The Art of Appreciation (3 page)

Abby stared. “Biking? Sarah, I haven’t been on a bike since I was twelve.” Still, it was change…Abby’s heart fluttered in mixed anticipation and reluctance.

“All the more reason to go.” Sarah was determined. “Change, remember? Difference. You don’t bike in Boston, so you’re biking here. End of story.”

“Can’t I just crash? I’m going to yoga tomorrow.”

“Yoga.” Sarah’s derision was clear. “Nothing you didn’t do back home. Nope. We have plans.”

“No fair. You bike all of the time. Why don’t you have to do something different?”

“No fair? What are you, eight?” Sarah grabbed another cracker before continuing. “Besides, I am courting change. I’m meeting new people of the male species every day, and I’m bugging you about something that’s bugged me for years: your stick-in-the-muddiness. Change!” She rose and tugged Abby to her feet before steering them both toward the stairs despite Abby’s grumbling.

Watching for Sarah’s reaction, Abby protested all through dressing and renting a bike and buying a helmet and joining the group that would be touring downtown Santa Cruz and the boardwalk. She protested when she got on the bike and continued to protest in hissing whispers as the guide explained the intricacies of riding in a pace line. Sarah ignored her, choosing instead to smile gently at the people around them, who listened in amusement.

The guide finished his explanations and started to buckle his helmet. Abby looked at hers doubtfully. “We’re not going fast, right? So why do I need this?”

“It’s the law, Ab.” Sarah buckled on her own helmet before grabbing Abby’s out of her hands and smashing it down on her head. “Lift your chin, or I’m gonna take off skin,” she ordered. Abby complied. She’d agreed to this, right? If change required a stupid hat, a grown woman should accept that.

“I bet I look like a dork,” she muttered, trying to shift the helmet and finding it unmovable.

“Whatever. Get on the damned bike.”

Abby grinned. Though it had been fun to exasperate Sarah, she was actually looking forward to the ride.

The group set out at a slow pace, allowing the assembled riders to adjust to riding in a pace line. After a few minutes, the leader increased the speed and called out points of interest. Abby started to enjoy herself, looking around at people as she passed them and smiling at little kids who stopped to stare.

Big mistake.

As the pace line slowed to round a curve near the boardwalk, she didn’t slow down quite enough, and her front wheel grazed Sarah’s back tire. Instantly, Abby flew off her bike. Her shoulder hit the pavement a moment before her head slammed down, and she was grateful for the protection of the denim shirt she wore over her tank. Her hip wasn’t so lucky. She gasped when the friction of sliding against the road pulled her waistband down and skin met asphalt.

When her violent movement stopped, Abby lay on the pavement, blinking up at the sky and wondering if she was okay. She gingerly moved all of her limbs, finding them hurty but functional, and tried to sit up as a crowd gathered.

Gentle hands held her down. A horribly familiar face floated into her field of vision, and she closed her eyes. “Nice to see you again, too.” Deft fingers moved under her chin, unbuckling her helmet. She opened one eye and saw the sharp angle of Surfer Dude’s jaw as he stared off into space, his long fingers gently probing her neck and as much of the back of her head as he could reach without removing her helmet. “Do you feel like you’re bleeding?” He searched her face. His eyes were a color that could easily morph into blue or gray, and the lines around them were deeper than Abby had expected—maybe he wasn’t in his early twenties after all.

“Just my hip.”

His hand hesitated over the tail of her shirt. “May I?”

Abby nodded, and he lifted the cloth gently, drawing air between his teeth in a hiss. “Wicked road rash. That’s gonna hurt for a while. I hope you have some low-cut pants.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” Abby cracked, chuckling as he reddened. As he moved to grab her hand, she avoided his grasp and removed her helmet.

“Hey! You shouldn’t do that. You could have a head injury.”

The bike guide crouched next to Hottie McHotHot. “Thanks, Matt. I just called the EMTs. Is she okay? Whoa!” He took Abby’s helmet without waiting for an answer and stared at the cracked, flat spot on the right side. He held it up so the group could see. “This is why we wear helmets, people. This crack would be in the pretty lady’s head if she hadn’t been wearing one.”

There was a collective “Aahh” as the crowd leaned closer to look at the smashed helmet. Abby raised her hands to cover her face, but strong hands captured her wrists. “Let me look at your eyes, pretty lady.” Calm blue-gray met startled brown in careful calculation as he instructed Abby how to move her eyes.

Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Abby followed his directions. “I’m not as bad as you probably think I am. I don’t have a mental condition or anything.”

He laughed. “I’m not thinking anything, I promise.”

Well, that’s discouraging
.

After a minute, he smiled and kissed the back of her hand. “You’re gonna be all right, pretty lady. Take care.” He rose to his feet and talked to the guide for a minute before he waved and moved off down the boardwalk, navy tee clinging to his back in the heat and outlining the lean muscles that disappeared into his shorts.

Sarah crouched next to Abby, and they watched him walk away, hitching his board shorts a little higher. He looked back, saw them watching him, and grinned, shaking his ass before slipping on a pair of Ray-Bans and disappearing into the crowd.

Sarah kissed Abby’s cheek. “I think he likes you, Ab. Change is good, right?”

Abby looked up at her and grinned.

“Oh hell yes.”

T
HE
P
AVEMENT
S
EEMED
H
ARDER
than normal when Matt set off on his run the next afternoon. He greeted familiar faces with a smile and a wave, pacing himself so he could make the whole circuit before pooping out. As the sun baked the back of his neck, he cursed himself for putting this off until afternoon, but that had been the best he could do after falling into bed sometime south of five that morning. God forbid he forgo killing himself in the heat altogether—the days of eating and drinking anything he wanted and trusting the universe to keep him fit had been over for several years now; he had to make a conscious effort to work real exercise into most days. Luckily, his job was physical enough that even on the days that he couldn’t run, he was exhausted and considered himself exercised in a half-assed way.

Reaching the halfway point, he hesitated before deviating from his normal pattern for the second time that week and leaving the road to run on the beach. The sand was softer than the road, right? He laughed at himself. The first time he’d used that excuse, he’d justified it by saying he was taking the opportunity to work a little harder by running on sand—he was almost convinced by his own bullshit, too, until he realized that he was scanning the back porches of the houses and trying to place which one he’d surfed up to and first seen the pretty lady.

It had been pure chance that he’d decided to get some fresh air and walk downtown to grab a sandwich the day before, and mere luck that he’d happened to look in the right direction to see the tail end of the bike touring group turf it. Boom. Pretty lady again.

Maybe it was her quick wit that drew him back to the beach, or maybe it was the interest he’d glimpsed in her eyes that had him running behind her house. Either way, he snickered at his junior high disappointment when no one was outside. He checked his watch, then veered back toward his home and a shower.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Matt heard something clatter on the kitchen counter. An accusing face peeked around the refrigerator door. “You scared the crap out of me. I didn’t know you were up yet.”

“Hey, Chris.” Matt stripped off his sweaty shirt and tossed it in the direction of the laundry room before opening the refrigerator again and grabbing a drink. He dropped the empty OJ carton in the garbage can and leaned against the counter, looking at the frying bacon and eggs with interest and taking in the stocky shape of his cousin only incidentally. “I thought you were living with Jessica.”

Chris shook his hair back from his face and grimaced. He gave the eggs a final stir before shutting off the flame. “So did I. Unfortunately, she forgot to tell the last guy that he didn’t live there anymore, so when he got back from San Fran…” He shrugged. “Not cool. I left them screaming at each other and used your spare key to get in here. Slept on the couch. I figured I owed you for the crash, so I’m making breakfast.” He scratched his bearded chin.

Matt slapped at his cousin’s hand. “Not over the eggs. Neither beard hair or chin-druff is acceptable in my food.”

Chris chuckled and grabbed plates from the cupboard, splitting the eggs and bacon onto two plates and handing one to Matt. They ate in companionable silence, silverware enthusiastically scraping dishes. As they finished, Chris took Matt’s plate and loaded all the dishes into a waiting sink of sudsy water.

Matt hooked a cup out of the cupboard, poured himself some coffee, and watched as Chris cleaned up the breakfast mess. He was a quiet mystery, a slightly-younger cousin whom Matt had known only vaguely before he’d showed up on his porch a year before, fresh out of the Army and ready to lose to the forgetful Pacific his memories of service. He’d stayed with Matt only briefly, until he found a job as a fry cook in one of the local restaurants and moved into a small, dingy apartment with several other employees. Since then, he had drifted from job to job and house to house, occasionally squatting at Matt’s place for a night or two before the next thing came along. Matt had heard rumors he was doing a fortune-telling schtick at the boardwalk again; that was usually a money-maker.

