I shook my head. “I don’t know. Something.”
“Well, Graham. Sometimes that’s all you get. A little something that could turn into a big everything.”
His words followed me around for the rest of my visit. From my friend Cooper, who I’d ghosted at the constant badgering of Nadia because she just didn’t like him and I’d wanted the relationship with her to work, to his assessment of relationships and taking chances.
I ruminated over it all during Marley’s birthday dinner, then at Flagstaff as I hiked and got inspired by the views, and then when picking my sister up from school again and treating her to a small shopping spree at the mall for some extra birthday gifts.
I was still turning my father’s words over in my head on the plane ride home Saturday morning, and directed the cab driver to a route that would take us past Lior’s house. As we drove by, I wondered if my poem had made her laugh. I realized then that I never would’ve written something that included the word “poo” to any of the women I’d been with in the past. They’d have found it “icky” and in poor taste. But Lior, despite being one of the world’s most famous models, seemed like she might appreciate the terrible poem. And that right there was another little something to take note of.
Chapter 14
Lior
I slid into my favorite pair of worn-in sneakers – once again restored to their pre-poo glory thanks to Graham – and stepped out onto the stoop, breathing in the warm summer air. It was going to be a hot one today, which was why I’d hurried through my morning word games and cappuccino. I wanted to get my walk in before the heat turned from tolerable to melting-the-clothes-to-my-body hot. That way I’d have enough time to shower and cool down before my meeting with Daniela, the newest rising star designer in the fashion world. She’d touched base the evening before to let me know we’d be doing a fitting for several pieces she hoped would be used in the shoot that would be happening for Vogue.
It was a coup for her. Old hat for me at this point. I’d posed for Vogue more than my mother had now, which was a point of pride for me that didn’t come without a little jealousy from her, as evidenced by the way she always changed the subject when any mention of the magazine or its famed president was mentioned.
Since arriving back home, I’d been admittedly, if not begrudgingly, bummed not to run into Graham. Not even a glimpse of him and his trusty sidekick had been spotted. I knew he still existed thanks to the clean shoe, the poem he’d left in it – which I’d framed and set in the bookcase of my living room, because a Graham Forrester original wasn’t something to be hidden away – and of course his column in the Sunday paper this morning. But we hadn’t bumped into each other again and I wondered if he was out of town? Or, worse, maybe something had happened to Brontë?
I’d practically ripped the paper apart this morning getting to his weekly article in hopes of some sort of clue about his whereabouts… but it was a charming piece on one of the local bakery owners. No word about Brontë. No hint at where he’d been the past few days. No suggestions to why I hadn’t seen the two of them walking in the neighborhood.
At the bottom of the steps I took a left, as had become my new habit. I found it curious that Graham must have changed his route as well. I assumed to avoid me just like I’d done to avoid him. And yet, having both done the same – probably with the same intention – we had seen each other more often, if only from a distance. Well, except for the past few days.
Maybe he’d decided to go back to his old route.
Also, I found it unfair that he knew where I lived, but I had no idea where he resided. I wondered if I did, would I have the guts to walk by? And what would be my excuse to do so? I supposed I could always leave some form of ‘Thank you’ on his doorstep. But then he’d know I’d tracked him down, and maybe he didn’t want to be found. At least not by me.
“Thank you for coming on a Sunday,” Daniela said, letting me in through the back door of her workshop, which was conveniently located only a few blocks away from my house.
“Of course,” I said, leaning in to hug the diminutive designer. “I’m excited to work with you. And see what you’ve got in store for the shoot.”
“Lior!” a woman’s voice said as I entered Daniela’s sewing room.
I grinned at the familiar face of Risa Collins, the creative director for Vogue, and hurried over to give her a hug as well.
“I didn’t know you’d be here too,” I said.
Risa had the kind of instincts and intelligence that both awed and frightened me. Pair those things with an innate sense of style and the effortless way she conducted herself and she was a lethal combination several times over. Along with her boss, she could make or break a career. But despite her professional prowess, I always found myself at ease in her company.
Unlike Katya, who I knew was terrified of her.
“She’s like a predator,” she’d said to me once. “She makes you feel falsely at ease, and then goes for the carotid.”
“Please stop watching the National Geographic channel,” I’d responded. It was actually listed as her favorite channel on her bio and it wasn’t a joke. I’d lost count of the number of times I’d had to ask her to stop telling me creepy creature facts while we were on a shoot. It was hard giving fuck-me eyes when she was going on and on about the sex lives of bean beetles.
“Daniela and I had lunch the other day,” Risa said to me, smoothing a hand over her thick auburn hair, which was twisted into its signature sleek bun at the nape of her neck. “She mentioned you were doing a fitting today so I thought I’d drop in to see some of the designs – and you of course.” Her voice lowered. “In case you have good Oliver Manning dirt to share.”
I laughed. “I hate to disappoint but, other than him being exactly how the media has portrayed him over the years, I’ve got nothing. No dirt… no injuries by cane.”
Her deep-throated chuckle filled the room.
“Dammit,” she said, and then we both turned to survey the scene around us.
Daniela’s workshop was a large space filled with gorgeous pastel fabrics, set against white-painted walls.
“I feel like I’m in a painting,” I said, wandering carefully and running a hand over satins and silks and a crisp lavender cotton. “It’s like walking through one of Monet’s garden scenes.”
The designer smiled and shrugged, looking around the room herself.
