Two

TWO

EARLY THE NEXT morning, Michelle traveled along her normal route to work, feeling strangely different. Nothing much about her appearance had changed; she wore her patched coat and a brown, corduroy skirt---with warm thermals underneath--with clean, scuffed boots and her dark red hair all tucked beneath her floppy-brimmed, canvas hat. Her gray scarf and stained mittens rounded out her ensemble.

As she walked, Michelle quelled a welling feeling of anticipation within her, choosing to distract herself by mentally re-calculating that month’s earnings into days, and then hours.

“If this next week goes well,” she thought, “I just may have enough money to shop at the illustrious local thrift store, known for its lightly-used ‘haute couture’... from several seasons ago.” The notion made her smile. As she strode among her fellow city-dwellers, she estimated how many items she’d be able to purchase, along with the sales tax.

Michelle’s selling location was not particularly desirable for panhandlers--nor most vendors--due to the fast pace and general attitude of the passers-by, especially during the morning rush. Midday held far more promise for both charity and street-borne commerce, but some pedestrians did stop by her display in the mornings again all odds, balancing folders and a paper cup of steaming coffee in hand, however, their eye caught by a cartoon or drawing. Even the most stern-faced individuals seemed to want a bit of levity in their lives--or a hand-drawn rendering of a well-beloved landmark--bought in a fit of city pride. After setting up her display, Michelle pulled out a larger, wrapped picture from her bag; with bright eyes she slid the thin package behind the display, out of sight.

Through the morning hours the stream of foot traffic did not lessen. For the first time since she began selling portraits on the corner, Michelle found that she was unable to concentrate on her sketch-pad; she fidgeted and nervously bit her lip. At noon she could wait no longer. Fetching the mystery package out, Michelle pulled the wrapping from the blue-eyed man’s portrait; she fixed it to the display with care. She placed it at a top corner, where it had the most advantage of being seen.

Looking into the oncoming crowd, Michelle scanned it quickly and then glanced at her watch; it was 12:05. Michelle wondered if he’d even see the portrait, let alone recognize the picture as himself. It wasn’t much of a flag, but at least she had raised it. 12:06... her mouth went dry. Michelle picked up her water bottle and took a small sip, keeping her unblinking gaze on the moving crowd. People walked forward--seven or eight deep-each keeping an inch or so of ‘personal space’ around them. Michelle realized her heart was racing.

“Stop,” she silently chided herself. “Calm down; he’s just another person walking to lunch.” Taking a deep breath she watched, waiting.

He was late. Michelle’s hazel eyes searched the crowd at a faster pace. 12:08; she wondered if she’d chosen the one day to bring her portrait that he decided to call in sick; he’d never been late before. Another two minutes went by. Michelle’s heart sank in disappointment.

Then--through the crowd--she glimpsed his face. It was instantly obscured again by a group of moving pedestrians. Sitting up, Michelle felt a smile creep over her mouth as she waited for the man to come closer; he walked somewhat slower than the other travelers. The crowd parted and the reason for his tardiness suddenly became clear. Next to Michelle’s mystery man strolled an elegant older woman; she held onto the man’s arm and spoke to him with a smile; he inclined his head to one side as if to hear her over the sounds of the street.

The woman’s face looked similar in feature and form to the blue-eyed man; Michelle assumed the lady was his mother. Her artistic eye missed nothing; the older woman was well-dressed, her manner and walk exuded British sophistication from her deep-red suit-dress and black, fur-lined coat, to her button-up boots and tasteful garnet jewelry. She was easily a matron of considerable status.

Looking at her Michelle felt conscious of every stain and hole in her clothing; even the scuffs of her shoes seemed to leap out into view like never before. The older woman’s face seemed kind but Michelle just wanted to disappear. Eying them from under her hat brim, Michelle watched as they walked closer. The man from Michelle’s portrait must have said something humorous as the older woman laughed, and then looked around with a smile. Something next to Michelle caught the lady’s attention. She paused, her face dressed in a look of mild surprise.

“Oh, no,” Michelle thought. She had forgotten all about the portrait. Ducking her head down, Michelle squeezed her eyes shut, the last remnants of bravery draining away; she prayed that the lovely, rich lady and her gorgeous son would just keep walking. A few seconds ticked by; she opened her eyes again. Two, polished boots stood in front of her mat.

