Page 28 of Shopping for an Heir
Declan dropped the robe.
As Gerald walked from student to student, admiring technique, correcting proportions, using his voice and hands to guide, he studied his former boss—and now, friend. Inviting him to be a model had been natural. A few years ago, he’d been asked what he did in his free time, and when he’d mentioned sculpting, the conversation had ventured into issues of finding people comfortable enough to pose.
Declan McCormick, of all people, had offered.
Gerald had accepted.
And here they were, on their fifth course together.
The guy’s body was fabulous as a subject, but to Gerald, all bodies were fabulous. Short, tall, lean, plump, old, young—the endless fascination with all the variations and permutations of the human form didn’t stop just because a body didn’t meet society’s standards of beauty.
He rejected those standards. They were false, based on commercial and corporate ideals.
His next model was a seventy-eight-year-old great-grandmother who had scars down one thigh from being dragged for a quarter mile during civil rights protests in the 1960s.
Beauty came in all forms.
His criteria for modeling in his class were simple: Twenty-five bucks an hour, ninety minutes of holding still, no silly giggling over being nude.
Declan waived the fee.
By the end of class, Gerald was uncharacteristically wiped. Normally, teaching refueled him.
Reconnecting with Suzanne, plus the burden of the inheritance, led to an emotional gravity he struggled to manage.
Earlier that day, he’d made his decision: donate the relic. Have Suzanne’s firm figure out the international law intricacies. He wanted it to go to the right cultural institution so it could be preserved, studied, honored and used to understand old civilizations.
But the weight of that decision hadn’t lifted the burden.
A night of shooting pool with Vince and Declan should be just the ticket. He looked forward to watching Dec and Vince spar.
As students filed out of the room, he felt a strong hand clutch his arm. Turning around, he found dead air.
He had to look way down.
“Gerald, I want to tell you how much I enjoy this class.” Agnes’ voice trembled slightly, though it always did. This time, the tone made him pause, his soles pressing into the ground, his body relaxing into being more present.
“Thank you.”
“You make it fun. An old woman like me needs more fun in her life.” Were her eyes filling with actual tears?
“Of course you do,” he said with compassion.
“So please, please don’t have Louise Johnson as your nude model for the next class. She may be young and have a tighter body than mine, but she’s no Declan McCormick.”
Sigh. “How do you know her name?” He was about to mention that Louise wasn’t young, but to a ninety-two-year-old woman, a seventy-eight year old must seem “young.”
“We’re both docents at the same museum. She farts a lot.”
“Agnes,” he said in a low warning voice.
“I’m just saying. We’ll need to wear charcoal face masks if you have that woman in here,” she continued. “Her doctor told her to cut out dairy, but nooooooo. Louise knows better!”
“I’m not having this conversation.”
“She’s so selfish,” Agnes grumbled. “Always thinking about herself.”
He saw Corrine pause at the doorway and look back.
“Are you lying about Louise again?” Corrine called out. “You’re just jealous Gerald didn’t ask you.”
“I’m not taking off my clothes to let a bunch of people have fantasies about my body.”
“Fantasies!” Corrine hooted. “More like nightmares. When people our age are naked, we look like human being candles all melted down.”
“It’s all beautiful, ladies,” he assured them.
They eyed him like predators. “When it’s tight and young and works well and balances out, it sure is, Gerald. But wait. Just wait.”
“I’m enjoying the journey just like you. One day at a time.”
“I’ll be a nude model!” Corrine piped up. “What’s it pay?”
“Twenty-five an hour. Plus you get a free class here at the arts center.”
“That’s it? Playboy models make tens of thousands!” Agnes grumbled.
“I’m not Hugh Hefner,” Gerald joked.
Fifty million dollars, a voice inside him whispered.
Huh. Maybe he was closer than he thought.
“Quit stalling. Marie’s still out here, just waiting for you.” Corrine caught Gerald’s eye. “I love a good catfight.”
“You’re my second, Corrine,” Agnes said as she caught up to her, grumbling. “If I need you to fight in my place, go for her eyes. She wears contacts. One good jab and...”
