seventeen
I spent the next few nights on the boat with him, popping into the condo only to reassure Peterson I was alive and get fresh clothes. Most nights we spent on the boat, making love under the stars, relaxing on the deck with wine, or snuggling in the stateroom and watching everything from Terminator to The Hangover to The Untouchables. We settled into a comfortable familiarity that I loved, and the only time I felt unhappy or insecure at all was when I remembered that this was all going to end—and that the end was coming soon.
“Evan,” I’d say, and he would know, just from the tone of my voice. He’d pull me into his arms and kiss me and tell me that the only thing that mattered was the moment. And as he made love to me, slowly and sweetly, I tried hard—so hard—to believe him.
Sometimes, I even came close.
Not that we were complete shut-ins. I joined him one night at a reception for all the students in the art class that Cole taught at a community center right on the edge of Wrigleyville. The center’s walls were now studded with everything from still lifes to graffiti-like murals to delicate pencil sketches. And Cole was making the rounds like a proud parent, with Evan looking almost as proud as his friend.
“So what do you think, baby girl?” Cole asked pulling me into a hug.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “And your students look like they’re having a great time.” It was true. The students, who ranged in age from twelve to eighty, were making the rounds like celebrities. As far as I could tell, Cole’s reception was the highlight of their year. “Where’s Tyler?” I asked, realizing that I hadn’t seen his face among the crowd.
“California,” Evan said.
I remembered the phone call I’d overheard on the boat. “Trouble?”
“Nothing he can’t handle.” He took my arm. “We’re going to go find a drink,” he said to Cole. “Good job, man.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
I glanced around the cavernous room as he led me to the bar. “Maybe I should do something like this for the foundation’s fund-raiser,” I said. “Instead of picking a host, I could just have it on neutral territory.”
“Who’s vying for the honor?” Evan asked, as we waited for the bartender to make our drinks.
“Who isn’t? And the moment I pick someone, I’ve basically said fuck you to all the others. I’m not sure I want to piss off the Who’s Who of Chicago. There’s Thomas Claymore. Reginald Berry. I mean the list just goes on and on. Even Victor Neely is on it, and you know how much I love him.” I made a sour face.
“Sweetheart, I feel just the same.”
“I have to admit he’s not high on my list of potentials. Not only could Jahn not stand him, but the prick isn’t even offering to donate any of his collection to the foundation. Apparently he’s already finalized arrangements to donate his manuscript collection to a museum in Belgium. And I think he’s negotiating with the British Museum about some of his paintings.” I peered at Evan’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“I’d heard rumors; I didn’t realize the Belgium deal was in the can.”
“You’re thinking of the Creature Notebook, aren’t you?”
His mouth curved up in a humorless smile as he took his Scotch from the bartender and handed me my wine. “How well you know me.”
“Yeah, well, I was thinking of it, too. I’d love to get the original notebook for the foundation. I even asked Esther to approach him about it.”
“You did? What did he say?”
“No go. I wasn’t terribly surprised. He paid a shitload to keep that notebook out of Jahn’s private collection, and I don’t see him willingly donating it now.”
“I don’t, either,” Evan said. His brow was furrowed, as if he was considering a thorny business problem.
“What is it?”