“That picture... there, William,” said a pleasant voice above her. “It’s you! I am certain of it.” Michelle wanted to hide, or fall into a sidewalk crack... anything but look up.

“Ahem.”

A man cleared his throat, somewhere far above Michelle’s head. Inhaling a rather large breath, she peered up from under her hat. She had a long way to look. Blue eyes met her gaze; the color appeared as inviting as pictures of tropical coastal waters in a travel magazine. The man looked momentarily surprised, and then amused.

“My mother favors this picture,” he said, pointing at her display. Michelle glanced at the woman next to him; the lady smiled down at her.

“Aren’t you just a dear,” the woman murmured in a soft voice; her gloved hand on her chest as she spoke.

Michelle blinked. Under the lady’s kind gaze she felt unduly juvenile, despite her twenty-two years; her meager diet made her look a little slight, and with her hair all tucked away Michelle knew she probably resembled a teenager, more than a woman in her twenties.

“The sign says five dollars,” came the blue-eyed man’s voice again. “It does look uncannily like me, I’ll admit.”

“Five dollars?” his mother repeated, still looking at Michelle. “It’s worth much more than that, my dear. Really well done. How nice it would look on the ballroom wall ... I could never get you to sit for a portrait.”

“Dammed waste of time,” the blue-eyed man said, grinning. “That’s what cameras are for.”

“Cameras? You wouldn’t sit for a photograph either!”

“You took enough of them when I was a boy to last you a lifetime...”

“He walks by here, each day at 12:06,” Michelle heard herself saying. Surprised at herself, Michelle she bit her lip to keep more words from coming out.

The blue-eyed man’s eyebrows rose slightly; his mother clapped her hands together and smiled.

“I knew it!” the lady said, happily. “It is you... a mother knows. Would you be so kind, my boy? I’ve no paper money with me... and I don’t suppose she takes Visa. It must go in my gallery.” The man chuckled at her enthusiasm and dug in his pocket for money.

“Well, at five dollars I suppose I can purchase it for you,” he stated, counting out the bills.

Though she hadn’t breathed in almost a minute, Michelle forced her arms to move; carefully, she unpinned the portrait, wrapped it swiftly and tied the twine. Looking up again at the man, she held the package up to him; their eyes met a second time.

William Montgomery had allowed his mother to guide them over to a sketch artist’s display. The huddled figure sat next to her pen and ink drawings on a heavily -stained woven mat. Some of the pictures weren’t bad at all, but his mother pointed to the one in the top corner... and his own face looked back at him.

Staring at it, William turned his gaze back upon the artist, sitting with her back to the giant building. The dingy canvas fisherman’s cap looked worse than the mat, but the girl’s oddly-beautiful eyes struck him as she looked up from under its brim. They shone out from her fair skin like greenish-gold gemstones. He’d never seen their equal.

She was a young woman, certainly. Far too young to be out in this city peddling drawings, in William’s opinion. He was instantly glad she had the sense to dress so plainly, lest she attract the wrong kind of attention. She’d caught his attention, however and he found himself drawn to know more about her. Questions were on the tip of his tongue as he counted out the money. Why was she out here? Where was her family? When she lifted her eyes again to his, holding out the wrapped portrait, William decided to get a better look at her. Instead of taking the picture, he clasped her wrist and gently pulled her up to stand.

Michelle felt as if she were in some kind of trance. The man just reached out, took her hand and made her stand up... she didn’t say even one word in reprimand; her voice just wouldn’t work. Up close the man was even better looking, if possible. He seemed to be scrutinizing her closely.

Giving her an encouraging smile, the man pressed the money into her gloved hand; she followed his gaze and inwardly winced at the thin material blotched with charcoal pencil, ink and nameless other stains. There was a fair probably that she had pigeon droppings on her hat as well. The surrounding sidewalk was already heavily decorated.

“White spots on gray,” she thought, pulling her hand back. “Of all times, today.”

The man’s mother spoke up.

