie commented after they left, and Adam and Gray agreed with him. It had been a terrific day and evening. The conversations had been fascinating, the swimming fun, the food plentiful, and their new friends an unusually intelligent, attractive lot. “I notice Sylvia's niece isn't spending the night. Did you strike out on that one?” Charlie teased him, and Adam looked chagrined.
“I'm not sure I'm smart enough to pull that off. That girl makes my education at Harvard look like high school. Once we got off the subject of law, torts in the American judicial system, and constitutional law, as opposed to the French legal system, I felt like a total dummy. I damn near forgot to put the make on her, and when I thought of it, by then I was exhausted. She can run rings around any guy I've ever met. She should be dating one of my Harvard law professors, not me.” In a funny way, she had reminded him a little of Rachel when they were young, she was so damn smart, graduating from Harvard Law School summa cum laude, and the similarity had turned him off. He had decided not to pursue her, it was too much work, and he had long since forgotten half the things she asked him. She had fenced with him intellectually all day and night, and he liked it and found it challenging, but in the end, it made him feel tired and old. His mind just didn't work that way anymore. It was easier to buy girls implants and new noses than to try and wrestle with their brains. It made him feel slightly inferior to her, which left his ego somewhat deflated, and wasn't exactly an aphrodisiac for him. Unlike Gray, who had loved his conversations with her aunt, and felt invigorated by the information they'd shared, and the things he'd learned from her. Sylvia was extremely knowledgeable on many subjects, though mainly art, which was her passion, just as it was his. But Gray didn't want to have sex with her, although he found her beautiful and appealing. All he wanted was to get to know her better, and talk to her, for as many hours as he could. He was thrilled they'd met.
The three men shared a last glass of wine on the deck before they smoked cigars and went to their cabins, happy and relaxed after a fun day on the boat. They had no plans for the next day, and Adam and Charlie said they were going to sleep late. Gray was already excited about meeting Sylvia to visit the church. He mentioned it to Charlie on their way downstairs, and his host looked pleased. He knew Gray led a lonely life, and thought she'd be a good friend for him, and a useful person for him to know. He had struggled for so long with his art, and was so talented, Charlie hoped he'd get a break one of these days, and was hopeful Sylvia could introduce him to the right people in the art scene in New York. She might not be a potential romance for him, or the kind of woman he was attracted to, but he thought she'd make a great friend. He had enjoyed talking to her himself. She was cultured and knowledgeable, without being pompous or pretentious about it. He thought she was a very nice woman, and he was surprised she wasn't linked to any of the men in the group. She was the kind of woman a lot of men would have been attracted to, especially Europeans, although she was a good fifteen years older than the women Charlie went out with, even though she was barely three years older than he. Life wasn't fair that way, he knew, particularly in the States. Women in their twenties and thirties were at a premium, it was all about youth. A woman Sylvia's age was a specialty, and would only appeal to a rare few, and only then to a man who was not threatened by how smart and capable she was. The kind of girls Adam went out with were generally considered a lot more desirable, in most cases, than a woman of substance and intellect like Sylvia. Charlie knew that there were a lot of women like her in New York who were just too damn smart and successful for their own good, and wound up alone. Although for all he knew there was a man waiting for her in New York or Paris or somewhere else. But he doubted it. She put out a vibe that suggested she was independent and unattached, and liked it that way. It didn't seem to bother her at all, and she was obviously not on the make, for them, or anyone. Charlie had shared his assessment of her with Gray over cigars the night before.
The next morning, as they walked up the hill to San Giorgio, Gray discovered that Charlie's thoughts about Sylvia were correct.
“You're not married?” Gray asked her cautiously, curious about her, as well as what she knew about the church. She was an interesting woman, and he wanted to be her friend.
“No, I did that once,” she said carefully. “I loved it when I was married, but I'm not sure I could ever do that again. Sometimes I think I love the commitment and lifestyle more than the man. My husband was an artist, and a total narcissist. Everything was about him. I adored him, almost as much as he adored himself. Nothing else ever existed for him,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. She wasn't bitter, she was just finished with it, and Gray could hear that in her voice. “Not the children, or me, or anyone. It was always about him. After a while, that gets old. I'd still be married to him, though, if he hadn't left me for someone else. He was fifty-five when he left me, I was thirty-nine, and over-the-hill as far as he was concerned. She was nineteen. It was a bit of a blow. They got married and had three more kids in three years, then he left her too. At least I lasted longer. I had him for twenty. She had him for four.”
“I assume for a twelve-year-old that time?” Gray snapped, feeling angry on her behalf. It sounded like a rotten deal to him, knowing what he knew of her now, that she had gone to New York after that, penniless with two kids, and no help from him.
“No, the last one was twenty-two. Old for him. I was also nineteen when we got married, and an art student in Paris. The last two were models.”
“Does he see your kids?”
She hesitated in answer to the question, and then shook her head. The answer seemed painful for her. “No, he saw them twice in nine years, which was hard for them. And he died last year. It leaves a lot of things unresolved for my kids, about what they meant to him, if anything. And it was sad for me. I loved him, but with narcissists, that's just the way it is. In the end, the only ones they love are themselves. They just don't have it in them to love anyone else.” It was a simple statement of fact. Her tone was regretful but not bitter.
“I think I've known women like that.” He didn't even try to explain to her the level of insanity he had tolerated in his love life. It would have been impossible to try and she probably would have laughed at him, just as everyone else did. Insanity in his home life was all too familiar to him. “And you never wanted to try again, with someone else?” He knew he was being nosy, but had the feeling she didn't mind. She was remarkably honest and open about herself, and he admired that. One had the feeling there were no dark secrets, no hidden agendas, no confusion in her head about what she felt or wanted or believed. Although inevitably, there were probably scars. Everyone had them at their age, no one was exempt.
“No. I've never wanted to marry again. At my age, I don't see the point. I don't want more children, not my own at least. I wouldn't mind someone else's kids. Marriage is a venerable institution, and I believe in it, for those purposes anyway. I just don't know if I believe in it anymore for myself. Probably not. I don't think I'd have the guts to do it again. I lived with a man for six years, after my divorce. He was an extraordinary person, and an amazing artist, a sculptor. He suffered from severe depression and refused to take medication. He was basically an alcoholic, and his life was a mess. I loved him anyway, but it was impossible. More impossible than I can tell you.” She fell silent after she said it, and he watched her face. There was something agonizing lurking there, and he wanted to know what it was. He sensed that in order to know her, he needed to know the rest.
“You left him?” He was cautious with the words, as they approached the church.
“No, I didn't. I probably should have. Maybe he would have stopped drinking then, or taken his medication, or maybe not. It's hard to say.” She sounded peaceful and sad, as though she had accepted a terrible tragedy and inevitable loss.
“He left you?” Gray couldn't imagine anyone doing that to her, and surely not twice. But there were strange people in the world, who lost opportunities, sabotaged themselves, and destroyed lives. There was nothing you could do about it. He had learned that himself over the years.
“No, he committed suicide,” Sylvia said quietly, “three years ago. It took me a long time to get over it, and accept what happened, and it was hard when Jean-Marie, the children's father, died last year. The loss brought some of it back, grief does that, I think. But it happened, I couldn't change it, no matter how much I loved him. He just couldn't do it anymore, and I couldn't do it for him. That's a hard thing to make your peace with.” But he could hear in her voice that she had. She had been through a lot, and come out the other end. He knew just looking at her that she was a woman determined to survive. He wanted to put his arms around her and give her a hug, but he didn't know her well enough. And he didn't want to intrude on her grief. He had no right to do that.

[Dalyia]

