Читать книгу Man of Fantasy - Rochelle Alers - Страница 8

Ivan Campbell barely heard what the woman, who he’d been working closely with for the past two years renovating his Mount Morris brownstone, was rambling on about.

“Ivan, you’re not listening to me.”

He affected a half smile. “Yes, I am. You said Architectural Digest wants to do a layout of my place for an issue featuring New York City homes and apartments.”

Carla Harris stared at the man with the sensual, brooding expression, wishing he would smile, because whenever Dr. Ivan Campbell did smile, it reminded her of pinpoints of sunlight breaking through dark storm clouds. She’d thought she was attracted to a certain type until she found herself face-to-face with the brilliant psychotherapist.

An inch shy of the six-foot mark, he could not disguise the perfection of his toned body, whether in a tailored suit or in casual attire. She didn’t know why, but Carla preferred seeing Ivan casually dressed, as he was now, in a pair of jeans, short-sleeved shirt and running shoes. His aftershave was the perfect complement to his body’s natural masculine scent.

“Okay, I apologize.”

What passed for a smile quickly vanished as Ivan stared at Carla. They were sitting on soft leather chairs in a pale butter-yellow in an alcove off the living room designed for small, intimate gatherings—a room his mother had referred to as a parlor. He’d lit a fire in the fireplace to ward off an early-autumn chill. The fireplace was an architecturally minimalist design that resembled a hole set inside a low, horizontal box along a wide expanse of wall, without a mantel or surround. Large pillars in bronze candleholders of various heights and sizes were positioned off to one side of the stone hearth, accentuating the modern interior of the brownstone, which was situated in one of Harlem’s most prominent historic districts.

Ivan knew Carla was flirting with him and had been since their initial meeting, which now seemed ages ago. He’d communicated, albeit subtly, that he didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure. His deep-set, intense, dark brown eyes met and fused with a pair of gray ones behind a pair of oversize horn-rims. The fire-engine-red glasses and flaming-red spiked hairdo had become Carla’s signature look—a look that was a bit too funky for his tastes. Laid-back by nature, Ivan preferred women who were less flamboyant, whose manner of dress didn’t call attention to themselves.

Carla took another sip from a bottle of sparkling water. “I know how much you value your privacy, Ivan, but I’ll make certain your name and address don’t appear anywhere in the piece.”

Ivan knew what the layout would do for her career. It would be the first time Carla Harris’s decorating skills would be displayed in the preeminent magazine of interior design. She was young, having just celebrated her twenty-eighth birthday, and she was not only ambitious, but aggressive. When she’d contacted him for an initial consultation, Carla refused to take no for an answer. She called him relentlessly every other day for three weeks until he’d finally relented, then worked closely with the architect to reconfigure spaces that would restore the century-old structure to its former grandeur.

“Thanks, Carla.”

The designer pressed her vermilion-colored lips together until they resembled a slash of red across her pale face. “You don’t have to sound so enthusiastic, Dr. Campbell.”

“I know how much this means to you,” Ivan said in the comforting tone he always used with his patients, “and because it does, I’m going to agree to the magazine spread.”

The interior designer’s smile was dazzling. “Thank you, Ivan.”

He inclined his head. “You’re welcome, Carla.”

Ivan wanted to tell her he couldn’t care less about someone taking pictures of his residence. At the end of the day all he wanted was to come home and relax after spending hours with his patients and lecturing students as an adjunct college professor.

He’d purchased the abandoned, dilapidated brownstone more than three years ago. It took a year and a half to complete the renovations and another year to decorate the interior. He’d lost count of the number of hours he’d sat with Carla going over catalogs filled with tables, chairs, lamps, rugs, beds and kitchen appliances. Four stories and fifty-seven hundred square feet of living space that comprised a terrace, garden and patio, powered by solar panels and an organic garden, provided the perfect environment for living and entertaining.

The street-level space had a home theater, kitchen, bath, home office and gym. The second floor had a master bedroom, adjoining bath and two guest rooms with en suite baths. The brownstone contained two two-bedroom apartments on the third floor. One apartment he’d recently rented to young married professionals expecting their first child, and a real estate agent was setting up an interview with a recently married New York City couple currently living with their in-laws on Long Island.

