Chapter 4
Four
It’s cooler Saturday, and I keep the top up on my convertible. I pick up Pete from his place, then find Ivy and Toby’s house with help from my map app. They’re on the Art Center side of town, on a dead-end, tree-lined street called Ashby Lane. I keep a pretty close eye on Rosedale real estate as a hobby and don’t remember this house going on the market, so I assume it’s a rental.
It’s just after noon when we pull into their short driveway. I park behind a modern silver hybrid and a boxy station wagon that’s mostly white and at least thirty years old. It’s not difficult to identify the efficient, stylish car as Ivy’s while assigning ownership of the rusty wagon to her other half.
I adjust the paisley scarf I added to my outfit at the last minute. This morning I struggled over what to wear and ended up in a less fancy version of what I had on last night: faun colored pants, white shirt, velvet jacket. Pete's wearing jeans and a sweater, matching Ivy’s casual duds when she answers our knock.
“Come on in,” she says, leaving the door open for us to follow her into the spare, minimalist entryway of the medium-sized post-war colonial. She offers us coffee or tea, but I opt for water. I had my fill of coffee this morning while lounging in my armchair, reading for pleasure and trying to ignore the fact that I was going to see Toby again.
It doesn’t matter that he makes my stomach ache and my breathing shallow and that I did, indeed, see his face even after I closed my eyes last night. He’s Ivy’s, he’s been Ivy’s for years. I’ll simply ignore my inconvenient feelings and make friends with the most attractive man I’ve ever met.
“Toby’s in his studio,” she says, after we sip our drinks and make small talk. “Do you want to see mine first?”
“Yes,” Pete says enthusiastically, and I know he’s not simply trying to flatter her. “Please.”
Ivy takes us to what must have been intended as a guest bedroom but now contains three worktables and no bed. One table holds a block of clay and sharp-looking tools in neat round buckets. The second seems to be where her work-in-progress is, a horse, by the looks of it, taking shape out of rust-colored clay. The third has finished pieces, not clay at all, but dark metal, polished to a shine. I see a bird taking flight, and another horse, galloping with its mane flowing as if cutting through an invisible wind. There’s a tarantula, too, mid-climb over a rock. Very weird and interesting.
“I’ve always wondered how it works—you sculpt in clay first, and then what?” Pete asks.
“Yes, I make a mold of the clay piece in silicone. That’s how you can make multiple castings of the same piece. Then I cut the mold away from the clay, which gets repurposed for another piece. The next step is to melt the bronze down and pour it into the mold. After it cools, I remove the mold and bronze remains. There’s more technicality to it, but that’s the gist. I can’t pour the bronze here because it’s too much of a fire hazard, but the Art Center has a facility, so I don’t have to go far. It’s another reason I chose Rosedale.”
Pete inspects the clay horse-in-progress. “You like to sculpt animals?”
“Mainly,” Ivy says.
“I’m digging the tarantula,” I say. “It’s so unexpected.”
She grins. “That’s a personal favorite of mine as well. My nephew gave me the idea—I gave him one for his tenth birthday and I have officially become the coolest auntie.”
We talk about her process for a while, but I’m wondering why she’s not putting her stuff out in the world. “You know there’s probably a market for these,” I say.
“Definitely,” Pete adds. “These birds are incredible. Are they hummingbirds?” On a pedestal in a sunny corner there’s a collection of tiny, delicate birds with long tail feathers and curved beaks, all in various stages of flight.
“Those are doctor birds—native to Jamaica. Streamertails is another name for them.”
“Gorgeous,” Pete murmurs. “Would you part with one? My sister is obsessed with hummingbirds.”
Ivy looks somewhat surprised, but then she nods decisively. “Sure.” She turns to me. “Kingston, would you go get Toby for lunch? He’s in his studio in the back. Pete and I can talk terms.”
She gives me a small smile and I know she wants to get Pete alone to talk business. Still, I hesitate. “He won’t mind my just showing up?”
“Oh, he might be a bit stroppy, but it’ll pass. Go out the kitchen door and you’ll see it.”
Part of me wants to turn down the assignment, but an encouraging gesture from Pete prompts me to agree. “All right.”
I leave them to it, retrace our steps to the kitchen, and go out the back door. The day is still chilly, but sunny. Short buttery daffodils bloom on the edge of a walkway that leads to a detached garage with sliding barn doors. The main entrance is shut, but a second door on the side is cracked open. I gather my courage, which falters when I remember I’m going to see Toby again.
I shake myself severely, smooth the front of my shirt, and defiantly stick my hands in my jacket pockets, summoning my usual air of competence. I’m Kingston James. I don’t get nervous around boys .
Of course, I have to take one hand out of my pocket almost immediately so I can rap on the open door.
“Hello?” I call inside.
Grumbling can be heard before the door wrenches all the way open.
“What?” Toby barks. He’s wearing a black moth-eaten sweater made of more holes than fabric, a white T-shirt that shows through the Swiss cheese pattern, and loose jeans with smears of white paint all along the front. The shabby clothes reinforce my theory from last night that the clothes, in this case, don’t make the man. Despite the attire, he’s even more handsome today, his hair an uncombed mop, irregular blond stubble on his chin and cheeks. The man won the genetic jackpot and my response to him is no less strong, more’s the pity.