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, with all the emotion he felt. With all the insane women he'd been involved with who turned every moment into a drama, here was a sane one who had lived through real tragedy and had refused to let it destroy her. If anything, she had learned from it and grown.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him, as they walked into the church. They sat quietly for a long time, and then walked around the church, inside and out. It was a beautiful structure from the twelfth century, and she pointed things out to him that he had never seen before, although he'd been there many times. It was another two hours before they walked slowly down to the port.
“What are your children like?” he asked with curiosity. It was interesting to think of her as a mother, she seemed so independent and so whole. He suspected she was a good mother, although he didn't like thinking of her that way. He preferred to think of her as he knew her, just as his friend.
“Interesting. Smart,” she said honestly, and sounded proud, which made him smile. “My daughter is a painter, studying in Florence. My son is a scholar of the history of ancient Greece. In some ways he's like his father, but he has a kinder heart, thank God. My daughter inherited his talent, but nothing else from that side of the gene pool. She's a lot like me. She could run the world, and maybe will. I hope she'll take the gallery over one day, but I'm not sure she ever will. She has her own life to lead. But genetics are an amazing thing. I see both of us in them, mixed in with who they are themselves. But the history and the ancestry are always there, even in the flavors of ice cream they like, or the colors they prefer. I have a great respect for genetics, after bringing up two kids. I'm not sure that anything we do as parents actually makes a difference, or even influences them.”
They stopped at a small café then, and he invited her to have coffee with him. They sat down, and she turned the tables on him again. “What about you? Why no wife and kids?”
“You just said it. Genetics. I'm adopted, I have no idea who my parents were, or what I'd be passing on. I find that terrifying. What if there's an ax murderer somewhere in my ancestry? Do I really want to burden someone else with that? Besides, my life was insane when I was a child. I grew up thinking childhood was a singular kind of curse. I couldn't do that to someone else.” He told her a little about his childhood then. India, Nepal, the Caribbean, Brazil, the Amazon. It read like an atlas of the world, while being parented by two people who had no idea what they were doing, were burnt out on drugs, and finally found God. It was a lot to explain over two cups of espresso, but he did his best, and she was intrigued.
“Well, somewhere in your history, there must have been a very talented artist. That wouldn't be such a bad thing to pass on.”
“God knows what else there is though. I've known too many crazy people all my life, my parents and most of the women I've been involved with. I wouldn't have wanted a child with any of them.” He was being totally honest with her, just as she had been with him.
“That bad, huh?” She smiled at him. He hadn't told her anything that had frightened her. All she felt was deep compassion for him. He had had a tough life as a kid, and had complicated things for himself, by choice, ever since. But the beginning hadn't been his choice. It had been destiny's gift to him.
“Worse.” He grinned at her. “I've been doing heavy rescue work all my life. God knows why. I thought it was my mission in life, to atone for all my sins.”
“I used to think so too. My sculptor friend was a bit of that. I wanted to make everything right for him, and fix everything, and in the end, I couldn't. You never can, for someone else.” Like him, she had learned that the hard way. “It's interesting how, when people treat us badly, we then feel responsible, and take on their guilt. I've never really understood it, but it seems to work that way,” she said wisely. It was obvious that she had given the subject considerable thought.
“I've been beginning to get that myself,” he said ruefully. It was embarrassing to admit how dysfunctional the women in his life had been, and that after all he'd done for them, almost without exception they had left him for other people. In a slightly less extreme way, Sylvia's experience wasn't so different from his. But she sounded healthier than he felt.
“Are you in therapy?” she asked openly, as she would have asked him if he'd been to Italy before. He shook his head.
“No. I read a lot of self-help books, and I'm very spiritual. I've paid for about a million hours of therapy for the women I've been involved with. It never occurred to me to go myself. I thought I was fine, and they were nuts. Maybe it was the other way around. You have to ask yourself at some point why you get involved with people like that. You can't get anything decent out of it. They're just too fucked up.” He smiled and she laughed. She had come to the same conclusion herself, which was why she hadn't had a serious relationship since the sculptor committed suicide.
She had taken about two years to sort it out, working on it intensely in therapy. She had even gone on a few dates in the past six months, once with a younger artist who was a giant spoiled brat, and twice with men who were twenty years older than she was. But after the dates she realized she was past that now, and a twenty-year age difference was just too much. Men her age wanted women younger than she was. Then she had had a number of very unfortunate blind dates. For the moment, she had decided that she was better off by herself. She didn't like it, and she missed sleeping with someone, and having someone to curl up to at night. With her children gone, the weekends were agonizingly lonely, and she felt too young to just give up. But she and her therapist were exploring the possibility that maybe no one else would come along, and she wanted to be all right with it. She didn't want someone turning her life upside down again. Relationships seemed too complicated, and solitude too hard. She was at a crossroads in her life, neither young nor old, too old to settle for the wrong man, or one who was too difficult, and too young to accept being alone for the rest of her life, but she realized now that that could happen. It frightened her somewhat, but so did another tragedy or disaster. She was trying to live one day at a time, which was why there was no man in her life, and she was traveling with friends. She said it all as simply as possible to Gray, and managed not to sound pathetic, desperate, needy, or confused. She was just a woman trying to figure out her life, and perfectly capable of taking care of herself while she did. He sat staring at her for a long time as he listened, and shook his head.
“Does that sound too awful, or slightly insane?” she asked him. “Sometimes I wonder about myself.” She was so agonizingly honest with him, both strong and vulnerable at the same time, which knocked him off his feet. He had never known anyone like her, neither man nor woman, and all he wanted was to know more.
“No, it doesn't sound awful. It sounds hard, but real. Life is hard and real. You sound incredibly sane to me. Saner than I am, surely. And don't even ask about the women I've gone out with, they're all in institutions somewhere by now, where they belonged when I met them. I don't know what made me think I could play God, and change everything that had happened to them, most of which they did to themselves. I don't know why I thought I deserved that torture, but it stopped being fun a long time ago. I just can't do it anymore, I'd rather be alone.” He meant it, particularly after what he had just heard from her. Solitude was a lot better than being with the lunatics he'd been with. It was lonely, but at least it was sane. He admired her for what she was doing, and learning, and wanted to follow her example. She was a role model of health and normalcy to him. As he listened, he didn't know if he wanted her as his woman, or just his friend. Either one sounded good to him. She was beautiful, as he sat and looked at her, but above all, he valued her friendship. “Maybe we could go to a movie sometime when we get back to New York,” he suggested cautiously.
“I'd like that,” she said comfortably. “I warn you, though, I have lousy taste in movies. My kids won't even go with me. I hate foreign films and art films, sex, violence, sad endings, or gratuitous bullshit. I like movies I understand, with happy endings, that make me laugh and cry and stay awake. If you have to ask what it meant when you walk out, take someone else, not me.”
“Perfect. We'll watch old I Love Lucy reruns, and rent Disney movies. You bring the popcorn, I'll rent the films.”
“You've got a deal.” She grinned at him. He walked her back to the hotel then, and when he left her, he hugged her and thanked her for a wonderful morning in her company.
“Are you really leaving tomorrow?” he asked, looking worried. He wanted to see her again, before they both left Portofino. Otherwise, in New York. He could hardly wait to call her when he got back. He had never met a woman like her, not one he had been willing to talk to. He'd been too busy rescuing women to ever bother looking for one who could be his friend. And Sylvia Reynolds was that person. At fifty, in Portofino, it seemed crazy even to him, but he felt as though he had found the woman of his dreams. He had no idea what she'd say if he shared that piece of information with her. Probably run like hell, and call the police. He wondered if he had caught a good case of insanity from the women he'd gone out with, or had always been as crazy as they. Sylvia wasn't crazy. She was beautiful and smart, vulnerable, honest, and real.
“We are leaving tomorrow,” she said quietly, sad to leave him too, which made her somewhat nervous. Although she'd told her therapist she was ready to meet someone, now that she had, all she wanted to do was run away before she got hurt again. But she also wanted to see him one more time before she did. There was a strange push-me-pull-you going on in her head as she smiled at him. “We're going to Sardinia for the weekend, and then I have to go to Paris to see some artists. After that, I'm spending a week in Sicily with my kids. I'll be back in New York in two weeks.”
“I'll be back in about three,” he said, beaming as he looked at her. “I think we'll be in Sardinia this weekend too. That's where we're going after this.” As soon as she left Portofino, he wanted to leave too, if Charles and Adam were willing.
“Well, that's a stroke of good fortune,” she said, smiling at him, feeling young again. “Why don't the three of you join us for dinner in the port tonight? Good pasta and bad wine, not the kind of stuff you and the others are used to.”
“Don't be too impressed. If you come to dinner at my place, I'll serve you the rotgut I usually drink myself.”
“I'll bring the wine.” She grinned at him. “You cook. I'm a rotten cook.”
“Good. It's nice to know there's something you can't do. I'm told I'm a halfway decent cook. Pasta, tacos, burritos, goulash, meat loaf, salad, peanut butter and jelly, pancakes, scrambled eggs, macaroni and cheese. That's it.”
“Pancakes. I love pancakes. I always burn them. No one will ever eat them.” She laughed, and he smiled at the prospect of cooking for her.
“Perfect. I Love Lucy, and pancakes. What kind of ice cream for dessert? Chocolate or vanilla?”
“Mint chocolate chip, mountain blackberry, or banana walnut,” she said confidently. She was beginning to like the way it felt being with him. It was scary, but nice, all at the same time. The roller coaster of life. She hadn't been on it in a long time, and realized now how much she had missed it. She hadn't seen a man who had appealed to her in years. This one did.
“Oh, Jesus. Designer ice cream. What's wrong with Rocky Road?”
“I'll bring the ice cream and the wine, if you're going to be that way about it.”
“And don't forget the popcorn!” he reminded her. It wasn't going to be fancy, but he knew it was going to be good. Anything he did with her would be, like going to San Giorgio that day. It had been very good. “What time's dinner tonight?” he asked as he hugged her again. It was just a friendly hug, nothing that would scare her or commit them to more than an easy dinner at his place. The rest was to be discovered and decided at some later date, if it felt right to both of them. He hoped it would.

[Dalyia]

“Nine-thirty, at Da Puny. See you then.” She smiled easily and waved, and then disappeared into the hotel. He walked down to the port with a spring in his step, where the tender and a crew member were waiting for him. He smiled all the way back to the boat, and was still smiling when Charlie saw him as he came on board. It was one o'clock by then, and they were waiting for lunch with him.
“That was a long time to spend in church with a woman you barely know,” Charlie commented mischievously, as he looked at his old friend. “Did you propose?”
“I probably should have, but I blew it. Besides, she has two kids, and you know how I hate kids.” Charlie laughed at his response, and didn't take him seriously.
“They're not kids, they're grown-ups. Besides, she lives in New York, and they live in Italy and England. I think you're safe.”
“Yeah, maybe. But kids are kids, whatever age.” Family scenes were not his thing, as Charlie knew. Gray told him then about the dinner invitation for that night, and it appealed to all of them, as Adam eyed him more carefully than Charlie had.
“Is something going on with you two?” Adam looked suspicious, and Gray pretended to be amused. He wasn't ready to share it with them. Nothing had happened. He just liked her, and he hoped that she liked him. There was nothing to say.
“I wish. She's got great legs, but one fatal flaw, from what I can see.”
“What's that?” Charlie asked with interest. Flaws in women always fascinated him. He was obsessed with them himself.
“She's sane. Not my type, I fear.”
“Yeah. I knew that,” Adam agreed.
Gray told them then that the group was leaving for Sardinia the following day, which also appealed to all of them. Portofino was delightful, but they all agreed it would be less amusing once the others left. Charlie suggested they move on that night after dinner, and travel through the night. If they left by midnight, they could be in Sardinia the following night in time for dinner. It would be fun to see the same group again in Porto Cervo, and would make for a great weekend. And in case he changed his mind, it gave Adam another shot at Sylvia's niece. But even without that, they enjoyed all the others in the group. It was a great mix.
Charlie told the captain their plan, and he agreed to organize the crew. Night crossings were easier for the passengers, but harder on the crew. But they did it frequently. The captain said he'd sleep while Charlie and his guests were out for dinner, and leave as soon as they came on board again. And they'd be in Sardinia well in time for dinner the next day.
Gray told Sylvia at dinner that night, and she smiled at him, wondering what he'd said to the others, and faintly embarrassed by her attraction to him. She hadn't felt anything like it in years, and wasn't ready to share that information with Gray either. But she sensed that the feelings were reciprocal, and he also liked her. She felt like a kid again.
They had a nice time at dinner. Sylvia sat across the table from Gray, but nothing she said or did gave her feelings for him away. She kissed him and the others on both cheeks when they left them, and promised to meet for dinner at the Yacht Club in Porto Cervo the next day. Gray turned to look at her one last time as they walked away, but she never turned to look at him. She was talking to her niece intently, as they stopped to buy a gelato in the piazza, and Gray noticed again that Sylvia had a lovely figure. And a remarkable brain. He wasn't sure which he liked best.
“She likes you,” Adam commented as they got into the tender. It reminded him of high school, and Charlie laughed at them both.
“I like her too,” Gray said casually, as he sat down and looked across the water at the Blue Moon, waiting for them.
“I mean she really likes you. I think she wants to go to bed with you.”
“She's not that kind of woman,” Gray said, looking stone-faced, and wanting to protect her from the kind of comments Adam made. It suddenly seemed disrespectful to him.
“Don't give me that. She's a beautiful woman, she has to go to bed with someone. It might as well be you. Or do you think she's too old for you?” Adam pondered the question as Gray shook his head.
“She's not too old. I told you, she's too sane.”
“Yeah, I guess she is. But even sane women like to get laid.”
“I'll keep it in mind, in case I ever run into another one,” Gray said, smiling at Charlie, who was watching him with interest. He was beginning to wonder if there was something between them too.
“Don't worry, you won't.” Adam laughed, as the three men boarded the Blue Moon, and Charlie poured them each a brandy before they went to bed. As they sat on the aft deck in the moonlight, the crew weighed anchor and they took off. Gray sat watching the moonlight dance on the water, thought of her in her hotel room, and wished that he could be there. He couldn't imagine being lucky enough to have something like that happen to him. But maybe one day. First, they had a date for pancakes and ice cream in New York. And after that, who knew. Before that, there would be the weekend in Sardinia. For the first time in a long time, he felt like a boy again. A fifty-year-old boy, with an absolutely incredible forty-nine-year-old girl.

