Читать книгу Man of Fantasy - Rochelle Alers - Страница 9

Nayo climbed the stairs in the three-story East Harlem walk-up. When she’d returned from her four-year, forty-eight-state project to photograph bridges, her first choice had been to return to Greenwich Village where she’d lived while a student at New York’s School of Visual Arts. However, most of the apartments she saw were either too small or too expensive. Turning her sights uptown, she’d found a large studio apartment in a renovated, three-story walk-up at Madison Avenue and 127th Street.

Geoff had offered her an apartment his family owned, but Nayo declined. It was enough that she’d lived temporarily at the beautiful St. Luke’s Place row house after she’d returned to New York. It took several months for her to secure a position as a cataloger for a small Upper East Side auction house. A month later she moved to East Harlem, a neighborhood like West Harlem that was undergoing rapid gentrification.

The door to the neighboring apartment opened as Nayo put the key into her lock. A ball of smoky-colored fluff darted from between her neighbor’s legs to wrap itself around Nayo’s. Bending slightly, she stroked the British shorthair kitten.

“How are you, Colin?” she said softly, smiling at the friendly cat with striking copper-colored eyes. The kitten meowed softly.

When she’d asked her neighbor, Mrs. Anderson, whether she’d named her feline companion for former secretary of state Colin Powell, the retired librarian sheepishly admitted she’d formed a lasting crush on Colin Firth after watching Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice over and over until she’d memorized the dialogue.

Lucille Anderson stared at the young woman who came and went inconspicuously. “I have a package for you, delivered earlier this morning.”

Nayo’s smile widened. “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. As soon as I put my things down and change, I’ll be over to get it.”

Lucille nodded at the young woman she’d begun to think of as the daughter she’d never had. She’d married young, but lost her husband when he suffered a massive heart attack at thirty. She’d never remarried or had children, but managed to maintain a rather active social life. She was a lifelong member of a sorority, and along with her sorors she socialized with other librarians and schoolteachers.

“Do you have time for a cup of coffee and some pound cake?”

“I’ll make time,” Nayo said.

Nayo had become rather attached to the woman who reminded her of her paternal grandmother. Grandma Darlene had given her the money she needed to fulfill her dream to travel coast to coast photographing bridges and whatever else caught her attention. Unfortunately her grandmother hadn’t lived long enough to see her granddaughter’s success. A week after she returned to New York, Nayo was sitting in her parents’ living room when a call from a local hospital reported that Darlene Goddard had collapsed in a supermarket. By the time she and her parents arrived at the hospital, she was gone.

She opened the door to her apartment and Colin scooted in to jump up on a chaise where Nayo usually sat watching television. Whenever Colin came for an impromptu visit she and the kitten would cuddle together on the chaise.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Colin,” Nayo warned the feline that had settled down for a nap. “I’m taking you back home as soon as I change my clothes.”

Slipping out of her heels, she picked them up and placed them in a closet close to the door. She was fussy when it came to everything being in its place, because she had to eat, sleep and relax in a space measuring only 450 square feet.

A four-poster, queen-size canopy bed occupied one corner, along with an armoire, bedside tables, double dresser. A padded bench sat at the foot. A glass-topped table which doubled as a desk held a computer and printer. Nayo had stored mats and photo paper in canvas-covered baskets lined up along the wall. Her prized cameras, lenses and memory cards were in a safe in the back of the walk-in closet.

The kitchen along a brick-wall area served as her food prep and dining room. A butcher block table and four chairs covered with cushions in a sunny yellow created a cheery atmosphere for dining and entertaining.

Her small living room had a tufted sofa upholstered in the same fabric as the dining-area chairs. The coffee table was littered with art books and photography magazines. Another table against the wall held a flat-screen television and an assortment of Nayo’s favorite movies. Floor lamps and strategically placed track lighting afforded the apartment a warm glow.

It took her less than fifteen minutes to remove her makeup, apply a moisturizer and change into a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans and a pair of running shoes. “Come, Colin,” she called out, whistling and clapping her hands.

Reaching for her keys, Nayo headed for the door, the kitten trotting after her.

Ivan found his mind drifting. He had to read the same paragraph twice. He taught two classes: Clinical Use of Free Association and Dreams, and Multicultural Psychology.

The first course explored psychoanalysis dating back to Freud’s study of his own patients’ dreams. Course work included the introduction to current theories about dreams, empirical research on dreams and clinical work with dreams. Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams was required reading.