Gerald shut the door.
With relief.
Bzzz.
A text from Suzanne.
“Hey!” Declan called out from the dressing room. “We’re still shooting pool with your friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” Declan strode out into the classroom. Tonight, he’d shown up in casual clothes from the start.
Gerald looked at his phone.
Be there around ten. Maybe sooner. See you soon.
He grinned.
“I take it Suzanne’s coming, too?” Declan asked.
“How’d you guess?”
“The stupid lovesick grin on your face.”
“That’s how you looked the day you came out of that bagel shop when you met Shannon.” Gerald almost said sir again.
“Did I?” Declan assumed his stone face. “I thought I looked like this.”
“Not that day.”
They shared a smile.
Ten minutes later, they waited for a free pool table, drinking beers and riling each other up about who would beat whom.
Vince appeared.
Vince didn’t just walk into bars. Vince parted the Red Sea when he entered any establishment. Enormous, covered in tattoos and scars, and with the air of a convict who lords over all the prisoners and guards in a maximum security joint, Vince was invincible.
His parents got his name right.
“Hey,” Vince shouted. “G!”
Declan’s eyes flew wide open and he looked up.
Way up.
“Hold on. This is Vince? My brother’s personal trainer Vince?”
Vince reached for Declan’s hand and shook him like a rag doll. “Another McCormick bitch! Good to meet you, man. Boy, I see who has all the muscle in your family.” He eyed Declan and let out a low whistle.
Declan looked pleased.
“Not you,” Vince clarified. “Andrew’s a wuss, but he is bulking up.”
“First half of that is right,” Declan shot back. He puffed up like a peacock-cobra hybrid.
Vince held out his palms. “No offense, man. Just calling it like I see it.”
Considering Vince’s arms were the size of most men’s thighs, he really did walk the walk.
Eyes narrowing, Declan took Vince in. “You a pool shark like your buddy?”
He held up hands like bear paws. “Do these look like precision tools?”
Declan grinned. “Hope you brought enough to cover the drinks, because you’re losing.”
Gerald cleared his throat with meaning.
“I’m onto you,” Declan said. “You play innocent.”
Gerald racked the balls and they started.
Someone’s phone buzzed. As all three checked, Declan held up one finger, turned on his heel, and walked out the main door. Business.
“Heard he left Anterdec. Bought some coffee chain. Thinks he’s going to build the next Starbucks,” Vince said as Gerald took his shot, spreading the balls but not getting any where he wanted them.
“Yeah. Works his ass off.”
“Don’t we all?”
Gerald’s phone buzzed.
You two play this round. Need to manage an issue for fifteen minutes.
The text was from Declan.
“He’s out for this game. Says he’ll be back in fifteen.”
Vince snorted and took his shot. “Their lives really suck.” The scratch ball went in the right corner pocket.
“So does your aim.”
Fishing the ball out of the pocket with hands better suited for picking up small cars, Vince grumbled a string of unintelligible syllables.
“Billionaires with plenty of money but no time to enjoy it. Being rich means being busy,” Vince finally said.
Gerald stayed silent.
“Hey, man—take your shot. Waiting for an engraved invitation?”
Gerald took his shot. The ball rolled aimlessly to the edge and stopped, an inch from target.
“So close, yet so far. How’re things with Suzanne? You tell her the truth yet?”
Shit. Vince didn’t just go straight to the heart of the matter. He went to the bone.
“What?”
“Your biggest fear. You told me the other day. Remember?”
Silence.
“You have to tell her.”
“I did.”
“The whole story?” Vince raised an eyebrow as he elegantly shot the striped nine into the right side pocket.
“Most of it.”
“‘Most’ is not ‘whole.’ You graduated college. You should know that.”
“Not talking about this, Vince.”
“That’s your problem, Gerald. It’s how you lost her ten years ago. By not talking about it.”
“I’m not one of your clients.”
“I’m telling you this as a friend.”
They stared at each other.