“You’re very talented, my dear,” she said, softly. Shyly meeting her gaze, Michelle felt comforted by the kind look in the lady’s eyes; they looked blue, but a bit paler shade than her son’s

“Thank you, Ma’am,” she managed to say, resisting the temptation to bite her lip.

The older woman lifted a gloved hand and touched Michelle lightly on the side of her face; the gesture was natural and motherly, but it caught her off guard.

“So young,” the lady said, smiling sadly. Michelle blinked; she struggled not to cry. Not in front of them.

“We should go, Mother,” William, said, sobering at once.

He saw the young woman stiffen at his mother’s touch; he knew his mum meant it kindly, but there were times he’d seen homeless people flip out. This girl was pretty and shy but she could easily be mentally ill. His mother looked up at him and nodded.

“Please take care of yourself, my dear,” she said, looking back at the young woman.

Michelle just nodded, stupidly; her tongue seemed frozen. William and his mother began to walk away, with her left staring after them. She saw William bend down a little towards his mother.

“You have to be careful; the homeless here are very touchy about their lifestyle.” His words, though quietly spoken, drifted back to Michelle’s ears. Wound up already, her emotions brimmed over and something in her snapped.

“I am NOT homeless!” she yelled after the retreating pair.

They stopped walking at once, looking back at her in surprise. Michelle felt her face flame, but the embarrassment merely fueled her outburst. “I live in a nice hotel!” she continued. A few pedestrians stopped and stared, too. “I just can’t find work! I’m a CPA! I went to Stanford! And I... take care of myself just fine!”

Tears welled up, blurring her vision. William’s surprised expression, however, stood out with startling clarity. Shame hit Michelle like a slap in the face. Flinging the dollar bills over the heads of the crowd, she turned around, seeking an escape. Grabbing her things in one swift movement, Michelle darted headlong into the throng of moving people, weaving among them in the opposite direction as William and his mother. Though no one followed her, she did not stop running until she reached the Walden-Astor’s back alley. Samuel was not on duty, and Michelle was glad of it. She knew she looked distraught, but didn’t feel like explaining herself at the moment.

It was not until she’d reached the sanctuary of her room that Michelle fully realized what had taken place. Placing her things on the floor, Michelle sat on her bed to catch her breath. Tears of remorse trickled down her face. Her behavior stuck her as appalling. Making a scene was not in her nature, let alone running away like a spoiled child. The scene grew worse in Michelle’s mind the longer she thought on it. Not only did she yell and throw money at the man she’d been hoping to impress, but his mother was there, witnessing the unhinged behavior.

Hanging her head, Michelle closed her eyes, fiercely wiping away her tears.

“Oh... my... stars. I’m such an idiot,” she hissed, pressing her fists against her forehead. William wouldn’t want anything to do with her now, she was sure of it... and she’d only just found out his name. Sighing, Michelle wiped her eyes on the corner of her coat. Staring at the edge of the worn garment, she decided to take off her things; she carefully put them away and started the water going in the shower. She got out a towel automatically and stepped into the bathroom. Letting hot water pour over her Michelle was assailed by sobering thoughts.

“I can’t go back there,” she thought. Thanks to her ‘brave’ effort at being seen, the blue-eyed man was aware of her presence now. If she went back he might yell at her for scaring his mother, or worse. Throwing anything, even money, could lead to an assault charge. Even if he said, or did, nothing, Michelle knew she wouldn’t be able to bear seeing him passing by each day knowing she’d so royally screwed up her chance at making a good first impression. “Ah, well,” she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. “It’s not like he would’ve asked me out anyway. I’ll find another corner.” Pulling her shroud of self-pity tighter, Michelle sank down to the floor. “Hopefully, he’ll have a good laugh and forget all about me.”

She sat in the shower for a long time.

BEHIND THE broad, mahogany desk, William Montgomery stared out the windows of his office. He did not really see the splendid view outside. A pensive look marred his features. Neat piles of papers sat on his desk, unnoticed.

The altercation with the young sketch artist at lunch bothered him and he couldn’t escape the urge to do something. Like most people would have been he was startled by the girl’s outburst, but her embarrassed expression, immediate following, intrigued him. Shame, it looked like. Her face turned red as she scooped up her display and bag and took off, fleeing like a girl who’d just spilled a tureen of cream soup on the family Persian rug. William chuckled a little at the thought.