Ivan still hadn’t decided what he wanted to do with the fourth floor. The entire space was without interior walls, and he’d had the contractor put in a half bath and a utility kitchen. Not only did he own the brownstone, he was also one-third partner in another brownstone a short distance away that he and childhood friends Kyle Chatham and Duncan Gilmore used for business.

“The photo shoot will take place some time in early December, but I can’t set a date until you do something for me,” Carla said, interrupting his thoughts.

“What’s that?”

“You are going to have to do something with the walls.”

A slight frown appeared. “What’s wrong with the walls?”

It’d taken him weeks to decide on the colors he wanted to paint the rooms. At first he’d decided to have the primer covered with shades of eggshell or oyster-white, then changed his mind because it was too sterile a palette.

“You need pictures, Ivan. The walls are naked, unfinished. It’s like a woman going to a formal affair. She’s wearing an evening gown, dress shoes, makeup and hairstyle but has neglected to put on any accessories. In other words, where are the earrings, necklace, ring or bracelet? She’s beautiful, but incomplete.”

“But I’m not into art.”

Carla pressed her lips together again. “They don’t have to be paintings.”

“What else do people hang on their walls?”

“Sculpture,” she suggested.

“I told you that I’m not into art.”

“What about photography?” Carla argued softly.

“What about it?”

“Would you be opposed to framed and matted photos?”

The seconds ticked off as Ivan thought about the designer’s suggestion. He did have a framed photograph of Malcolm X in his home office that had been taken by his father, who’d attended a Harlem rally in 1964 to hear the charismatic Muslim leader speak. In 1999 the U.S. Postal Service issued a stamp of Malcolm X and Ivan had bought the framed stamp, placing it alongside the photo taken by the elder Campbell.

“No.”

Carla exhaled deeply as she reached for her tote, searched through it and handed Ivan an envelope. “This is an invitation to an opening at a gallery featuring an exquisite collection of black-and-white photographs.”

Ivan removed the printed card from the envelope. The invitation was for later that evening. “Are you going?” he asked Carla.

“No. I attended a preview a couple of days ago. They are magnificent, Ivan.”

“Why didn’t you pick up a few photographs for me?”

Carla saw the sensual smile and heard laughter in Ivan’s query. “I would have, but art is very personal. I know what colors and fabrics you prefer, yet I have no idea what you’d like hanging on your walls.”

Ivan sobered again. He knew the designer was right. He never tired of looking at photographs of Malcolm X.

“Okay, I’ll go. But if I don’t find anything I like, then you’re going to have to improvise.”

“Improvise how, Ivan?”

“Rent whatever you feel would complement the rooms and decor, and return them after the photo shoot.”

He knew his reluctance to put any art on the walls was rooted in a childhood aversion to seeing clothes hanging from hooks or large nails in tarpaper shacks. As a boy, he and his identical twin were sent down South to visit their grandparents. At least, that was what his parents said, but Ivan knew the real reason was to keep them off Harlem’s streets where they might possibly get into trouble. He’d befriended another boy whose parents were sharecroppers, and the first time he visited their house Ivan was stunned to find there were no doors or closets. Rooms were separated by curtains, and clothes were hung on hooks or large nails affixed to walls. The odor from whatever his friend’s mother cooked clung to his clothes, and Ivan had recurring dreams of chickens, pigs and fish coming out of the walls to attack him.

Carla clasped her cavernous tote. She picked up a black angora shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “That sounds like a plan.” She stood up. “Now that we’ve settled that I’ll be on my way. I’ll call you on Monday to find out if you found anything to your liking.”

Ivan escorted Carla to the front door, hugged her and then watched as she walked to where she’d parked her red Mini Cooper. He closed the oak door with its leaded-glass pane after she’d maneuvered away from the curb.

Retracing his steps, he returned to the alcove, sitting and staring at the dying embers. Fall was his least favorite season of the year. It wasn’t just the cooler temperatures, shorter days, longer nights and falling leaves, but rather, the reminder of the time he’d lost his twin brother in a senseless drive-by shooting.

Ivan had thought twenty-five years was more than enough time to accept that Jared was gone and was never coming back. But whenever the season changed, it reminded him of holding his dying brother in his arms while autumn leaves rained down on the cold ground while they waited for an ambulance.