“You can always use the spare room,” Matt said.

Chris gave him a sly grin. “Wouldn’t want to disturb any freaky bedroom goings-on by wandering around your house like a ghost, cuz.”

Matt snorted and pushed away from the counter to rinse his cup. “No worries on that account. I never sully my morning peace by risking a scene. No sleepovers here, I promise.” He raised his arms and grabbed the upper frame of the doorway that led to the hall. “If I’d known you were here, I’d have made you run with me.”

Chris raised his T-shirt, running a hand over washboard abs. “I think I’m good.” He slapped Matt’s stomach with the back of his hand. “Not bad for an old guy.” He hustled down the hall as Matt swiped at him.

“I’m only five years older than you, idiot,” Matt yelled. Chris snorted laughter before the sound of the TV drowned him out.

Though conscious of the time crunch he’d put himself under by changing his running route, Matt shaved carefully after his shower. The meeting he had that day had the potential to generate a commission that would set him up for the rest of the year and allow him to concentrate on the projects that mattered to him—sculptures that would end up in galleries or private collections rather than decorating someone’s poolside, which is what this lot was intended for.

He paused while brushing his teeth and took a good look at himself for the first time in a while. No double chin, absence of man-boobs, stomach still flat, and hips lean. Of course, there was the matter of another gray hair nestled in the center of his chest. He frowned and yanked it out viciously, hissing air between his teeth at the sharp pain, and took stock again. Not bad for a guy less than two years from decrepitude at forty.
Give Chris a few years of eating round the clock the way he does, and he’ll kill to look this good,
Matt reassured himself.

Today, though, he planned to put Chris’s six-pack to use.

Dressing quickly, he shouted for Chris and went hunting for his dress shoes. He found them in the laundry room behind a pile of wetsuits and towels and hoped they hadn’t been ruined by saltwater.

A low whistle behind Matt motivated him to turn around. Chris lounged in the doorway, bowl and spoon in hand, grinning. “Niiice. What happened to the whole I’m-an-artist-and-I-don’t-give-a-shit vibe? Isn’t that what the horny housewives want to see?”

Matt finished shoving his shoes on his feet. Pushing past Chris, he picked up the tie he’d dropped on the kitchen table and slung it around his neck. “Maybe so, but this horny housewife is bringing happy hubby along, and he’s not likely to hand a big, fat check to a guy who looks like he’ll smoke most of it away before her statues are half-finished.” He smoothed his shirtfront and paused for a minute. “How do I look?”

“Creamtastic, cuz. You always were the shit. Is that what you dragged me away from Rachael Ray for?”

“Nope. I want your body.”

Chris’s eyebrows went up.

“Since you’re here, I can take a few sample pictures to show the buyers instead of just describing the poses.” The idea took off in his mind. “Hey—call Zoe. See if she can come right over. I need to find my suit jacket.” Matt tossed his phone to Chris.

He snagged the jacket out of the spare room and threw it over a chair in his studio and began snapping photos. By the time he heard Zoe’s sharp rap on the outside door, Chris’s solo pictures were almost finished. He shouted for his next model to come in and nodded toward a chair in the corner. “Just leave your stuff over there and strip to the waist. Torso shots only today. If we hurry, I’ll have time to print these out.”

Zoe’s whiskey-rich laughter filled the room as she dropped her shirt on a chair. “You say the sweetest things, Matt,” she purred. Stepping close to Chris, she stood with hands on her hips, highlighting the twin curves of breast and hip. “How do you want me, boss?”

Matt shook his head. Zoe Mendez had been angling for a hookup since the first time Matt called her to model a couple of years earlier, and he was probably crazy not to take her up on it. She was pretty in an over-lush kind of way, but the almost fifteen-year age difference made him a little queasy. He wasn’t quite ready to join Hef in his bunny hunts.

He took a few shots of Chris and Zoe twined together before he released Chris to the tender mercies of the Food Network and finished up with Zoe’s solo shots. “Turn to your left, please,” he directed. He looked at the screen and then up at her. “Okay…hold still.” He pushed the button and waited to be sure the image was good. Beautiful. “One more and we’re finished here. Can you shift…?” Matt pointed to her tangle of hair, and she lifted the mass and settled it over the opposite shoulder. “Great.” Once Matt knew the shot was right, he shut the equipment down and started printing. “You can put your shirt back on. We’re finished.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

Matt felt the soft press of Zoe’s breasts against his back. Her arms slid around his body, hands teasing the buttons on his shirt.