“Oh, it’s you,” he says, his defensively raised shoulders relaxing. “Sorry. I was wrestling with some truculent tubes of paint.”
“I don’t mean to bother you. Ivy wants us to come in for lunch in a minute,” I say, delivering my message while peering curiously around the inside of the garage—studio, Ivy had called it, and the name fits. No cars could fit here, not with the drafting table covered in paints and brushes and glossy 4x6 photos, and several large easels, one empty, two holding canvases.
But those aren’t the only canvases I see. No, there are easily a hundred or more propped up against the walls and a chest of drawers, with smaller ones stacked on a built-in countertop. They all seem to be finished, though the way they’re arranged makes it impossible to see the subjects of more than a few.
But the ones I can see take my breath away. Saturated colors, impressive technique. I don’t have to have an art degree to know that Toby’s got complete command of his brush. So to speak.
“Do you mind?” I step fully into the space and put my hand back in my pocket lest I reach out and touch something I’m not supposed to.
“Um, yeah, sure. It’s fine,” Toby says. He’s not reluctant, exactly, but he doesn’t sound all that certain about letting me in. “Ivy mentioned you and Pete were coming over. I lost track of time. I tend to do that when I’m working.”
“Not a problem,” I say, wondering where to start. “That’s the Greystone.” I point at one of the works on the easels.
“Yes, finishing it up in the next couple of days hopefully,” he says. His chuckle sounds forced. “Guess it’s good that you can tell what it’s supposed to be.”
How could I not recognize the iconic Rosedale building, especially the way Toby’s painted it? It’s not quite photo-realistic, but there’s something more real than real about it. It’s as if he’s breathed actual life into the static picture via paint texture and brushstrokes. It’s an accurate representation of the building, down to its wide gray stone front steps, and it feels like you could almost step right into the painting and onto those steps, to live in the gorgeous world he created out of pigment.
“Toby.” His name comes to my lips before I can stop it. It feels oddly good to form the word, so I say it again, “Toby. This is staggeringly good.”
“Oh.” He rubs his hand on the back of his neck and shrugs. “Thanks.” On someone else, the modesty would be an affectation, but on him, it’s genuine, making him even more sweetly adorable. God, I am in so much trouble here. But again, my mouth opens and words pour out before I can stop myself.
“You have to come paint my cottage,” I say quickly. “I’ll pay twice your normal fee. I must have a Toby Wheaton on my walls.”
He blinks at me. “Just like that? You don’t even know what I charge.”
“Whatever it is, it’s not enough. Say you’ll do it.” I know how to get what I want. Most of the time. I can’t have him—I know I can’t. He’s Ivy’s.
But I could have a piece of him.
Suddenly, he grins, and it changes his entire demeanor from insecure artist to playful pretty boy. “Is this you badgering me, Kingston?”
The sound of him saying my name brings instant goosebumps to my arms. Or maybe my jacket just isn’t warm enough for the day. The studio is cold, too. I see a space heater in a corner, but it’s not on. I can’t help the shudder that undulates down my spine.
“It’s chilly out here,” he says, perhaps noting my shiver. “We can go in.”
“Wait—show me more?” I ask quickly.
Instantly, he retreats back to insecure artist. “Oh, this place is such a mess and I?—”
“This one.” I point to the canvas nearest me, a landscape of an icy blue beach, crashing waves, and dramatic cliffs. “Tell me about this one.”
“That’s the Isle of Wight. Ivy and I went there a couple of years ago. Quite near the town of Kingston, actually.” He smiles at me full-on, and I swear I feel a little dizzy.
I clear my throat. “Do you always paint from life?”
“Generally, yes. I take photos and use them for reference.” He files through a nearby stack of six or so canvases, pulls out a large square one. “Here’s something that came out of my head, though.”
It’s another landscape, but of no place I’ve ever seen, a winding stream and a tiny fairy cottage hidden away in a jungle of flowers. “Beautiful,” I murmur, the word so far from adequate I’m almost embarrassed to use it. “You could illustrate fantasy in a heartbeat.”
He cocks his head, sets the painting down. “Jack said the same thing the other day.”
“If you wanted to get into it, I could give you some names.”
His forehead creases. “You just met me and you want me to do a painting for you and introduce me to your contacts?”
“Decisive is one of my better qualities.”
His warm laugh makes me forget the chill of the room. “I’ll think about it.”
“No pressure. Except about the painting of my house. That I definitely want. What do you do first? Take pictures?”
He laughs again, louder. It echoes off the hard walls. “Let’s go have lunch and we’ll talk.”
I let him off the hook, for now, and he shuts the door to the studio firmly behind us. On the way back to the house, he asks where I live.
“Bramble Street. About half a mile past Pete’s house.”
“And you split your time in the city?”
“Have to go back Monday,” I say, realizing the weekend is slipping by quickly and I haven’t yet had a chance to talk to Jack about my business plans.