He’d wanted to spend his day off doing absolutely nothing, but the call from Carla had altered his plans. At first he thought of telling her he had papers to grade, which he did. But when he’d heard the excitement in her voice, Ivan remembered his promise to the designer that he would do everything he could to help her business. And that meant opening his home to strangers who wanted to photograph the interior.

Leaning to his right, he picked up the invitation. Getting out and attending the showing was what he needed, not obsessing about the loss of his brother. Yes, he mused, he would get out of the house, go to the opening and hopefully find something he could hang on his walls. He scrolled through his cell-phone contacts and punched in the number for a car service, telling the dispatcher he needed a car within the hour.

He owned a classic 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray, which he stored in a nearby garage, but he’d decided not to drive downtown, where there was little or no parking, and risk having his car towed.

Forty-five minutes later, showered and shaved, he closed the door to his brownstone and walked over to the Town Car parked across the tree-lined street. The driver, leaning against the bumper, straightened and opened the rear door.

“Thank you, Robert,” Ivan said, smiling as he ducked his head to get into the vehicle. The dispatcher knew he liked riding with the elderly chauffeur.

“You’re welcome, Dr. Campbell.”

Ivan gave the driver the address of the gallery in Greenwich Village, then settled back to relax and enjoy the ride downtown.

His smile faded with the slam of the solid door. People in the neighborhood had begun calling him Dr. Campbell, rather than Ivan or Mr. Campbell. Referring to him by his title was not only too formal, but pretentious. There was one thing he knew he wasn’t, and that was pretentious.

He’d decided to become a psychologist, not to help people deal with their psychological or emotional problems, but to find out who Ivan Garner Campbell actually was, how to come to grips with his childhood. It’d taken years, but he’d accepted the advice he gave his patients: “Take control of your fears before they stop you from living your good life.”

He’d set up a private practice, purchased a brownstone in the Harlem historic district and dated women who kept his interest for more than a few hours—all that attributed to him living his good life.

Nayo Goddard felt as if she’d been holding her breath since Geoffrey Magnus opened the doors of the gallery for the caterer and his staff to set up for the opening of her extensive collection of black-and-white photographs. She found herself humming along to the prerecorded music of a string quartet.

The curious and critics from the art world sipped champagne, nibbled on caviar on toast points, sushi and tiny finger sandwiches while peering intently at the matted photos displayed around the expansive space in the beautiful, 1850s Italianate row house. The SOLD stickers affixed to three-quarters of the photographs exhibited was an indication that her first showing was a rousing success.

“You did it, darling.”

Shifting slightly, Nayo smiled up at her patron and best friend. “It looks as if we did it,” she said softly.

Her dark brown eyes met and fused with a large, soft, dove-gray pair. Geoffrey Magnus had encouraged her to follow her dream of becoming a photographer, even though her parents believed she’d wasted her time and education indulging in a frivolous hobby. Tall and slender with a mop of curly blond hair, Geoff was a trust-fund baby and the grandson of one of the most prominent art dealers and collectors in the Northeast.

His grandparents, who’d honeymooned in Mexico, met Frida Kahlo and her muralist husband, Diego Rivera, and purchased Frida’s Self-Portrait with Monkey. Their love affair with Mexican art fueled a passion that continued throughout their lifetime. Besides Mexican art, Geoff’s parents preferred folk art and spent most of their time traveling throughout the U.S. and the Caribbean looking for new talent. The result was one of the most extensive collections of nineteenth- and twentieth-century North and South American art ever assembled. Geoff followed in the family tradition when he enrolled at Pratt Institute and earned a degree in the history of art and design.

Nayo’s grandmother had surprised her with a graduation gift of an all-expense-paid trip to Europe for the summer. It was there she’d met Geoff when he was a student at Pratt in Venice, a six-week summer program in which students studied painting, art history, drawing, printmaking and Venetian art. She and Geoff hung out together for two weeks before Nayo traveled south to Rome. They’d exchanged telephone numbers, and it was another six months before they were reunited. Nine years later, Geoff and Nayo, thirty and thirty-one respectively, were still friends. She knew he wanted more than friendship, but she knew that becoming intimate would ruin their relationship. Her mantra “If it isn’t broke, don’t try to fix it” had served her well.

Geoff handed Nayo a flute of champagne, touching her glass with his. “Congratulations.”