Leaning back from the desk, he stood and stretched his arms over his head. He’d spent the past four hours reading the papers of college students who, if their lives depended upon it, couldn’t type a simple sentence with the correct subject and predicate agreement.

He walked out of his home office at the same time the phone rang. Retracing his steps, he picked up the receiver on the wall phone. “Hello.”

“Ivan Campbell?”

His eyebrows lifted when the soft female voice came through the earpiece. “This is he.”

“This is Nayo.”

A smile tilted the corners of his mouth as Ivan sat on the edge of the mahogany desk. “How are you, Nayo?” He’d met her for the first time Friday evening and he hadn’t expected to hear from her just two days later.

“I’m good. Thank you for asking. I’m calling because I’ve found quite a few prints I believe would interest you.”

“Are they of bridges?”

“I have bridges and landscapes. However, before you see them I’d like to come and take a look at your home.”

“When would you like to come?”

“My days and hours are flexible, so I’ll leave that up to you.”

Ivan glanced at the desk clock. It was minutes before noon and he had to correct two more papers before tomorrow. He taught classes on Monday and Wednesday. “I have some time this afternoon.”

“Where do you live?”

He gave Nayo his address. “Where do you live?”

Nayo’s tingling laugh came through the earpiece. “I’m within walking distance of you.”

“Where do you live, Nayo?” Ivan asked again.

“I’ll tell when I see you.”

“When should I expect you?”

There came a pause. “I’ll be over in half an hour.”

“Have you—” Ivan’s words trailed off when he heard Nayo had hung up. He’d just replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. “Nayo?”

“Sorry, brother, but I’m not Nayo.”

“DG, what’s up?”

“Don’t plan anything for the first week in June.”

A slight furrow appeared between Ivan’s eyes. “What’s going on, Duncan?”

“Tamara and I are getting married, and I’d like for you to be my best man.”

Ivan went completely still. It was the second time in two months that one of his best friends had announced he was getting married. He’d met Duncan Gilmore and Kyle Chatham when they were in the same second-grade class. They also lived in the same building in a public housing complex. The three had become closer than brothers, watching one another’s back. Even when Duncan’s mother died and he went to live with an aunt in Brooklyn, they’d never lost touch.

Kyle and Duncan were there for him when he lost his twin brother, they attended one another’s graduations, offered a shoulder when a somewhat-serious relationship ended and now, at thirty-nine, they’d fulfilled a childhood dream to own a brownstone in their Harlem neighborhood. All had worked hard to stay out of trouble when the streets had been a seductive siren, beckoning them into what would become a life of fast and easy money—and prison or certain death.

Kyle had become a lawyer, working as a corporate attorney before deciding to set up a private practice. Duncan, or DG, had made millions for clients at a Wall Street investment firm, while quietly amassing a modest fortune with his own investments.

Everything changed for Duncan when his fiancée died in the bombing of the World Trade Center. Finding himself at a crossroads, he retreated from the frenzied world of Wall Street banking and investing to set up his own company.

Ivan’s career also underwent a transformation when the Washington, D.C., mental-health foundation he’d headed for years lost its funding. Ivan transferred his private patients to another therapist, sold his Georgetown home and returned to his Harlem roots.

“First the lovebug bit Kyle, now you, DG? What’s going on?”

“It’s all good, Ivan. I never thought I’d find someone I could love after losing Kali, but I was wrong. And I have you to thank for that.”

“You came to me as a patient and not a friend, so I told you what I tell all my patients, given your circumstances. Now you and Tamara are planning a wedding.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Ivan.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you be my best man?”

“Of course I’ll be your best man, DG.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’s the wedding?” Ivan asked. Kyle and Ava Warwick had planned a Valentine’s Day wedding in Puerto Rico.

“It’ll be in New York. Tamara and I decided to have it on one of the yachts that sail along the Hudson River.”

“I’ll make certain to block out the first week in June. Congratulations and give Tamara my best.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Have you told Kyle you’re getting married?” Ivan asked.

“I just spoke to him. He said we should set up an MNO at least once a month.”

Ivan smiled. “Are you certain your woman will allow you a men’s night out?” he teased.

“You’re talking crazy, brother. Are you equating marriage with being on lockdown? I think you’ve been dating the wrong women.”

“It’s not about dating the wrong women, DG. It’s just that I don’t want to commit to one woman.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before Duncan said, “You should try it, Ivan. At least once before you get too old.”

“On that note, I’m going to hang up on you, Duncan. Are you going into the office tomorrow?”