[Dalyia]

4





SARDINIA WAS AS MUCH FUN AS THEY ALL HOPED IT would be, with Sylvia and her friends. Two more Italian couples joined them in Porto Cervo, and Charlie took everyone out on the boat for lunches and dinners, water-skiing and swimming. It gave Gray and Sylvia an opportunity to get to know each other better, even with all the others around. And after watching them for the entire weekend, Adam decided they were just friends. Charlie wasn't as convinced, but kept his impressions to himself. He knew if Gray wanted to say something to him, he would. Charlie talked to her quite a bit himself. They talked about his foundation, and the work they did, her gallery, and the artists she represented. It was obvious that she loved her work. It was equally obvious that she liked his friend. And Gray liked her. They chatted quietly with each other on several occasions, they swam together, danced in the nightclubs, and laughed a great deal. By the end of the weekend, all of them felt as though they had become great friends. And when Sylvia and her group left, Charlie and the others went to Corsica for two days. They'd had enough of Sardinia by then, and it wouldn't have been as much fun without them. Gray had spoken to Sylvia quietly before she left the boat for the last time, and told her he'd call her in New York as soon as he got home. She smiled at him, hugged him, and wished them all a great trip.
From Corsica they went to Ischia, and from there to Capri. They came up the west coast of Italy after that, came back to the French Riviera for the last week, and anchored in Antibes. As always, when they were together, it was incredible. They went to nightclubs, restaurants, walked, swam, shopped, met people, danced with women, and turned strangers into friends. And on one of their last nights, they had dinner at the Eden Roc. It had been the perfect trip, they all agreed.
“You should come to St. Bart's this winter,” Adam urged Gray. He always flew there to meet Charlie on the boat for a week or two over New Year's. Gray always said that a month on the boat in the summer was enough for him, and they all knew why he hated the Caribbean. It had too many bad memories for him.
“Maybe sometime I will,” Gray said vaguely. Charlie said he hoped he would.
The last night was always nostalgic, they hated to leave each other and go back to real life. Adam was meeting Amanda and Jacob for a week in London, and taking them to Paris for a weekend, and staying at the Ritz. It would be a gentle transition for him after the luxuries of the Blue Moon. Gray was flying straight from Nice to New York, which was going to be a shock for him. Back to his walk-up studio in the Meatpacking District, which had grown trendy, but his studio was still as uncomfortable as it had ever been. But at least it was cheap. He was looking forward to calling Sylvia as soon as he got home. He had thought of calling her from the boat, but didn't want to make expensive calls on Charlie's bill, which seemed rude to him. He knew she'd gotten back the previous week, after her trip to Sicily with her kids. Charlie was staying in France, on the boat, for another three weeks, in splendid solitude. But it was always lonely for him when the other two were gone. He hated to see them go.
The morning they left, Gray and Adam drove to the airport together in a limo the purser had rented for them. Charlie stood on the aft deck and waved, and was sad when they were gone. They were his closest friends, and both good men. For all their vagaries and hang-ups, Adam's comments about women, and weakness for very young ones, Charlie knew they were decent people and cared a great deal about him, as he did about them. He would have done anything for them, and he knew they would for him too. They were the Three Musketeers, through thick and thin.
Adam called Charlie from London, to thank him for a fantastic trip, and the next day Gray sent him an e-mail saying the same thing. The best ever, they all agreed. It was hard to imagine, but their trips got better every year. They met terrific people, went to wonderful places, and enjoyed each other more with each passing year. It made Charlie feel sometimes that life wouldn't be so bad if he never met the right woman. If that happened, at least he had two remarkable men as friends. Life could be worse.
He spent his last two weeks on the boat doing business by computer, setting up meetings for his return, and making a list of things he wanted the captain to attend to to maintain the boat. In November, they'd be making the crossing to the Caribbean, and Charlie would have loved to be on it. He found it relaxing and peaceful to do so, but he had too much going on this year. The foundation had given nearly a million dollars to a new children's shelter, and he wanted to be around to see how it was being spent. When he finally left the boat in the third week of September, he was ready. He wanted to see friends, and get to his office. He had been gone for nearly three months. It was time to go home, whatever that meant. To him, it meant an empty apartment, an office where he upheld his family's traditions, sitting on the boards and committees he served on, and spending time with friends, going to dinner parties or cultural events. It never meant a person he could come home to, someone waiting for him, or to share his life with. It was beginning to seem less and less likely that he would ever find that person, but even if he didn't, he still had to go home. There was nowhere else to go. He couldn't hide from reality forever, sitting on his boat. And there were always Gray and Adam in New York. He was going to call them as soon as he got home, and see if they wanted to go out for dinner somewhere. They were in fact someone to go home to, and the brothers he had come to love. He was grateful he had them.
The flight to New York was uneventful, and unlike Adam, Charlie flew commercial. It had never seemed worthwhile to him to buy a plane. But Adam traveled more than he did, and it made sense to him. Charlie knew, from an itinerary Adam's secretary had sent him, that he was flying back to New York that night too. He had been in Las Vegas for an entire week, after his travels in Europe with his kids. He'd had an e-mail from Adam himself too, asking Charlie if he wanted to go to a concert with him the following week. It was one of those megaevents that Charlie loved and Gray said he hated, and it sounded like fun to him, so he had e-mailed back that he would join him. Adam wrote back that he was pleased.
News from Gray had been scarce in the past few weeks. Charlie assumed he was working, and was lost in his own world at the studio, after not painting for a month while he was on the trip. Sometimes Gray disappeared for weeks, and emerged victorious when a particularly tough spell with a painting had been beaten into submission. Charlie suspected he was in one of those. He was planning to call him sometime that week. And Gray would be surprised to hear from him, as always. He totally lost track of time whenever he was at work. Sometimes he had no idea what time of year it was, and he didn't leave the studio for days or weeks. It was just the way he worked.
The weather in New York was hot and muggy, and it was late afternoon when Charlie arrived. He went through customs quickly, with nothing to declare. His office had a car waiting for him, and as they approached the city, the bleakness of Queens depressed him. Everything looked dirty, people looked hot and tired, and when he opened the window in the car, the air was like a blast of bad breath in his face, tainted with exhaust fumes. Welcome back.
When he got to his apartment, things were even worse. His cleaning staff had aired out the apartment, but it still smelled musty and looked sad. There were no flowers, no sign of life anywhere. Three months was a long time. All his mail was waiting for him at the office, whatever hadn't been sent to him in France. There was food in the refrigerator, but no one to prepare it, and he wasn't hungry. There were no messages on the machine. No one knew he was coming back, and worse yet, no one cared. For the first time, it made Charlie stand there in his empty apartment and wonder what was wrong with him and his friends. Was this what they wanted? Was this what Adam aspired to, with his constant efforts to stay unattached and go out with coeds and bimbos? What the hell were they thinking? The question was hard to answer. He had never felt as lonely in his life as he did that night.
For the last twenty-five years, he had been sifting through women like so much flour, looking for some microscopic point of imperfection, like a mother monkey searching her baby for fleas. And inevitably, he found them, and had an excuse to discard them. Which left him here, on a Monday night, in an empty apartment, looking out at Central Park, and couples wandering there, holding hands or lying on the grass, looking up at the trees together. Surely, none of them were perfect. Why was that good enough for them, and not for him? Why did everything have to be so perfect in his life, and why was no woman good enough for him? It had been twenty-five years since his sister died. Thirty since his parents' death in Italy. And all these years later, he was still standing guard over his empty life, watching with ever greater vigilance for barbarians at the gate. He was beginning to wonder, in spite of himself, if it was time to let one of the barbarians in. However frightening that had seemed till now, it might finally be a relief.

