“You going to open these boxes today?” I asked lightly, allowing him to blow it off if he wanted. It was the first time I had mentioned anything about it, even the day he skied instead of unpacking as he planned.
He blew out a breath. “Yeah, I think so,” he said.
At that, the doorbell to his condosounded, and he moved to answer it. I continued to fix my coffee, but I could tell that it was another package coming for him as soon as I heard him at the door. Before I could even get my coffee properly stirred, I heard the sounds of a wooden crate being opened carefully.
Perrin was bent over a crate, using care to open its contents. He was on the floor, the box reverently placed before him, as his long fingers gently opened the flaps. I was instantly curious. All these other boxes sitting unopened for weeks, but this one immediately demanded his attention. He looked up at me with a shy smile.
“I haven’t seen it in years, Jack,” he said, pulling back layers of careful packing and special paper wrapping whatever it was inside the box. His fingers dove in and found the edges, slowly peeling away the last covering.
Perrin seemed to shake himself out of a type of daze, a smile coming to his face, brightening it all the way, dimples and all.
Whatever it was, he loved it.
Out of the box he pulled a gold frame that held a stunning piece of artwork. White and black landscape in the foreground, with a distinctive blue sky in the background. I was instantly reminded of a painting at the Met I had seen, but that one was of a fall landscape, pastoral, as if it was upper New York. This painting was almost the same, except there was snow reflected and the definite sense of winter to the landscape, not fall.
“Is that a MaxfieldParrish?” I breathed. It had to be. The color in the sky was so rich and distinctive, the detail of the snowy scene in the landscape so reminiscent of the one I had seen.
The painting didn’t have the mix of colors some Parrish works did. It was simple; big trees in the foreground, like you were right next to the trunk, snow on branches, and a Parrish blue sky beyond. Just white, black, and that distinctive blue.
I blinked at him. “You own an original Parrish? This isn’t a print.” It was clearly oil on canvas. My mind was a whirl of how much I justlikedthat about him. I liked that he was the kind of guy who fell in love with how something made him feel, because I could tell that was exactly what this was.
Perrin looked up at me, “Your moms have a minor Hockneyand a Scott Eaton at the big house, Jack.” He laughed. “There’s a Rothko in the guest bathroom.”
I knew that. I was used to those kinds of things. I often forgot with his easy way and how hard he worked that he came from some substantial money, a part of his past he had shared. Not with great detail, but enough. The thing was, Perrin also had no trace of pretension, and that made him unique to me.
In the corporate world, even in philanthropy, a sense of pretense was part of the game - everyone always trying to outdo everyone else. This was especially true of family-tied charitable organizations like the Mann Foundation. It was like the competitive skiing world I came from, and while I enjoyed that in business, I didn’t want any kind of relationship with someone who carried that kind of attitude. I didn’t want to compete with my boyfriend, and I didn’t want to carry them, either. I wanted a partner.
I looked over at Perrin. “I didn’t know you collected art. And this,” I gestured at the painting.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off of it. It was so much like him, I couldn’t imagine anyone else having it. My eyes instantly traveled to the wall in his living room where I noticed that he had installed special lighting and what looked like some sort of special hook or hanging system. He must have been waiting on this piece just for that wall.
Perrin followed my eyes and smiled. “Want to help me hang it?” he asked.
And we did, carefully attaching it to the special already-mounted attachments he had installed and finally stepping back to admire it under the lights. It completed the space in a way that left me just shaking my head. Somehow, he had known exactly what that painting would look like on that wall.
All of Perrin’s touches to his apartment, the mid-century vibe, the geometric covers of the lights at the bar, the simple modern touches everywhere - it looked like a professional decorating job you would see in a magazine, but it was equally comfortable as a home. It wasn’t like the homes I had frequented with Ellen and Rita, or my own acquaintances, elegant homes that had no personality or feel. Perrin’s condo was exactly the opposite of that. Elegant, but real.
I could see why the style of the condo drew him in, and thought about how going from place to place for five years when he was obviously a nester had to have been incredibly difficult. Could the places he lived for, at most, months at a time been personal at all? There was no way considering how often he had moved and how little he brought with him to the Inn. The thought of Perrin living somewhere that was furnished by someone else was a hard one to conjure.
“Your house could be in a magazine, P,” I said, as he ran an arm around me, still looking at the painting. “What else is in your collection?”
He laughed a low rumble into my hair. “The Parrish is definitely a favorite. There’s a couple pieces that I liked when in Europe - local stuff I just couldn’t pass up. I sent it to storage in Texas and can’t wait to see it again.” He paused. “I do have a MariaKreyn I have never hung, it should be here this week.” His eyes sparkled with a child-like excitement. “I think you will like that one.”
Perrin smiled down at me.
“I opened a box, Jack,” he said, after a moment and with audible relief, sagging into me, and burying his face in my hair and breathing out a long-held breath.
I ran a hand up to his hair, threading my fingers through his messy curls as his hands clenched my shirt. I tried to imagine what it meant to him, these boxes, the parts of his past he abandoned and now had back. What was it like to unpack bits of yourself that had been sent away that long? Whatever it was, it was connected to how he had been a little quieter lately, a little more prone to be off in his own head - not unlike Quinn in that way.
It was a conversation for another day. But, if I was being honest with myself, the conversations we needed to have were starting to stack up.
A shiver of fear ran down me that they would stack up until they toppled us over.
“Of course you did, Perrin,” I said, kissing him on the forehead, like it was nothing. I saw him smile softly, and breathe a deep thanks on to the top of my head.
When I met up with him hours later for a late lunch, he seemed in a much better mood than he had for the proceeding few days. I realized that there was some real stress for him in opening up those boxes and I was willing to guess more had been opened once I left that morning. Whatever he was afraid of when he did it, didn’t seem to be touching him now. I couldn’t help but hear those words he spoke to me back in Quinn’s hot tub what seemed like ages ago.
Did you know the anticipation of pain is worse than pain itself?