Taking a sip, she smiled at him over the rim. “Thank you.”

Ivan moved slowly from one photograph to another, not wanting to believe he’d find himself so entranced with bridges. All the photos were numbered and a catalog identified the city and state in which the bridges were located. There were covered bridges in New England hamlets, beam-and-truss bridges in the Midwest and Pacific Northwest, natural-arch bridges in the Southwest and cable-stayed bridges along the East and West coasts.

The photographer, who went by the single name of Nayo, had captured the natural beauty of the landscapes regardless of the season. He’d found himself staring intently at a triptych of a snow-covered bridge in New Hampshire. The first shot was taken at sunrise, the second when the sun was at its zenith and the third at dusk. It was the same bridge, yet the background in each photo looked different because of the waning light and lengthening shadows.

Ivan uttered an expletive. He was too late. Someone had already purchased the trio of photographs. He tapped the arm of a passing waiter. “Excuse me. Can you please direct me to the photographer?”

The waiter pointed to a petite woman wearing a white, man-tailored blouse and black pencil skirt. “That’s Miss Nayo.”

Ivan smiled. “Thank you.”

He stared at the young woman with skin the color of milk chocolate. Her short, curly hair was the perfect complement to her round face. Throwing her head back, she was laughing as she stood next to a tall, blond man. Ivan found himself as enthralled with the photographer as he was with her work. The diamond studs in her pierced ears caught the light. The wide belt around her narrow waist matched her black, patent-leather, peep-toe pumps.

Weaving his way through the throng that was eating, drinking and talking quietly, Ivan approached the photographer. “Miss Nayo?”

Nayo turned to stare at the man standing only a few feet from where she stood with Geoff. Her practiced eye took in everything about him in one sweeping glance. He was tall and exquisitely proportioned. The jacket of his charcoal-gray suit, with its faint pinstripe, draped his shoulders as if it had been tailored expressly for him. A pale gray shirt with French cuffs and a silk tie in a flattering aubergine pulled his look together.

He was more conservatively dressed than the others who favored the ubiquitous New York City black. Her gaze moved slowly from his cropped hair and distinctive widow’s peak to his lean mocha-brown face and masculine features.

Her lips parted in a warm smile. She extended her hand. “It’s just Nayo.”

“Ivan Campbell.” He took her hand, and it disappeared into his much larger one. She’d pronounced her name Naw-yo.

Nayo felt a slight jolt at the contact, and she quickly extricated her fingers to cut off the electricity. “Mr. Campbell, how may I help you?” she asked as Geoff walked away. Whenever she interacted with a potential client, Geoff made it a practice not to ingratiate himself.

Ivan found himself transfixed by Nayo’s face. Upon closer inspection, she looked as if she was barely out of high school. Her makeup was natural and flawless. The soft highlights on her eyelids complemented her lip gloss and the subtle blush on her high cheekbones. Her round eyes afforded her a slightly startled look. And it was through those eyes she was able to capture incredible images. When he’d stared at the photos of bridges, he felt as if he were viewing them through the camera lens.

“Carla Harris suggested I come to your showing to purchase some of your work. I need artwork for my walls for a magazine layout. I have no interest in paintings or sculpture, but I’m not opposed to photography.”

Nayo smiled and an elusive dimple deepened in her left cheek. “Carla is an extremely talented designer.”

“I agree,” Ivan replied. “She’s turned my home into quite the showplace.”

“That’s Carla. Have you seen anything you like?”

Yes, I have, Ivan thought. He wanted to tell Nayo she was as stunningly beautiful as her photographs. “Yes, I have but…” His words trailed off when her smile grew wider.

Nayo’s eyebrows lifted. “What is it, Mr. Campbell?”

“I noticed your photographs are numbered, and the ones I’m interested in have already been purchased.”

“They are one of a kind.”

“I understand your decision to exhibit a limited number of photographs in your collection, but I’m willing to pay twice as much if you—”

“I can’t do that,” she said, interrupting him. “The photos are part of a limited collection, and to print duplicates would be unethical. There are 120 photos in the bridges collection and not all of them have been sold. I’d like to think there are a few others you’ll find to your liking.”

Ivan’s impassive expression revealed none of what he was feeling at that moment. “I’ll give you four times the price for the triptych.”