[Dalyia]

5






IN SPITE OF A DESIRE TO SEEM “COOLER” THAN THAT, Gray had called Sylvia the night he got back to New York on the first of September. It was the Labor Day weekend, and he wondered if she'd be away. It turned out she wasn't, much to his relief. She had sounded surprised to hear from him, and for a moment, he wondered if he had heard her wrong, or misread her, and was doing the wrong thing.
“Are you busy?” he asked nervously. She sounded distracted, and not entirely pleased.
“No, I'm sorry. I have a leak in my kitchen, and I have no idea what to do with this goddamn thing.” Everyone in her building was off over the long weekend.
“Did you call your super?”
“Yes, his wife is having a baby tonight. And the plumber I called said he can't get here till tomorrow afternoon, for twice the rate since it's a holiday. My neighbor called that it's dripping through his ceiling.” She sounded exasperated, which was at least familiar to him. Damsels in distress were his specialty.
“What happened? Did it just start out of nowhere, or did you do something?” Plumbing was not his area of expertise either, but he had a sense of how things worked mechanically, which she didn't. Plumbing was one of the few things she couldn't do.
“Actually”—she started to laugh sheepishly—“I dropped a ring down the sink, so I tried to take the damn thing apart, before it wound up in the Manhattan sewer system. I got the ring, but something went wrong, and I couldn't get it back together fast enough. I seem to have sprung a major leak. Now I have no idea what to do.”
“Give up the apartment. Find a new one immediately,” Gray suggested, and Sylvia laughed at him.
“You're a big help. I thought you were an expert at rescue work. Some help you are.”
“I specialize in neurotic women, not plumbing issues. You're too healthy. Call another plumber.” And then he had a better idea. “Do you want me to come over?” He had just arrived from the airport ten minutes before. He hadn't even bothered to glance at his mail. He had gone straight to the phone and called her.
“Something tells me you don't know what to do either. Besides, I look disgusting. I haven't combed my hair all day.” She had stayed home doing paperwork, and the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. It was one of those lazy days when she had nothing important to do. Sometimes it was pleasant being in town while everyone else was away, although by the end of the day, the solitude usually got to her, with no one to talk to, which made it nice to hear from him.
“I look disgusting too. I just got off a plane. Besides, you probably look better than you think.” How disgusting could she look? He couldn't imagine her looking anything but terrific, even with uncombed hair. “Tell you what, you do your hair, I'll do the sink. Or I can do your hair, and you do the sink. We can take turns.”
“You're crazy,” she said, sounding good-natured and amused. It had been a boring, lonely Sunday on a holiday weekend and she was happy to hear from him. “I'll tell you what. If you fix the sink, I'll buy you a pizza. Or Chinese takeout, you pick.”
“Whatever you want. I ate on the plane. I'll change into my plumbing clothes, and be over in ten minutes. Hang on to your hat till then.”
“Are you sure?” She sounded embarrassed, but pleased.
“I'm sure.” It was an easy way for them to see each other again. No anticipation, no fancy clothes, no awkward first date. Just a leak in her kitchen sink, and uncombed hair. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, shaved, put on a clean shirt, and was out the door ten minutes later. He was at her door another ten minutes after that. She lived in a loft south of him, in SoHo. The building had been renovated, and looked very sleek. She lived on the top floor, and the art he saw everywhere as soon as he got off the elevator looked serious and impressive. It wasn't the kind of work he did, but he knew it was what she sold. She had some major artists in her own collection, which caught his eye immediately. It was easy to see from the look of the apartment that she had great taste.
She had made the same effort he had, washed her face, combed her hair, brushed her teeth, and put on a clean T-shirt. Beyond that, she was barefooted, wearing jeans, and she looked happy to see him. She gave him a quick hug and looked him over.
“You don't look like a plumber to me.”
“I couldn't find my overalls, sorry. This will have to do.” He was wearing good shoes and a clean pair of jeans. “Did you turn off the water?” he asked, as she led him to the kitchen. It was all black granite and chrome. It was a beautiful place, and she told him she had done most of the design work herself.
“No,” she said, looking blank, in answer to his question about the water. “I don't know how.”
“Okay,” he said, muttering to himself, as he slipped under the sink. There was a steady cascade of water, flowing from the sink through the cabinet beneath, and she had towels all over the floor. Gray was on his knees looking for the shut-off valve, and asked her for a wrench. She handed it to him, and a minute later, the water stopped. Problem solved, or at least put on hold for the moment. He emerged from under the sink with a broad smile, and wet jeans from the knees down, from where he had knelt.
“You're a genius. Thank you.” She smiled back at him and then glanced down at his jeans. “Sorry, you're all wet. I'd offer to dry your pants, but it might be a little forward to ask you to take them off on a first date. I'm a little out of practice, but I think that's probably not the thing to do.” On the other hand, she knew that if she didn't, he would be miserable sitting through dinner in wet jeans. And besides, she assumed correctly, he was tired from the trip, he didn't need to be wet and uncomfortable too. “Maybe we ought to skip dating etiquette for this time. Take off your pants. I'll put them in the dryer. I'll get you a towel. We can order a pizza delivered.” She came back with a white bath towel five minutes later. It was a big fluffy luxurious one. She pointed at her guest bathroom, where he could change. He came out a minute later, carrying his jeans, and with the towel wrapped around his waist. He looked funny wearing it with a shirt, socks, and shoes.
“I feel a little silly,” he admitted with a sheepish grin, “but I'd probably feel sillier eating dinner in my boxers.” She laughed at him then, and he followed her into the loft's main room. She had an enormous living room filled with sculpture and paintings. It was an incredible backdrop for her art. He noticed a number of important artists represented as he looked around the room. “Wow! You've got some great stuff.”
“I've been collecting for years. One day I'll give them to my kids.” What she said reminded him again that this was not as simple as it looked, for him at least. Hearing her mention her children was like a roll of thunder in the background. He had never wanted to deal with a woman who had kids. But Sylvia was different. Everything about her was different from any woman he'd ever known. Maybe her kids were different too. And at least they weren't his. He had a psychotic terror of small children, or a phobia about them. He wasn't sure what it meant, but he knew it wasn't good.
“Where are they?” he asked, looking around nervously, as though expecting them to spring out of a closet and leap at him, like pet snakes, or a pair of pit bulls. She saw the look on his face and was once again amused.
“In Europe. Remember? Where they live. In Oxford and Florence. They won't be home till Christmas. You're safe. Although I wish they were here.”
“Did you have a nice trip with them?” he asked politely, as she went back to the kitchen and adjusted the setting on the dryer, and then came back to the living room.
“Very nice. How about you? How was the rest of the trip?” She sat down on the couch, and he sat in an enormous black leather chair, facing her. She looked beautiful in her bare feet and jeans, and he was happy to see her. Happier than he'd ever been in recent years. He had missed her, which seemed crazy even to him. He hardly knew her, but he had thought about her constantly during the last weeks of the trip.
“It was great,” he said, sitting in the leather chair in the towel, while she tried not to laugh, looking at him. He looked funny and vulnerable and sweet. “Actually,” he corrected himself, “it wasn't. It was good. But not as good as Portofino and Sardinia with you. I thought about you a lot after you left.”
“I thought about you too,” she admitted, and then smiled at him. “I'm glad you're back. I didn't expect you to call me so soon.”
“Neither did I. Or actually, yes I did. I wanted to call you as soon as I got back.”
“I'm glad you did. What kind of pizza do you want, by the way?”
“What do you like?”
“Anything. Pepperoni, pesto, meatball, plain.”
“All of the above,” he said, watching her. She looked at ease in her domain.
“I'll order the one with everything on it, just no anchovies. I hate anchovies,” she said, as she left the room.
“Me too.”
She went back to check on the dryer again then, came back with his jeans, and held them out to him.
“Put your pants on. I'll order the pizza. Thanks again for fixing my sink.”
“I didn't,” he reminded her, “I just turned off the water to stop the leak. You've got to get a plumber here on Tuesday.”
“I know.” She smiled at him, as he disappeared into the bathroom again, carrying his jeans. He came back and handed her the folded towel, and she looked surprised as she took it from him.
“What's wrong?”
“You didn't leave it crumpled up on the floor. What's wrong with you? I thought that's what all men do.” She was smiling at him, and he grinned. For a minute, she'd had him worried, she had looked so startled when he handed her the towel. The apartment was so impeccably neat, he couldn't figure out what else to do with the towel other than hand it back to her.
“Do you want me to go back and leave it on the floor?” he offered, and she shook her head, and then called in the order for the pizza. As soon as she did, she offered him a glass of wine. She had several bottles of excellent California wine in the refrigerator, and opened one for him. It was a Chardonnay, and when he tasted it, it was delicious.

[Dalyia]

