Chapter Twelve: Gwen welcomes a handsome stranger into the yarn shop and into her life.
photo by ldyck
Chapter Thirteen
On our first date, we planned to go to a theatre near Urban Knits. Jaron altered these plans with a text message explaining that he was working late and requesting that we meet at a restaurant in Kitsilano—The Starving Artist.
Servers swirled from table to table, accompanied by a classical guitar played by a well-inked man in a skull cap. I leaned back against the deeply padded leatherette bench. Framed on the wall facing me, a black-haired goddess lay on a milk-white bearskin rug. I couldn't help designing a bikini to hide her excess exposed skin. Having already memorized the menu, I flipped it over and read:
The Five Sixteen Alder Artist Collective, established in 1967, offers established and emerging artists an opportunity to display their work at The Starving Artist. The collective-owned cafe employs artists both in the kitchen and on the floor. We extend an invitation to local artists to join us.
The note was signed by Jaron Cardew. Jaron? Cardew? President? My Jaron Cardew?
A ball of hair—a short man with curly black hair on his head, face, and arms and lurking elsewhere under his clothes—sprung at me. “Your body.” He slid on the bench, closer and ever closer until he penned me in the corner. “I paint you nude.” He kissed his fingertips.
I felt a weight fall on the other side of the bench. “Thanks for entertaining my friend Gwen while she waited for me, Nilos.” The closer Jaron got to me, the farther Nilos moved away.
“Ah, of course, Jaron. For you, anything.” Nilos left.
“He wanted to paint me—nude.”
“I'm not surprised. Nilos has fine taste in women. Exhibit A.” Jaron swung his hand indicating the painting.
I picked up the menu and turned it over to show him his signed note. “You're the president?”
“Take me to your leader. Don't get too excited. Only of The Starving Artist.”
“You're an artist?”
“I'm an indie author of a couple of novels. Does that count?”
“A couple of novels?”
“Impressed?” He smiled like a schoolboy who'd just received a gold star.
I took a sip of my espressos.
The unmistakable sound of high-heels on hardwood. A flamboyant Amazon was headed our way. Jaron stood and gave her a warm embrace.
“How've you been, Sugar?” She marked his cheek with two bright pink lips. She coiled a handful of lengthy bright pink fingernails and clawed the air. “Who's this cupcake?”
“Play nice, Lulu Bell. This is my friend, Gwen.”
Lulu Bell joined us in the booth and took a sip of Jaron's espressos. That was when I noticed her Adam's apple.
“You better treat Jai-nie baby right, or you'll be hearing from me, Cupcake.”
“Lulu Bell's vivid geometric paintings grace our walls,” Jaron proudly explained, “Each with a hefty price.” And he added. “Which her admires are overjoyed to pay and she has many admires.”
Lulu Bell batted the air with an oh-shucks-gesture. “What do you do, Cupcake?”
“Her name is G—.”
“She has a voice, doesn't she?”
“I knit.”
“Like my granny. What do you knit—shawls, afghans, sweaters for penguins, scarves for giraffes.”
“Gwen designed and knit the sweater she's wearing,” Jaron told them.
“Well, fault your stuff, Cupcake.” Lulu Bell grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me out of the booth. “Spin.” She made a circle in the air with their index finger. “That's glorious, Cupcake.”
“And that's just one. She's got a closet full. And she's always knitting more,” Jaron said.
“Oh-la-la. Where do you sell them?”
“She doesn't,” Jaron said.
“Yes, I do. I sell them at Urban Knits.”
“I haven’t heard of that boutique,” Lulu Bell said.
“Well, it’s a yarn shop.”
“Oh, Cupcake, you can’t sell sweaters in a yarn shop.”
“I've looked everywhere, but I can’t find a boutique that will take my sweaters.”
“Oh, poor baby,” Lulu Bell told me. “Don't let that stop you. Don't you know: you create what you can't find.”
“What? A boutique? I don't have that kind of money.”
“Not just any old boutique. One that's open 24/7 to a global market.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a business card: Reginald Westman, Web Designer.
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