“You don’t work from home?” he asks as he opens the kitchen door for me to walk through first. A gentleman through and through.
“Sometimes. But I find I get better results when I’m available for in-person meetings and lunches. People have a hard time saying no to me when we’re face-to-face. I use it to my advantage.”
He passes close to me on his way to the sink, glancing at me briefly. “I can imagine.”
If we weren’t standing in the house he shares with his beautiful girlfriend, I could almost pretend he’s flirting with me.
He washes his hands and Pete and Ivy join us from her workroom. They seem to have come to some kind of arrangement, because Pete seems more relaxed. Ivy moves to stand next to Toby with the easy familiarity of long-term lovers. The stab of jealousy and longing that hits my gut makes me turn away. It shouldn’t hurt to see them together, but it does. What is my problem? I literally only met the man last night. What does my heart think it’s doing by falling for a guy it can’t have? Bad heart. No romance for you.
“So, lunch?” Ivy asks.
“Great,” Pete says enthusiastically. “Can we help?”
Ivy graciously lets Pete put napkins and silverware on the charmingly distressed round wooden kitchen table while she arranges sandwiches on plates. Toby fills the kettle with water and offers me a selection of tea bags. I pick something herbal. I don’t need to be even more on edge around him.
I try to relax as we take seats around the table. Luckily, Ivy and Toby don’t seem to be one of those touchy-feely couples who are all over each other (cough, Jack and Pete, cough) but they have a shared ease that’s enviable. Ivy said they’d been together for what—a decade? That puts any relationship I’ve ever been in to shame. Even Jack and Pete have only been together for about four years. Not that it’s a competition.
The sandwiches are tasty and we chat about the weather, each of us ready for the change of season. Pete tells us about the tulips he bought from the flower shop in town last fall that are starting to come up in his and Jack’s backyard. As we’re finishing up, a short-haired cat, entirely black except for a smudge of white on its chest, with round green eyes, trots into the room. It ignores the four humans at the table in its quest for a place to curl up, which it finds on a rag rug that’s the landing spot for a beam of sunlight streaming through the kitchen window.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding at the beast. I’ve always considered myself a dog person, but this cat is undeniably a character.
“That’s Luna,” Toby answers. “She adopted us when we moved here.”
Ivy rolls her eyes. “You mean she conned you into adopting her.”
“She was the last one left,” Toby says defensively, as if he’s had to make this argument a number of times before. “I couldn’t let them take her to the shelter.” He looks beseechingly at Pete, then me. “She was the last of a litter that a family was giving away outside the supermarket one day. I honestly couldn’t say no.”
“She looked at you with her big eyes and you melted,” Ivy grumbles, but she doesn’t sound truly upset.
Toby grins at his girlfriend. “What can I say? I’m a soft touch for big, beautiful eyes.”
It’s honestly adorable, except that instead of responding to the compliment, Ivy pushes back from the table hurriedly. “I have some biscuits if anyone wants something sweet.”
“If by biscuits you mean cookies, I’m interested,” Pete says.
Toby says nothing, and I wonder if I’m imagining the tension between them. Perhaps it’s not all paradise for him and Ivy. Not that it matters. He’s given no indication of being anything besides straight.
Maybe it’s time to leave. I decline the cookies—store-bought, not Beck’s, and therefore not worth eating—but Pete munches on two, bottomless pit that he is, all six-foot-whatever with a metabolism to match.
“Thank you for showing us your work,” I say. “Toby, take my number and we can set up a time for you to come take pictures.”
“Take pictures?” Ivy asks.
“Toby’s going to do a painting for me. Of my cottage,” I say breezily.
“He is?” She sounds skeptical.
“Apparently.” Toby’s tone is dry, but he sends me a small smile. “You better take my number instead and text me yours. I couldn’t find my phone this morning, but I’m sure it’ll turn up.”
I whip out my phone from my trouser pocket and carefully type in the numbers he gives me, then text him immediately.
This is Kingston James.
A stack of magazines on the kitchen counter rings shrilly in response.
“Ah, there it is,” Toby says, fishing a black cell phone from out between creased copies of Architectural Digest and the New Yorker . “Thanks, Kingston.”
“Happy to be of service,” I reply.
He fiddles with the phone for a moment and then my phone, still in my hand, buzzes.
I look down to see the answering text.
This is Tobias Eric Wheaton.
I have no idea why he gave me his full name, but I carefully copy and paste it into my contacts before we say goodbye. Pete’s full of excitement over Ivy’s sculptures. “She’s being modest—she’s talked to some dealers in London, but nothing ever worked out. I’m calling Fernanda when I get home. She’ll know what to do.”
After dropping Pete off, I go home and putter around and try not to think about how my exposure therapy to Toby today backfired. Now that I’ve seen his work, I only find him more attractive, not less.
Part of me wonders if I’ve just been so lonely lately that I latched onto the first guy to turn my head in a while. If so, having him over won’t be a big deal, because these feelings aren’t real. And when I get back to the city, I could try hooking up. Or not. I don’t have to have sex with someone to prove I’m not into Tobias Eric Wheaton.