They went back to the living room again then and sat down. This time she sat next to him on the couch, instead of across the glass coffee table from him. He had an overwhelming urge to reach out and pull her close to him, but he wasn't ready to do that yet, and neither was she. He could sense the palpable awkwardness between them. They scarcely knew each other, and hadn't seen each other now in several weeks. “You're not exactly typical for me either,” he commented, in response to her astonishment that he hadn't thrown her clean white towel on the floor. “If you were, you'd be having some kind of hysterical fit over the leak in your kitchen, or maybe even telling me it was my fault, or something your last boyfriend or ex-husband was doing to terrorize you, because he wants both of us dead. And any minute, he'll be coming up the fire escape with a gun.”
“I don't have a fire escape,” she said apologetically, laughing at what he said. She couldn't even begin to imagine the women he had been involved with before. And now neither could he.
“That simplifies things,” he said quietly, admiring her. “I love your apartment, Sylvia. It's beautiful and elegant and simple, just like you.” It wasn't pretentious, or showy, but everything in it had style and was of great quality.
“I like it too. I have a lot of treasures here that mean a lot to me.”
“I can see that,” he said, thinking that she was rapidly becoming a treasure that meant a lot to him. Now that he saw her again, he realized that he liked her even better than he had before. There was something very real and meaningful about seeing her where she lived. It was different than seeing her in restaurants, or on Charlie's boat. She had looked beautiful and appealing to him then, but now she seemed more real.
They talked about her gallery then, and the artists she represented, while they waited for the pizza to arrive.
“I'd love to see your work,” she said thoughtfully, and he nodded.
“I'd like you to see it too. It's not the kind of work you show.”
“Who's your gallery?” She was curious, he had never mentioned it to her, and he shrugged when he answered.
“I don't have one at the moment. I was really unhappy with my last dealer. I have to do something about finding someone else. I don't have enough for a show yet anyway, so I'm in no rush.”
The pizza arrived then, and Sylvia paid for it, although Gray offered to. She told him it was his fee for stopping her leak. They sat at her kitchen table, and ate the pizza as they chatted comfortably. She shared the wine with him, turned down the lights, lit candles, and served the pizza on good-looking Italian plates. Everything she did or touched or owned had a sense of elegance and style. Just as she did, in her simple ponytail, bare feet, and jeans. She was wearing the same stack of turquoise bracelets he had noticed her wearing in Italy.
They sat there for a long time, talking about nothing in particular. They just enjoyed being together, and she was glad he had come over to help her with the leak. It was ten o'clock when he finally admitted that the jet lag was getting to him. That with the wine was putting him to sleep. He got up from the table regretfully, helped her put the dishes in the dishwasher, although she insisted she could do it herself after he left. He liked helping her, and he could see it wasn't familiar to her. She was used to doing things herself, just as he had been all his life. But it was nicer doing things together, and he was sorry to leave. He liked being with her, and when he turned to her before he left, she was looking up at him.
“Thanks for coming by, and helping me, Gray. I appreciate it. I'd be swimming around my kitchen by now if you hadn't turned the water off for me.”
“You'd have figured it out. It was a great excuse to see you,” he said honestly. “Thanks for the pizza, and the good company.” He reached out and hugged her then, and kissed her on both cheeks, and then he stopped and looked at her, and held her there, wondering if it was too soon. There was a question in his eyes, and she answered it for him. She reached up to him and pulled him closer to her, and as she did, their lips met, and it was hard to tell if he had kissed her, or she had kissed him. It no longer mattered, they were holding tightly to each other, with all the longing they had felt for each other in the past few weeks, and the emptiness they had lived with for months and years before that. It was an endless, breath-consuming, life-giving kiss. And when he held her afterward, she leaned her face against his.
“Wow!” she whispered. “I wasn't expecting to do that.…I thought you just came over to fix my sink.”
“I did,” he whispered back. “I wanted to do this in Italy, but I thought it was too soon.” She nodded, knowing it probably would have been. She wanted to go to bed with him, but she knew it was much, much too soon, according to all the rules. They had barely known each other for a month, and hadn't seen each other in weeks. One day at a time, she told herself. She was still savoring their first kiss. And just as she thought about it, he kissed her again. This one was more passionate, and she couldn't help wondering how many times he had done this with other women, how many affairs he'd had, how many crazy women had come into his life, wanting him to rescue them, how many times it had ended, and how many times he had started over again with someone else. He had had a lifetime of meaningless relationships, like a merry-go-round of women, and in her whole life, she had loved only two men. And now him. She didn't love him yet. But she thought she could one day. There was something about him that made her want him to stay and stay and stay, and never leave. Like the man who came to dinner, and never left, and just moved in.
“I'd better go,” he said in a gentle sexy voice that aroused her just listening to him. She nodded, thinking she should agree, but she didn't. She opened the door for him, and he hesitated.
“If I turn the water on tomorrow,” she whispered, “will you come back to turn it off again?” She looked at him innocently, her hair slightly tousled, her eyes full of dreams, and he chuckled at her.
“I could turn it on right now, and give us an excuse for me to stay,” he whispered hopefully.
“I don't need an excuse, but I don't think we should,” she said demurely.
“Why's that?” He was playing with her neck, and running his lips across her face tantalizingly. She ran her hands through his hair, and pulled him close to her.
“I think there's a rule book somewhere about situations like this. I think it says you're not supposed to sleep with each other on the first date, after eating pizza and fixing a sink.”
“Damn, if I'd known that, I wouldn't have fixed the sink or eaten the pizza.” He smiled at her and kept kissing her. He wanted her more than he ever had any woman he could remember. And he could see she wanted him just as badly, but still felt she shouldn't. She was savoring the moment and thoroughly enjoying him.
“See you tomorrow?” she said softly. It was nearly a tease, but not quite, and he was surprised to find he liked it, waiting for her, and the right moment, whenever that was. For him, it would have been right then, or whenever she wanted. He was willing to wait, if Sylvia preferred it. She was worth waiting for. He had waited fifty years for her.
“Your place or mine?” he whispered. “I'd love you to come to mine, but it's a mess. I've been gone for a month and no one's cleaned it. Maybe this weekend. Why don't I come back here tomorrow and see how your sink is doing?” The gallery was closed for the Labor Day holiday, and she was planning to work at home. She had nothing else to do the next day.
“I'll be here all day. Come whenever you want. I'll cook you dinner.”
“I'll cook. I'll call you in the morning.” He kissed her again, then left, and she stood silently, looking at the door after she'd closed it. He was a remarkable man, and it was a magical moment. She walked into her bedroom, as though seeing it for the first time, and wondered how it would look with him in it.
And as he walked out into the street and hailed a cab, he felt as though everything in his life had changed in a single evening.

[Dalyia]

6





GRAY CALLED SYLVIA AT TEN O'CLOCK THE NEXT MORN-ing. His whole apartment looked a mess, and he hadn't even bothered to unpack his suitcase. He had fallen into bed the night before, thinking of her, and the moment he woke up, he called her. She had been working on some papers, and smiled when she heard him.
They asked each other how they'd slept. She had been awake half the night, thinking about him, and he had slept like a baby.
“How's your sink holding up?”
“It's fine.” She smiled.
“Maybe I'd better come over and check on it.” She laughed at him, and they chatted for a few minutes. He said he had some things to do at home after his trip, but offered to bring her lunch around twelve-thirty.
“I thought we were doing dinner,” she said, sounding surprised, although she had told him she'd be home all day, which was a tacit invitation, and she'd meant it.
“I don't think I can wait that long,” he said honestly. “I waited fifty years for you to come along. Another nine hours might kill me. Are you free for lunch?” he asked nervously, and she smiled. She was free for anything he wanted. She had decided the night before when he kissed her that she was ready to let him into her world, and share her life with him. She didn't know why it felt right to her, but everything about him did. She wanted to be with him.
“I'm free anytime you want to come over.”
“Can I bring anything? Quiche? Cheese? Wine?”
“I've got some stuff here. You don't need to bring anything.” There were so many things she wanted to do with him, walk through Central Park, wander around the Village, go to a movie, lie in bed and watch TV, go out to dinner, stay home and cook for him, see his work, show him her gallery, or just lie in bed and hold him. She hardly knew him, and yet at the same time, she felt as though she had always known him.
In his studio, Gray opened his mail, checked his bills, and haphazardly took his clothes out of his suitcase. He left most of them lying on the floor, and took out what he wanted. He showered, shaved, dressed, quickly wrote some checks, ran out the door, mailed them, and went to the only florist he found open. He bought her two dozen roses, hailed a cab, and gave the driver her address in SoHo. At noon, he rang the bell, and was standing in her doorway. The plumber had just left, and her eyes widened instantly when she saw the roses.
“Oh my God, they're beautiful.… Gray, you shouldn't.” And she meant it, she knew he was a starving artist, and she was bowled over by the tenderness and generosity of the gesture. He was a true romantic. After a lifetime of narcissists, she had finally found a man whom she not only cared about, but to whom she mattered.
“If I could afford to, I'd send you roses every day. This may be the last of it for a while,” he said regretfully. He still had to pay his rent and his phone bill, and the ticket to France had been fearfully expensive. He wouldn't let Charlie pay for it. He thought the least he could do was pay his own way to get there. He had hoped to hop a ride on Adam's plane, but Adam had flown straight to Europe from Las Vegas on the way over, and to London with his kids after. “I wanted to get you roses today, because today is special.”
“And why is that?” she asked, still holding the roses in her arms and looking up at him with eyes that seemed enormous. She was excited, and at the same time a little frightened.
“Because today is the beginning.… This is where we begin… where it all starts. After today, neither of us will ever be quite the same again.” He looked at her then, took the roses from her, and set the enormous bundle down on a nearby table. And then he took her in his arms, kissed her, and held her. He could feel her trembling, and then he looked down at her. “I want you to be happy,” he said gently. “I want this to be a good thing for both of us.” In time, he wanted to make it up to her for the pain and disappointments she'd suffered. He wanted to make up for the absurdity and affronts in his own life. This was their chance to do it right, and make a difference to each other.
She went to put the roses in a vase, and set them down in the living room on a table.
“Are you hungry?” she called out to him, as she walked back into the kitchen. He followed her and stood in the doorway, smiling at her. She was beautiful. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, and without saying a word, he walked over to her and began unbuttoning her shirt. She just stood there, motionless, and watched him. He slipped the shirt gently off her shoulders, and dropped it on a chair, and then admired her like a work of art, or something he had just painted. She was perfect. Her skin showed no signs of age, and her body was young and tight and athletic. No one had seen it in a long time. There had been no man to mirror who she was or what she felt, and care about what she needed or wanted. She felt as though she'd been alone for a thousand years, and now finally he had come to join her. It was like sharing a journey with him. Their destination was unknown, but they were fellow travelers setting out together.
He took her by the hand then, and led her quietly to her bedroom. They lay down on the bed together, and gently took each other's clothes off. She lay naked next to him, and he kissed her, as her hands began discovering him, and then her lips, and he slowly began exploring her. What he did was tantalizing, and the long, slow unraveling of his hunger for her would have been excruciating, if it hadn't been so exactly what she wanted. It was as though he had always known her. He knew exactly where to be and what to do and how to get there, and she did the same for him. It was like a dance they had always known how to do together, their rhythms perfectly matched, their bodies fitting together like two halves of one whole. Time seemed to stand still, until everything began to move quickly, and then finally, they both exploded into the stratosphere together, and she lay in his arms, silently, kissing him and smiling.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she lay in his arms and he pulled her closer. Their bodies were still woven together, and he smiled at her.
“I've been waiting for you forever,” he whispered back. “I didn't know where you were … but I always knew you were out there somewhere.” She hadn't been as wise as he, she had lost hope years before, of ever finding him. She had been certain that she had been condemned to be alone for the rest of time. He was a gift she had long since stopped expecting, and no longer even knew she wanted. And now he was here, in her life, in her head, in her heart, in her bed, and in every nook and cranny of her body. Gray had become a part of her forever.
They lay in her bed until they both fell asleep, and woke up hours later, sated, tranquil, happy. They walked into the kitchen finally, and made lunch together, naked. She had no shame with him, and neither did he, and even though their bodies were no longer as perfect as they once had been, they were totally comfortable with each other. They took their lunch back to bed, and ate it, talking and laughing with each other. Everything between them was simple and fun and easy.
They took a shower together afterward, and then dressed and went for a long walk around SoHo. They stopped in shops, looked into art galleries, bought gelato on the street and shared it. It was six o'clock when they went back to her place finally, after renting two old movies. They climbed back into her bed, and watched them together, made love again, and at ten o'clock that night, she got up and fixed him dinner.
“I want you to come to my place tomorrow,” he said when she came back to bed with their dinner, and handed him his. She had made scrambled eggs with cheese in them, and English muffins. It was the perfect end to their special day, one which they both knew they would never forget. And there was still so much left for both of them to discover.
“I want to see your recent work,” she said, thinking of it again, as they ate the eggs.
“That's why I want you to come over.”
“If you want, I'll go home with you in the morning. I have to be at the gallery at noon, but we can go to your place before that.”
“I'd like that,” he said, smiling. They finished the eggs, turned off the TV, curled up together in the bed, with their arms around each other.
“Thank you, Gray,” she whispered to him again. He was half-asleep by then, and only smiled and nodded. She kissed him gently on the cheek, moved even closer to him, and moments later, they were both sound asleep, looking like peaceful, happy children.