A shiver of annoyance snaked its way up Nayo’s body, causing a slight shudder. “Mr. Campbell.”

“It’s Ivan. Please call me Ivan.”

She blew out a breath. “Okay, Ivan. As I told you before, the photos are one of a kind. Perhaps you can negotiate with the person who purchased the triptych. But I cannot and will not print duplicates for you no matter how much you offer.” She hesitated and exhaled a breath. “But I may be able to help you out.”

“How is that?”

“I have other photos featuring bridges you may want to look at.” Walking over to a side table, she picked up a small, printed card, handing it to Ivan. “This is my card. Call me and I’ll set up an appointment to give you a viewing at my studio.”

Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, Ivan removed a small silver case with his business cards. He took out a pen and wrote down his home number on the reverse side. He gave Nayo the card. “Call me and I’ll make myself available.”

Nayo turned the card over and read the print: Ivan G. Campbell, PhD. And, it appeared, the persistent well-dressed man was a psychotherapist. If she had to categorize his psyche, it was id-driven.

“I’ll call you,” she promised.

Ivan inclined his head as if she was royalty. He smiled for the first time. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

Nayo held her breath. Dr. Ivan Campbell claimed the most sensual smile she’d ever seen on a man. His was a face she wanted to photograph. “You will hear from me,” she said when she’d recovered her breath. Turning on her heel, she walked away from him, knowing he was staring at her.

She approached a woman who was a regular at the gallery, flashing a brittle smile and exchanging air kisses with her. “Mrs. Meyers. I hope you’re enjoying the exhibit?”

Why, she thought, did she sound so specious? Had she become as plastic as some of the people who fancied themselves art collectors because it afforded them more social status?

The elderly woman waved a hand bedecked with an enormous Tahitian pearl surrounded by large, flawless diamonds. “Of course I am, darling. I bought four featuring the Natural Bridges National Monument. I can’t believe you were able to photograph the night sky showing the Milky Way.”

Nayo wanted to tell Mrs. Meyers that although nearly one hundred thousand people stopped at the Natural Bridges National Monument in Utah each year, only a few took in the most breathtaking vistas, because they could only be seen at night. Whenever she visited a national park, Nayo made certain to seek out the park’s chief ranger and tell him about her project. Most were more than willing to accommodate her. A few had referred to her as the female Ansel Adams. Being compared to the celebrated landscape photographer and environmentalist gave her the confidence she needed to realize her dream.

“The nighttime images were spectacular,” she said, smiling.

“That’s so obvious, Nayo.” Mrs. Meyers waved to someone she recognized, then rushed over to talk to her, leaving Nayo to her thoughts. She’d invited her mother and father, but they hadn’t been able to get away from the restaurant they’d run for more than twenty years.

Her parents had been high school sweethearts who’d married a week after graduating from college. Her father joined the local fire department while her mother had gone into teaching. Marjorie Goddard went back to work six months after giving birth to her son, but opted to become a stay-at-home mom once Nayo was born. Meanwhile her husband, Steven, had risen quickly through the ranks of the small upstate-New York fire department. Everything changed for the Goddards when Steven was injured fighting a warehouse fire. Nicknamed “Chef” by his fellow firefighters, Steven took over the cooking duties at home after having been the cook at the firehouse for so many years. He gave up fighting fires, retired and bought a run-down restaurant from an elderly couple.

What had shocked Nayo was that her parents knew nothing about the restaurant business. But after several false starts, they attracted a loyal following at the restaurant with family recipes going back several generations. What had initially been a hobby for Steven and Marjorie Goddard was now their livelihood. Just as photography had become their daughter’s livelihood.

Nayo stared at Ivan Campbell. She noticed that he wasn’t eating or drinking but studying her photographs. She was still staring at him when he turned and caught her. He smiled and she returned his smile with one of her own. She dropped her gaze with the approach of one of the gallery’s employees.

It was hours later, when Geoff closed and locked the gallery doors, that Nayo tried recalling everything about Ivan Campbell. She didn’t see him as a man who would interest her romantically, but as a subject for her next collection.

Her focus wouldn’t be bridges or landscapes but people. Annie Leibovitz and Francesco Scavullo had become her idols, not only for their photographs of people but for the spirit they captured. Yes, she mused, she couldn’t wait to see Ivan again if only to ask whether he would let her photograph him.