His mother’s reaction had been similarly noteworthy. For the entire lunch hour following the woman had done nothing but say she hoped the young girl was alright, where was her family, abrading him for using the word ‘homeless’ at all, etc. William chose not to answer her, but as in most lunches with his mother, she did not especially need one. Mortified that they might have inadvertently caused the “poor girl” additional suffering, she wondered aloud if the girl really had gone to Stanford and if so, what was she doing selling drawings on the street. After seeing his mother to a cab, William returned to the corner; the girl was nowhere to be found.

Standing from his desk chair, William walked over to the window and stood, his hands clasped behind his back. It was no great leap to assume the young woman was homeless, despite the word being an apparent insult to her. William ran the scene over again in his mind. To be certain, the girl was sitting on the street, on an ugly-looking rug... but she wasn’t panhandling; the drawings were decently done, very reasonably priced. Her clothes were worn but she’d smelled clean when they’d gone to stand near her. Despite the stained gloves covering her hands, the skin on her wrist felt clean and soft as he’d clasped her hand and urged her to stand.

Perhaps it was her jobless condition, William mused, narrowing his eyes a little. Her admission of seeing him walk by each day was a little surprising to him, and led to draw the conclusion that the girl was otherwise unemployed. Maybe it was just the sight of that stained, drooping hat she wore, looking as if she’d dug it out of some fisherman’s dumpster.

William smiled in spite of himself, recalling how the girl’s lovely eyes looked up at him from under its brim. The sky might as well have opened at that moment�"like it did in films--pouring a single ray of sunlight down on her face. Though slight, the young woman possessed a haunting beauty that William could not shake from his mind. Not that he tried; he appreciated a bona fide distraction, the same as most men would. She wasn’t even wearing any makeup, and William found himself admiring that little fact. It struck him as unusual as the shade of her eyes.

Perhaps she would return to her corner. It was equally likely that she might never come back.

“Perhaps she wants to be found,” William murmured, leaning a little further towards the window, letting his eyes drift down to the streets below. As he stared as the moving cars and ever-present pedestrians crowding the sidewalks, he wondered about the girl. Why was she out there, selling drawings? Midtown Manhattan didn’t strike him as a hotbed for discovering new artists. Her voice did not bear any trace of a New York accent. Where was she from?

The heated words the young woman had shouted, earlier, came floating back to him in a rush. William returned to his desk. Law school had taught him many things, but most prominent in his mind--at the moment-- was the fact that when humans get angry, they unwittingly give out far more information than they’re even aware.

“A nice hotel... CPA... Stanford,” he said, as if reciting notes in a meeting. In his profession, remembering all the minute details meant the difference between losing a client and making the deal of the century.

Picking up the phone, William decided that if the young woman could draw an exact portrait of him without even meeting him, he could find her with just a bit of effort. Taking out his cell, he dialed a number.

“It’s William. No, everything is fine. Listen, is there a name on the back of that portrait you got today? No, I just want to see if I can find her. See if she’s alright, you know. Yes, I’ll wait.”

William tapped his foot on the carpet, impatient to put a name to the face in his mind. “Yes? Got it…” He wrote something on a nearby notepad. “Thank you. No, no… of course not. I appreciate the invitation, but I’ll be working late. Don’t worry... Alfred will escort you down to the parking garage. Yes, you as well. Good bye.”

Hanging up, William read the name he’d hastily scrawled, a boyish look of satisfaction crossing his features. “Michelle Gregory,” he said, to himself.

The name fit her, he decided. Walking to window once more, William folded the paper and put it into his pocket. Looking down at the streets once more, he smiled to himself. He had no idea what he’d say to her if he ever saw her again, the conversation in his mind ranged from a mild lecture to asking her to look over his taxes. He let out a snort of amusement at the thought.

“First,” he thought, “I have to find her.”

Author's Note

Draw Me a Picture will released on Amazon Nov. 7th, 2014. It can be pre-ordered until then and delivered automatically when it is released. For less than $3 you can read a long, heartwarming love story, released the same month as our 18th Wedding Anniversary.