[Dalyia]

7



SYLVIA WAS UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. SHE WOKE and saw Gray sleeping next to her, and for a fraction of an instant, she was startled, and then she lay nestled next to him, smiling at what had happened. If anything serious happened between them, this was going to be an enormous change for her. And even more so for him. He had never had a normal woman in his life, and she hadn't had a partner and companion in her life in years.
She slipped out of bed quietly, and went to take a shower. She let him sleep for as long as possible, and then made breakfast for both of them. She woke him up by serving him breakfast in bed on a tray. It was a far cry from the women he had fed, served, taken care of, nursed back to health, or doled out their medication to because they were too irresponsible or whacked-out to be responsible for it themselves. He looked up at Sylvia in amazement, as she set the tray down on the bed, and kissed his shoulder. He looked handsome and sexy lying in her bed, even with his uncombed hair. She loved his looks, he was strong and powerful and interesting and very male.
“Did I die and go to Heaven, or is this just a dream?” He put his arms behind his head and lay smiling at her. “I don't think I've ever had breakfast in bed, unless cold two-day-old pizza on a paper towel counts.” She had even put a small vase with a rose in it on the tray. It was fun spoiling him. She had missed having someone to fuss over and take care of. For most of her adult life she had had a husband and children to nurture. Now everyone was gone. And she was excited to be pampering him.
“I'm sorry to wake you,” she apologized. It was ten o'clock, and she wanted to go to his studio with him, as they had discussed, before she went to work. Gray glanced at the clock in consternation.
“Good Lord. What time did you get up?”
“Around seven. I very rarely sleep late.”
“Neither do I. But I slept like a baby last night.” He smiled at her, and then got up to comb his hair and brush his teeth. He came back a minute later, and settled back into her comfortable bed with the tray. “You're going to spoil me, Sylvia. I'll get fat and lazy.” There was no risk of that, she suspected. She was just enjoying being with him, and doing for him. She handed him the newspaper, which she'd read herself, while she had coffee and toast in the kitchen. He glanced at it, and put it away. He would much rather talk to her.
They chatted while he ate, and then he got up and got ready. They left for his studio at eleven, and walked out of her apartment hand in hand. She felt like a teenager with a new romance, but it had been so long since she felt that way that she was enjoying every minute of it. She was smiling as they walked out into the September sunshine, and he hailed a cab. It was a short ride to his apartment, and as they walked up four flights of stairs in the dilapidated old brownstone, he apologized for the mess in advance.
“I've been gone for a month, and to be honest, it was a mess before that. In fact”—he grinned broadly at her, slightly out of breath as they reached his landing—“it's been a mess for years.” So had his life, but he didn't point that out to her. He had appeared to be a pillar of stability to the women he went out with, but compared to Sylvia, he seemed haphazard and disorganized. She ran an extremely successful gallery, had had two long relationships in her life, raised two normal, healthy children to adulthood, and everything about her life and apartment was impeccable, orderly, and neat as a pin. When he opened the door to his apartment, they could hardly get through the door. One of his suitcases was blocking it, there were packages the super had just shoved in, and a stack of mail had fallen and was spread all over the floor. The bills he'd paid the day before lay open and in disarray on a table. There were clothes on the couch, his plants had died, and everything in the apartment looked tired and worn. It had a comfortable, masculine feeling to it. The furniture was decent looking, although the upholstery was worn. He had bought everything in the place secondhand. There was a round dining table in the corner of the room, where he entertained friends for dinner sometimes, and beyond it was what had once been the dining room, and had always been his studio. It was why she had come.
She walked straight toward it, as he tried in vain to make order in the place, but it was beyond hopeless, he realized. Instead, he followed her into the next room, and stood watching her reaction to his work. He had three paintings on easels in various states of development. One was nearly finished, another he'd just begun before his trip, and the third he was pondering and planned to change because he didn't think it worked. And there were at least another dozen or so paintings leaning against the walls. She was stunned by the power and beauty of his work. They were representational and meticulous, dark in most cases, with extraordinary lights in them. There was one of a woman's face, in a peasant dress from the Middle Ages, that was reminiscent of an Old Master. His paintings were truly beautiful, and she turned to him with a look of admiration and respect. It was completely different from what she showed in her gallery, which was hip and new and young. She had a real passion for emerging artists, and what she showed was easy to look at and fun to live with. She sold some very successful young artists as well, but none had the obvious training he did, the masterly skill, and the expertise that showed in his work. She had known Gray was a painter of the first order, but what she saw in his work now was maturity, wisdom, and infinite ability. She stood next to him then, looking at the work, wanting to absorb it and drink it all in.
“Wow! It's absolutely amazing.” She understood now why he only did two or three paintings a year. Even working on several at once, as most artists did, it had to take him months, or even years, to complete each one. “I'm blown away.” He looked thrilled with her reaction. There was one of a water scene that was absolutely mesmerizing with sunlight on the water at the end of day. It made you want to stand and stare at it forever. Sylvia knew, looking at his work, that he needed an important gallery to see his work and represent him, not hers. He knew the kind of work she sold, he had just wanted her to see it so she could see what he did. He had a great respect for her understanding of art history, and even modern painting. He knew that if she reacted favorably to it, it would be a major compliment to him. And whether she liked it or not, it was what he did. “You have to find a gallery to represent you, Gray,” she said sternly. He had told her he had been without representation for nearly three years. He sold his work to people who had bought them previously, and to friends, like Charlie, who had bought a number of his paintings and also thought they were very good. “It's a crime to leave all these paintings just sitting here, without a home.” There were stacks and stacks of them leaning against the walls.
“I hate all the dealers I meet. They don't give a damn about the work, just the money. Why give my work to them? It's not about money, at least not for me.” She could see that easily from the way he lived.
“But you have to eat,” she chided him gently. “And not all dealers are that greedy and irresponsible. Some really care about what they do. I do. I may not sell work of this caliber, or as masterful as these, but I believe in the work I show, and my artists. In their own way, they have tremendous talent too. They just express it differently than you.”
“I know you care about it. It's written all over you, that's why I wanted you to see my work. If you were like the rest of them, I wouldn't have invited you in. But then again, if you were like them, I wouldn't be falling in love with you either.” It was a big statement after their first night together, and for a moment she didn't answer. She loved being with him, and wanted to get to know him better, this was serious for her too, but she didn't know if she loved him yet. However excited she was about him, it was still too soon. It was for him too. But he was getting there faster than either of them had planned, and so was she. Seeing his work, and knowing he had dared to be vulnerable with her, made her care about him even more. She gave him a look that had no need of words, and he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“I love your work, Gray,” she whispered.
“You're not my dealer,” he teased her. “All you have to love is me.”
“I'm getting there,” she said honestly. In fact, faster than expected.
“Me too,” he said clearly.
She stood staring at his work for a long moment, as though she were on another planet. Her mind was going a million miles a minute. “I want to find a gallery for you. I have some ideas. We can go look at their work this week and see what you think.”
“Never mind what I think. It depends on what they think too. You don't have to worry about that. You have enough to do, and I don't have enough for a show right now anyway,” he said modestly. He didn't want to take advantage of her connections. What he felt for her was entirely personal and private, it had nothing to do with his work, or wanting an introduction from her, and she knew that.
“The hell you don't have enough for a show,” she said forcefully, as she would have to one of her young artists, half art dealer, half pushy stage mother. But a lot of them needed to be pushed. Few if any of them ever realized how talented they were. Not the good ones anyway. The young show-offs were rarely as good. “Look at all this,” she said, gently moving things so she could see what was in his stacks. It was gorgeous stuff, as good as what was in progress on the easels, or better.
Once finished, his paintings seemed to be lit from within, some by candlelight, some by fire. There was a luminous quality to them that she had never seen in recent work. It was straight out of the Renaissance and the work of the Old Masters. And yet it had a modern-day feeling to it. It was the technique that was so remarkable, and which was a lost art. She knew he had studied in Paris and Italy, just as her daughter was doing. In Gray's case, it had given him a great foundation. She thought his work was nothing less than brilliant and inspired. “Gray, we have to find you a gallery, whether you like it or not.” It was the kind of thing he would have done for one of his previous women, helping them to find a gallery, an agent, or a job, more often than not with disastrous results. No one had ever offered to help him, except maybe Charlie. But Gray didn't like to impose on anyone, particularly his friends, or those he loved.
“I don't need a gallery, Sylvia. Honestly, I just don't.”
“What if I find you one you like? Will you at least look at it, and talk to them?” She was pushing hard, but he loved her for it. She had nothing to gain from it, all she wanted was to help him. Just as he had done for so many for so long. He smiled and nodded in answer. She had already decided who to call, there were at least three possibilities that were perfect for him. And she knew that if she thought about it, there would be others, uptown galleries, important ones, that showed work like his. Definitely not galleries in SoHo like her own. He needed an entirely different venue. London and New York. The right galleries would have connections in other cities. That's where he belonged, in her opinion.
“Don't worry about this,” Gray said gently, and meant it. “You have enough on your plate as it is. You don't need another project. I don't want to make more work for you. I just want to be with you.”
“Me too,” she said, smiling at him. But she also wanted to help him. Why not? He deserved it. She knew that artists were typically terrible businessmen and incapable of selling their own work. That was why they had dealers. Gray needed one too. She was determined to help him. And hopefully, to have a relationship with him. That still remained to be seen. But whether she did or not over time, there was no reason not to give him a hand with the right connections for his art. She knew damn near everyone in New York in the art world. She had proven herself to be so honorable and decent that doors opened for her with ease, and always had. And once she opened the right door for him, the rest would be up to him. All she wanted to be was the conduit, which was a perfectly respectable goal between them, even if all they turned out to be were friends who'd had a brief romance.
7