“No. Tamara’s off tomorrow, so we’re going to look at rings.”

“Let me know when you both have the same weekend off, because I’d like to host a party for you.”

“I know you’re not cooking, Ivan.”

“Very funny, DG,” he sneered. “Just because I don’t grill that well doesn’t mean I can’t cook.”

Duncan’s deep chuckle came through the earpiece. “I can’t eat what you grill, and I’ve never eaten anything you’ve cooked.”

“On that note, I suggest you hang up, DG, or you’ll find yourself looking for another best man.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“No, I wouldn’t, DG. No matter what happens, you can count on me to be your best man.” The ring of the doorbell echoed throughout the apartment. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to hang up on you. I’m expecting a visitor.”

“I’ll see you Tuesday. And thanks, Ivan.”

“No problem, DG.” Ivan hung up and pressed a button on the intercom. “Yes?”

“It’s Nayo.”

“I’ll be right with you.” Pressing another button, he buzzed open the lock to the outer door, and then went up the stairs to the second floor to answer the door. He hadn’t expected Nayo to come so quickly.

When Ivan opened the door, he didn’t realize he was staring. Nayo Goddard looked nothing like the woman he’d met at the gallery. Her fresh-scrubbed face made her look as if she were a teenage girl. She’d brushed her short hair until there was barely a hint of a curl. A black, hip-length leather jacket, turtleneck sweater, jeans and low-heeled boots had replaced her tailored blouse, skirt and heels. Nayo smiled and the dimple in her left cheek winked at him.

He returned her smile with a warm one of his own. “I’m forgetting my manners. Please come in.”

Nayo realized she hadn’t just imagined the sensual, brooding face of the man welcoming her into his home. Ivan Campbell wasn’t what women would call a pretty brother, but he was without a doubt a very attractive man. And the stubble on his lean face served to enhance his masculinity.

The perfectly proportioned body she’d glimpsed through the cut of his suit was blatantly displayed in a white cotton pullover sweater and jeans. Instead of slip-ons, he had on running shoes.

As she stepped into the vestibule, a wave of warmth enveloped her. A mahogany staircase with carved newel posts led to the upper floors. Her gaze shifted to what appeared to be a credence table that supported a large Tiffany-style table lamp. A leather chair with decorative walnut trim complemented the furnishings in the space.

Her fingers traced the surface of the table. “Where did you get this table?”

Ivan stared openly at Nayo, whose head barely came to his shoulder. “I inherited it.”

Nayo’s delicate jaw dropped slightly as the notion that the table might not be a reproduction registered. “Do you mind if I ask from whom?”

“I got it from the grandmother of a former patient who lived in the D.C. area. It’d been in her family for generations.”

“It’s not a reproduction.” Her question was a statement.

“No. It’s an original. I believe it was made sometime around 1680.”

Nayo stared longingly at the semicircular side table that folded out and was supported by a gateleg frame. She knew that similar antique tables were made of either walnut or oak in Britain around the second half of the seventeenth century. The space-saving tables were used in the nineteenth century to prepare the sacraments in English churches, hence the term credence table, which refers to church tables.

“Have you had it appraised?”

Ivan nodded. “I had to for insurance purposes.”

“But why leave it out here when anyone could damage it?”

“You should’ve seen it before I had it restored. I was shocked when it came back looking almost like new.”

Nayo traced the molding around the drawer with her fingertips. “This should be in a museum.” Her head came up and she met Ivan’s intense gaze. “Has anyone asked you to loan it to a museum?”

Ivan crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Would you if they asked?”

“I don’t know.”

“At least you didn’t say no. Do you occupy the entire building?” Within seconds she’d changed the topic.

Reaching out, Ivan cradled her elbow. “No. I chose the street level and the second floor for my personal use. Come with me and I’ll show you one of the vacant apartments on the third floor.”

Nayo followed Ivan as he led her to the staircase. “What’s on the top floor?”

“You’ll see,” he said cryptically. “By the way, how did you get here so fast?”

“I live on 127th Street off Madison.”

Ivan released her elbow to take her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “We’re practically neighbors.”

“How long have you lived here?” Nayo asked.

“Not too long. I bought this place three years ago. It took about a year and a half to renovate.”

She noted the parquet flooring along the third-floor hallway. “It looks as if you restored it.”

Ivan gave the talented photographer a sidelong glance. “I suppose I should’ve said it took that long to restore it. The architect managed to find photographs of another brownstone similar to this one, and he knew exactly what it looked like before the former owners made changes.”

