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Ыоуве Been Warned :: Patterson James
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“You don’t have to say it like that.”
“Why do you kowtow to him so much?”
“It’s not so simple, Kristin.”
No, it isn’t. There’s a certain undercurrent to Michael and Penley’s marriage, all but unspoken. Michael makes a lot of money. In the millions. But it’s chicken feed compared with the fortune that Penley’s father, Conrad Bishop, sits on. The man was CEO of Trans-American Steel for twenty-five years. He’s worth north of $200 million. More to the point, thanks to his country club buddies, he’s thrown a lot of business Michael’s way. I mean, a lot of business.
“If anyone, Penley’s father would understand your having to work,” I say.
“Maybe the last time I canceled,” Michael replies. “Twice in a row, though, and it looks like I’m shunning him. It’s disrespectful.”
“So what are you telling me?”
He takes a deep breath and exhales. “That I’m going to Connecticut today.”
The words sting like a million bees.
“But I really need to see you,” I plead.
“I know, I know. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
The anger, the disappointment, the hurt – are too much for me, and I slam down the phone. It’s the first time I’ve ever hung up on Michael, and I feel absolutely terrible.
Like I could die.
And then I notice something – the hives, the burning odor, and the music are gone.
What’s up with that?
Chapter 36
THE ELEVATOR RIDE DOWN to the lobby feels as though it takes an eternity. I’m doing everything I can to keep my emotions in check.
I plead with myself, Think calm thoughts! Think good thoughts if that’s possible.
Dispensing with visions of babbling brooks and sleeping babies, I go straight to what always works. One after the other, I conjure up my favorite photographs.
The nudes of Edward Weston.
Avedon’s portrait of Truman Capote flashing his belly button.
And, of course, Annie Leibovitz’s incredible shot of Yoko Ono and a naked John Lennon cuddling.
It’s always about people with me, flesh and bone. I can appreciate Galen Rowell and Ansel Adams, but mountains and other landscapes never pack the same punch for me as a living, breathing person.
The mental slide show works, and I begin to settle down. That is, until I step off the elevator and spot my neighbor Mrs. Rosencrantz. Standing by her mailbox in an orange-and-blue circa 1973 muumuu, she looks up from a catalogue and shoots this incredibly evil sneer my way.
“You don’t have to say it like that.”
“Why do you kowtow to him so much?”
“It’s not so simple, Kristin.”
No, it isn’t. There’s a certain undercurrent to Michael and Penley’s marriage, all but unspoken. Michael makes a lot of money. In the millions. But it’s chicken feed compared with the fortune that Penley’s father, Conrad Bishop, sits on. The man was CEO of Trans-American Steel for twenty-five years. He’s worth north of $200 million. More to the point, thanks to his country club buddies, he’s thrown a lot of business Michael’s way. I mean, a lot of business.
“If anyone, Penley’s father would understand your having to work,” I say.
“Maybe the last time I canceled,” Michael replies. “Twice in a row, though, and it looks like I’m shunning him. It’s disrespectful.”
“So what are you telling me?”
He takes a deep breath and exhales. “That I’m going to Connecticut today.”
The words sting like a million bees.
“But I really need to see you,” I plead.
“I know, I know. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
The anger, the disappointment, the hurt – are too much for me, and I slam down the phone. It’s the first time I’ve ever hung up on Michael, and I feel absolutely terrible.
Like I could die.
And then I notice something – the hives, the burning odor, and the music are gone.
What’s up with that?
Chapter 36
THE ELEVATOR RIDE DOWN to the lobby feels as though it takes an eternity. I’m doing everything I can to keep my emotions in check.
I plead with myself, Think calm thoughts! Think good thoughts if that’s possible.
Dispensing with visions of babbling brooks and sleeping babies, I go straight to what always works. One after the other, I conjure up my favorite photographs.
The nudes of Edward Weston.
Avedon’s portrait of Truman Capote flashing his belly button.
And, of course, Annie Leibovitz’s incredible shot of Yoko Ono and a naked John Lennon cuddling.
It’s always about people with me, flesh and bone. I can appreciate Galen Rowell and Ansel Adams, but mountains and other landscapes never pack the same punch for me as a living, breathing person.
The mental slide show works, and I begin to settle down. That is, until I step off the elevator and spot my neighbor Mrs. Rosencrantz. Standing by her mailbox in an orange-and-blue circa 1973 muumuu, she looks up from a catalogue and shoots this incredibly evil sneer my way.