SYLVIA WAS UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. SHE WOKE and saw Gray sleeping next to her, and for a fraction of an instant, she was startled, and then she lay nestled next to him, smiling at what had happened. If anything serious happened between them, this was going to be an enormous change for her. And even more so for him. He had never had a normal woman in his life, and she hadn't had a partner and companion in her life in years.
She slipped out of bed quietly, and went to take a shower. She let him sleep for as long as possible, and then made breakfast for both of them. She woke him up by serving him breakfast in bed on a tray. It was a far cry from the women he had fed, served, taken care of, nursed back to health, or doled out their medication to because they were too irresponsible or whacked-out to be responsible for it themselves. He looked up at Sylvia in amazement, as she set the tray down on the bed, and kissed his shoulder. He looked handsome and sexy lying in her bed, even with his uncombed hair. She loved his looks, he was strong and powerful and interesting and very male.
“Did I die and go to Heaven, or is this just a dream?” He put his arms behind his head and lay smiling at her. “I don't think I've ever had breakfast in bed, unless cold two-day-old pizza on a paper towel counts.” She had even put a small vase with a rose in it on the tray. It was fun spoiling him. She had missed having someone to fuss over and take care of. For most of her adult life she had had a husband and children to nurture. Now everyone was gone. And she was excited to be pampering him.
“I'm sorry to wake you,” she apologized. It was ten o'clock, and she wanted to go to his studio with him, as they had discussed, before she went to work. Gray glanced at the clock in consternation.
“Good Lord. What time did you get up?”
“Around seven. I very rarely sleep late.”
“Neither do I. But I slept like a baby last night.” He smiled at her, and then got up to comb his hair and brush his teeth. He came back a minute later, and settled back into her comfortable bed with the tray. “You're going to spoil me, Sylvia. I'll get fat and lazy.” There was no risk of that, she suspected. She was just enjoying being with him, and doing for him. She handed him the newspaper, which she'd read herself, while she had coffee and toast in the kitchen. He glanced at it, and put it away. He would much rather talk to her.
They chatted while he ate, and then he got up and got ready. They left for his studio at eleven, and walked out of her apartment hand in hand. She felt like a teenager with a new romance, but it had been so long since she felt that way that she was enjoying every minute of it. She was smiling as they walked out into the September sunshine, and he hailed a cab. It was a short ride to his apartment, and as they walked up four flights of stairs in the dilapidated old brownstone, he apologized for the mess in advance.
“I've been gone for a month, and to be honest, it was a mess before that. In fact”—he grinned broadly at her, slightly out of breath as they reached his landing—“it's been a mess for years.” So had his life, but he didn't point that out to her. He had appeared to be a pillar of stability to the women he went out with, but compared to Sylvia, he seemed haphazard and disorganized. She ran an extremely successful gallery, had had two long relationships in her life, raised two normal, healthy children to adulthood, and everything about her life and apartment was impeccable, orderly, and neat as a pin. When he opened the door to his apartment, they could hardly get through the door. One of his suitcases was blocking it, there were packages the super had just shoved in, and a stack of mail had fallen and was spread all over the floor. The bills he'd paid the day before lay open and in disarray on a table. There were clothes on the couch, his plants had died, and everything in the apartment looked tired and worn. It had a comfortable, masculine feeling to it. The furniture was decent looking, although the upholstery was worn. He had bought everything in the place secondhand. There was a round dining table in the corner of the room, where he entertained friends for dinner sometimes, and beyond it was what had once been the dining room, and had always been his studio. It was why she had come.
She walked straight toward it, as he tried in vain to make order in the place, but it was beyond hopeless, he realized. Instead, he followed her into the next room, and stood watching her reaction to his work. He had three paintings on easels in various states of development. One was nearly finished, another he'd just begun before his trip, and the third he was pondering and planned to change because he didn't think it worked. And there were at least another dozen or so paintings leaning against the walls. She was stunned by the power and beauty of his work. They were representational and meticulous, dark in most cases, with extraordinary lights in them. There was one of a woman's face, in a peasant dress from the Middle Ages, that was reminiscent of an Old Master. His paintings were truly beautiful, and she turned to him with a look of admiration and respect. It was completely different from what she showed in her gallery, which was hip and new and young. She had a real passion for emerging artists, and what she showed was easy to look at and fun to live with. She sold some very successful young artists as well, but none had the obvious training he did, the masterly skill, and the expertise that showed in his work. She had known Gray was a painter of the first order, but what she saw in his work now was maturity, wisdom, and infinite ability. She stood next to him then, looking at the work, wanting to absorb it and drink it all in.
“Wow! It's absolutely amazing.” She understood now why he only did two or three paintings a year. Even working on several at once, as most artists did, it had to take him months, or even years, to complete each one. “I'm blown away.” He looked thrilled with her reaction. There was one of a water scene that was absolutely mesmerizing with sunlight on the water at the end of day. It made you want to stand and stare at it forever. Sylvia knew, looking at his work, that he needed an important gallery to see his work and represent him, not hers. He knew the kind of work she sold, he had just wanted her to see it so she could see what he did. He had a great respect for her understanding of art history, and even modern painting. He knew that if she reacted favorably to it, it would be a major compliment to him. And whether she liked it or not, it was what he did. “You have to find a gallery to represent you, Gray,” she said sternly. He had told her he had been without representation for nearly three years. He sold his work to people who had bought them previously, and to friends, like Charlie, who had bought a number of his paintings and also thought they were very good. “It's a crime to leave all these paintings just sitting here, without a home.” There were stacks and stacks of them leaning against the walls.
“I hate all the dealers I meet. They don't give a damn about the work, just the money. Why give my work to them? It's not about money, at least not for me.” She could see that easily from the way he lived.
“But you have to eat,” she chided him gently. “And not all dealers are that greedy and irresponsible. Some really care about what they do. I do. I may not sell work of this caliber, or as masterful as these, but I believe in the work I show, and my artists. In their own way, they have tremendous talent too. They just express it differently than you.”
“I know you care about it. It's written all over you, that's why I wanted you to see my work. If you were like the rest of them, I wouldn't have invited you in. But then again, if you were like them, I wouldn't be falling in love with you either.” It was a big statement after their first night together, and for a moment she didn't answer. She loved being with him, and wanted to get to know him better, this was serious for her too, but she didn't know if she loved him yet. However excited she was about him, it was still too soon. It was for him too. But he was getting there faster than either of them had planned, and so was she. Seeing his work, and knowing he had dared to be vulnerable with her, made her care about him even more. She gave him a look that had no need of words, and he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“I love your work, Gray,” she whispered.
“You're not my dealer,” he teased her. “All you have to love is me.”
“I'm getting there,” she said honestly. In fact, faster than expected.
“Me too,” he said clearly.
She stood staring at his work for a long moment, as though she were on another planet. Her mind was going a million miles a minute. “I want to find a gallery for you. I have some ideas. We can go look at their work this week and see what you think.”
“Never mind what I think. It depends on what they think too. You don't have to worry about that. You have enough to do, and I don't have enough for a show right now anyway,” he said modestly. He didn't want to take advantage of her connections. What he felt for her was entirely personal and private, it had nothing to do with his work, or wanting an introduction from her, and she knew that.
“The hell you don't have enough for a show,” she said forcefully, as she would have to one of her young artists, half art dealer, half pushy stage mother. But a lot of them needed to be pushed. Few if any of them ever realized how talented they were. Not the good ones anyway. The young show-offs were rarely as good. “Look at all this,” she said, gently moving things so she could see what was in his stacks. It was gorgeous stuff, as good as what was in progress on the easels, or better.
Once finished, his paintings seemed to be lit from within, some by candlelight, some by fire. There was a luminous quality to them that she had never seen in recent work. It was straight out of the Renaissance and the work of the Old Masters. And yet it had a modern-day feeling to it. It was the technique that was so remarkable, and which was a lost art. She knew he had studied in Paris and Italy, just as her daughter was doing. In Gray's case, it had given him a great foundation. She thought his work was nothing less than brilliant and inspired. “Gray, we have to find you a gallery, whether you like it or not.” It was the kind of thing he would have done for one of his previous women, helping them to find a gallery, an agent, or a job, more often than not with disastrous results. No one had ever offered to help him, except maybe Charlie. But Gray didn't like to impose on anyone, particularly his friends, or those he loved.
“I don't need a gallery, Sylvia. Honestly, I just don't.”
“What if I find you one you like? Will you at least look at it, and talk to them?” She was pushing hard, but he loved her for it. She had nothing to gain from it, all she wanted was to help him. Just as he had done for so many for so long. He smiled and nodded in answer. She had already decided who to call, there were at least three possibilities that were perfect for him. And she knew that if she thought about it, there would be others, uptown galleries, important ones, that showed work like his. Definitely not galleries in SoHo like her own. He needed an entirely different venue. London and New York. The right galleries would have connections in other cities. That's where he belonged, in her opinion.
“Don't worry about this,” Gray said gently, and meant it. “You have enough on your plate as it is. You don't need another project. I don't want to make more work for you. I just want to be with you.”
“Me too,” she said, smiling at him. But she also wanted to help him. Why not? He deserved it. She knew that artists were typically terrible businessmen and incapable of selling their own work. That was why they had dealers. Gray needed one too. She was determined to help him. And hopefully, to have a relationship with him. That still remained to be seen. But whether she did or not over time, there was no reason not to give him a hand with the right connections for his art. She knew damn near everyone in New York in the art world. She had proven herself to be so honorable and decent that doors opened for her with ease, and always had. And once she opened the right door for him, the rest would be up to him. All she wanted to be was the conduit, which was a perfectly respectable goal between them, even if all they turned out to be were friends who'd had a brief romance.