“What updates did you make?”

“You’ll see when I show you the apartment.”

Ivan led Nayo down the hallway to the rear of the brownstone and opened a door to a vacant apartment. It was at Duncan’s urging that he decided to rent out the apartments. The accountant told him that the rental income would offset the expense of renovating the four-story structure.

He’d bought the abandoned brownstone outright with the proceeds from the sale of his D.C. home. He’d taken out a loan for the renovations, because he hadn’t wanted to exhaust his savings and have a cash-flow problem. Although he hadn’t wanted to be saddled with a mortgage, it was unavoidable when he, Duncan and Kyle purchased another brownstone in the same historic district. He would’ve found it stressful to carry two mortgages on two pieces of property. Luckily he and his friends purchased property when interest rates and house prices were still relatively low, and despite the mortgage-and-housing crisis, he, Kyle and Duncan were in good stead financially.

He couldn’t charge his patients the fees other therapists did, which was why he supplemented his income with teaching and private lectures. One of his ongoing personal projects was writing a couple of books—one a humanistic view of multicultural psychology, the other psychology and African-Americans.

Opening the door, Ivan stepped aside to let Nayo walk in. “This apartment is the same as the one at the front of the building.”

An entryway with gleaming hardwood floors in a herringbone design led to a living room with a trio of floor-to-ceiling windows. A raised area for dining overlooked the expansive living room. Nayo walked through the dining area to a gourmet kitchen with top-of-the line appliances and a black-and-white tile floor.

“Each apartment has a full bath and half bath,” Ivan said behind her.

“This place is beautiful,” she said reverently.

And it was. Nayo didn’t know how much Ivan was charging for rent, but if she’d seen the apartment first, she would’ve paid whatever he’d asked. High ceilings with recessed lighting, exquisite wood floors and natural light coming through the tall windows.

Ivan reached for her hand, cradling it gently in his protective grasp. “The half bath is off the kitchen, and the bedrooms are over here,” he said, leading her across the living room.

Nayo entered the master bedroom with its en suite bath. The bath had a freestanding shower and a Jacuzzi garden bathtub. The smaller bedroom, although spacious, lacked an adjoining bath. Solar shades that let light in without sacrificing privacy covered all the windows, and the bedroom floors were covered in carpeting in an oatmeal shade.

“Now the top floor.”

Ivan led Nayo up the staircase to the fourth floor. He’d thought of putting in an elevator, but changed his mind, because he wasn’t certain what he wanted to do with the top floor. Carved double mahogany doors opened to a yawning space with brick walls, cherry-wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows and a coffered ceiling.

“What do you plan to put up here?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Nayo tried analyzing the man standing less than a foot away. It was only their second encounter, yet she felt very comfortable with him. It’d been that way when she’d met Geoffrey Magnus for the first time. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with men, with the exception of an intense summer romance the year she graduated from high school. She’d dated, although casually, but had yet to experience a passionate affair.

She knew her reluctance to get involved with a man stemmed from her desire to focus on establishing a career as a professional photographer. Taking pictures wasn’t a frivolous hobby or a passing fancy, but a passion. From the first time she held a camera she was hooked, and the obsession continued unabated.

“What I’ve seen is incredible. I see why a magazine would want to do a photo spread of your home.”

“I owe it all to a very talented architect and interior designer.”

Nayo gave Ivan a sidelong glance. “Don’t be so modest, Ivan. After all, you did have to approve the plans and the furnishings.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” she countered. “It’s the same when I take a shot. I know within seconds whether I’ve captured the image I want or I have to reshoot it.”

Resting his hand at the small of Nayo’s back, Ivan steered her toward the staircase. “How many pictures did you take to come up with the 120 in your bridge collection?”

“I have more than 120 photographs in my bridge collection.”

Ivan stopped before stepping off at the second floor landing. “I thought you said the exhibition was a limited collection.”

“I said the photographs in that collection will not be reprinted. I have others that I’ll show probably in a couple of years. If I decide never to exhibit them, then I’ll include them in a coffee-table book.”

“Do you have photos of any of the New York City bridges?”

Nayo nodded. “I have several of the Brooklyn Bridge at different times of the day.”

“Hot damn!” he said under his breath.

The skin around Nayo’s eyes crinkled when she laughed, the soft, sensual sound bubbling up from her throat. Ivan’s deep, rumbling laugh joined hers, and they were still laughing when he opened the door to his apartment to give her a tour of what had become a designer’s show house.