Matt couldn’t help smiling. She never gave up. “Anything else would be a really bad business decision on my part.”

“Come on. It’s not like it’s unheard of.” One hand had managed to undo a button, and Zoe’s fingers tugged gently at the hair on his belly. “Come out with me tonight. Have some fun.” There was a smile in her voice. “You know you want to.”

Matt sighed. He did want to. “Fine. When and where?”

“I thought you’d say that, so I already have a place in mind,” she said matter-of-factly. She slipped her shirt over her head and named a popular club downtown. She shrugged on her leather jacket and picked up her helmet as Matt put on his own charcoal gray jacket. Zoe ran her hand across his shoulders, smoothing the fabric before trailing her fingers down his back with a wicked grin. “Don’t change. This is hot.”

Already mentally kicking himself for his weakness in saying yes, Matt thought rapidly. “How about after my meeting? Meet me here about four?” He hoped for a quick drink and an early departure for an imaginary dinner date.

“Make it five,” Zoe dictated, patting his ass. “We’ll have dinner and hit a couple of clubs. It’ll be fun.” She was out the door before Matt could say anything. He heard the roar of her Harley.

“Finally decided to throw the girl a bone, man?” Chris’s voice, coming from behind him, was amused.

Matt kept searching his desk for a folder. “I’ll keep my bone to myself, thanks. Not even close to being interested.”

Chris laughed. “Pin-ups aren’t really my style, either. Too much maintenance.” He took a bite of the tortilla in his hand. “Still, you could have fooled me. You sounded pretty into the idea.”

“Moment of weakness. Dinner is all I’m sharing with the luscious Zoe.” Matt shuffled through the shots as they printed, a handy excuse for not looking his cousin in the eye. Chris made a noncommittal grunt and drifted back into the living room.

Gathering up the best of the shots, Matt slipped them into a folder before heading for the gallery.

Claire Eastman met him inside the door of her gallery and gave him a hug before looping her hand through his arm and leading him toward the executive conference room. She’d schmoozed deep-pocket patrons and made or broken more than a couple of careers there.

“Impeccable timing,” she said, smiling up at Matt. “I’ve already given them the rundown on how fabulous you are and shown them the pieces we have of yours. Not that they’d know real art if it crawled up and bit them on the asses.” Matt laughed. “Jessica Rabbit wants your typical Greek gods and goddesses—but nothing that anyone else has, of course—and the geezer just wants to get laid one more time before his old ticker pops. Charm her and sell him, and you’ve got it made.”

They stopped at the head of a short hallway that led to the conference room, and Matt took a deep breath. “Claire, I can’t thank you enough for putting me on to this.”

She squeezed his arm. “Believe me, it’s my pleasure. Now these people will finally have something of value in their collection, because Lord knows I’ve foisted off enough of Charles’s unfortunate choices on the husband as fine art.” They both chuckled at the thought. Claire examined Matt critically, adjusting his tie and sweeping her hand through his hair. “Good choice, by the way. Methuselah in there controls the checkbook, and he’d no more hand over a check for a quarter mil to Surferboy than he would give up his own probably non-functional left nut.”

Matt eyed her skeptically. “A quarter mil for pool statues?”

Claire grinned and led him to the door, whispering, “If I don’t get you at least that much, I’ve totally lost my touch.”

She smoothed her chignon and swept the door open with a bright smile, then introduced Matt to his potential patrons. The wife was a barely-out-of-her-teens, surgically-enhanced wonder that made Zoe look flat-chested, and her husband looked like he could have babysat Moses. Matt launched into his spiel, handing around the pictures he’d taken and discussing possible poses. He directed the bulk of the information at the husband and ignored the obvious flirtation of the wife. Once the fossil determined that Matt was only going to be polite to the girl, no matter how often she pressed her boobs on him, he relaxed and became all business about costs and materials. Teen Bride pouted as her husband studied the same picture of Zoe for several minutes, then declared Chris “too short” and Zoe “obviously fake.” Matt covered a laugh with a cough when Claire stomped his toes under the table, then he offered to find different models. Geezer allowed that he didn’t care one way or another about the male, but he insisted on the woman in the picture.