[Dalyia]

Sylvia glanced at her watch then. It was nearly noon and she had to get to her office. He promised to call her later, as she kissed him good-bye, and a moment later she was scampering down the stairs as he called out to her.
“Thank you!” he shouted down the stairwell, and she looked up with a broad smile. She waved then, and was gone.
There was the usual chaos once she got to her office. Two artists had called in frantic about their next show. A client was upset because a painting hadn't arrived yet. Someone else called to check on a commission they'd ordered. The installer had had a motorcycle accident, broken both arms, and couldn't put up their next show. She had an appointment with their graphic designer that afternoon, about the brochure for the next show. She had to meet a deadline for their next ad in Artforum, and the photographer hadn't delivered the four-by-fives yet of the piece of sculpture in the ad. She didn't have time to breathe until four o'clock that afternoon. But as soon as she did, she made some calls for Gray. It was easier than she had expected. The dealers she called trusted her reputation, her taste, and her judgment. Most people who knew her thought she had a good eye, and an instinct for great art. Two of the dealers she called asked her to send slides. The third was coming home that night from Paris, so she left a message for him to call her. She called Gray as soon as she hung up. She was a woman on a mission. And he laughed the minute he heard her. She sounded like a whirlwind, and he assured her he had slides. If he hadn't, she was going to send a photographer over to do some.
“I have sheets of them, if that's all you want.”
“That'll do for now,” she said cheerfully, and told him she'd have a messenger at his studio in half an hour to pick them up.
“Wow, you don't mess around, do you?”
“Not with work as great as yours … besides,” she said, slowing down a little. This wasn't business for her after all, it was romance. She had to remind herself of that for a minute. “I want good things to happen for you.”
“They already did, in Portofino. The rest is gravy.”
“Well, let me take care of the gravy,” she said, sounding confident, and he smiled.
“Be my guest.” He was loving the attention, it was completely unfamiliar to him. He didn't want to take advantage of her, but he was fascinated watching her work, and seeing how she lived her life. She was not a woman to be daunted by obstacles, nor to accept defeat or failure. She just rolled up her sleeves and got to work, whatever the task at hand.
The messenger appeared at Gray's door at exactly four-thirty, brought the slides to Sylvia, and shortly after five she had them and a cover letter in the hands of the dealers she'd called about Gray's work. She left her gallery at six, and as soon as she got home, Gray called her, and suggested dinner together. He wanted to take her to a small Italian restaurant in his neighborhood. She was thrilled. It was funny and cozy and the food was delicious, and she was relieved to see on the menu that it was cheap. She didn't want him spending money on her, but she didn't want to humiliate him by offering to pay either. She suspected they would be doing a lot of cooking for each other in the future. And after dinner that night, he took her home, and stayed at her place. They were falling into a delicious routine.
They made breakfast together the next morning, and the next day he served her breakfast in bed. He said it was her turn. She had never had a turn before, but this time they were partners, spoiling and pampering each other, listening to each other, consulting each other on what they thought. For the moment, everything about it was perfect. It frightened her to look into the future, or have too much hope that this meant more than it did. But whatever it was, and however long it lasted, it suited them both for now, and was all they had ever wanted. And the sex was beyond terrific. They were old and wise enough, and had just enough experience, to care about each other, and make sure that each was pleased. Nothing in their relationship was self-serving. Each of them enjoyed making the other happy, whether in or out of bed. After a lifetime of mistakes, they were both wise and well seasoned. Like a fine wine that had ripened perfectly with age. Not too old yet, but just old enough to be vibrant and delicious. Although her children might have thought them old, in fact they were the perfect age to enjoy and appreciate each other. Sylvia had never been happier in her life. Nor had Gray.
Both art dealers she had sent his slides to called her on the same day. Both were interested, and wanted to see samples of his work. The third dealer called two days after he got home from Paris, and said pretty much the same thing. Sylvia told Gray about it over dinner the day they called.
“I think you're going to have some options here,” she said, looking ecstatic. Gray was floored. In a matter of days, she had swept him out of his lethargy, gotten slides of his work to the right places, and opened several doors.
“You are an amazing woman,” he said with eyes that said it all.
“You are an amazing man, and an extraordinary artist.” She made a date with him to take his work to all three galleries on Saturday afternoon. She said they could use her van. And as promised, she showed up in the morning in a sweatshirt and jeans to help him load up. It took them two hours to take everything he wanted downstairs, and he was embarrassed to have her work. She had already played fairy godmother to him, he hated to use her as delivery person too, but she was game.
She had brought a sweater and better shoes to change into when they went to the galleries that were expecting them. And by five o'clock it was over. He had offers from all three galleries, who were wildly impressed with his work. Gray couldn't believe what she had done, and even she had to admit she was pleased.
“I'm so proud of you,” she said, beaming at him. They were both exhausted but delighted. It took another two hours to get all his work back upstairs. He hadn't made a decision yet about which gallery to choose. But that night he did, and she thought he had made the right choice. It was an important gallery on Fifty-seventh Street, with a large branch in London, and a corresponding gallery in Paris, with whom they exchanged work. It was perfect for him, she said confidently, thrilled with his choice.
“You are incredible,” he said, smiling at her. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, he was so moved by what she'd done. They were sitting on the couch in his living room as he said it. The room was an even bigger mess than it had been earlier in the week. He had been painting all week, inspired by her energy, and hadn't bothered to tidy up. She didn't care and didn't seem to see it. He loved that about her too, in fact there was absolutely nothing he didn't. As far as Gray was concerned, she was the perfect woman, and he wanted to be the perfect man for her, and give her all that she had never had and needed. There was little he could do for her except be there for her, and love her, which was precisely what he wanted to do. “I love you, Sylvia,” he said quietly, as he looked at her.
“I love you too,” she said softly. She wasn't even sure if she wanted to, but the days and nights they had spent together meant something. She liked the way he thought, and what he believed. She loved his integrity and what he stood for. She even admired his work. There was nothing they needed to do about it, nowhere to go with it, no decisions they had to make. All they had to do was enjoy it. It was all so simple, for the first time in both their previously complicated lives. “Do you want me to cook dinner?” she asked, smiling at him. The only decisions they had to make were where to eat, and whose place to sleep at. He liked sleeping at her apartment, and she preferred it. His was too big a mess, although she liked visiting him there and seeing the progress on his work.
“No,” Gray said firmly, “I do not want you to cook dinner. I want to take you out and celebrate. You got me a terrific gallery this week. I would never have done that myself. I would just have sat here, on all of it, too lazy to move.” He wasn't lazy, far from it. But he was modest about his work. She knew many artists like him. They needed someone to make the moves and bridge the gap for them. She had been happy to do it for him, with remarkably good results.
They had dinner at a small French restaurant on the Upper East Side that night, with good French food and fine French wine. It was a genuine celebration, of them, of his new gallery, of everything that lay ahead. And as they went back to her place in a cab, they talked about Charlie and Adam. Gray hadn't seen Adam since he got back, or even called him, and he knew Charlie wasn't back yet, and Gray hadn't called him either. He often didn't call either of them, especially when he was engrossed in his painting. They were used to his dropping off the face of the earth, and called him when they didn't hear from him. He described his friendship with them to Sylvia that night, the depth of it, and their kindness to him. They talked about why Charlie had never married, and why Adam never would again. Sylvia said she felt sorry for them. Charlie seemed like a lonely man to her, and it saddened her to hear about his sister and parents, enormous irreversible losses for him. In the end, losing them had cost him the opportunity to be loved by someone else, which multiplied the tragedy exponentially for him.
“He says he wants to get married, but I don't think he ever will,” Gray said philosophically. They both agreed that Adam was another story. Bitter about Rachel, angry at his mother, all he wanted was bimbos and girls who were young enough to be his daughters. It sounded like an empty life to her. “He's a great guy, once you get to know him,” Gray said loyally about his friend. Sylvia was not as convinced. It was easy to see the merit and quality in Charlie. Adam was the kind of man who never failed to annoy her. Smart, confident, cocky, successful, with no real use for women, except as sex objects and decorations. He would never have dreamed of going out with a woman his own age. She didn't say it to Gray, but she had a profound disrespect for men like him. As far as she was concerned, he needed therapy, a good swift kick in the ass, and a powerful lesson. She hoped that one of these days, some smart young thing would deliver it to him. From what she could see, he had it coming. Gray didn't see it that way. He thought he was a great guy, who'd had his heart broken when Rachel left him.
“That doesn't justify using people, or disrespecting women.” Sylvia had had her heart broken too, more than once, but it hadn't made her use men as disposable objects. Far from it. It had made her retreat and lick her wounds, and think about how and why it had happened, before venturing out into the world again. But then again, she was a woman. Women functioned differently than men, and came to different conclusions. Most women who had been badly burned retreated to nurse their wounds, whereas most men who had been wounded ran headlong into the world, wreaking vengeance on others. She was sure, as Gray said, that Adam was nice to the women he went out with. The problem was that he had no respect for them, and would never have understood what she and Gray were sharing. He would never have let it happen, or dared to trust it. Which made her realize once again what a miracle it was that she and Gray had found each other.
She cuddled up next to him in bed that night, feeling safe and warm and lucky. And if, in the end, he went away again, at least they would have had this magical moment. She knew now that she could survive whatever happened. Gray loved that about her. She was a survivor, and he had proven over a lifetime that he was as well. If anything, their disappointments had made them kinder, wiser, and more patient. They had no desire to hurt each other or anyone else. And whatever else happened, or didn't, between them, along with the dreams, the hope, the romance, and the sex, best of all, they had become friends and were learning to love each other.