WARNING: This story contains adult content
Chapter Six: I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could now claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled...
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Seven
Artists were invited to our parties—sometimes a musician, sometimes a writer.
The cardinal rule was: Look, but don’t touch. It was understood they were entertainment, not our peers, though perhaps our toys. There was a hierarchy, and thanks to Mother, I was a member of the upper-middle class. The artists were beneath me, beneath us.
One by one, party after party, the artists came. They fell all over themselves for the attention. Instinctively, they knew their place. They entertained us with their tricks. Mixed and mingled, then left promptly before we, the elite, grew bored with their presence.
Theirs was a strange existence. Devoted to pursuing what was taught to children, their work was called a hobby by most, not a profession.
Into this scene, a new artist strode. His head held high, shoulders back. Why all the confidence? Who was he? Was his art somehow nobler than the rest?
The host introduced him. “This is Jaron Cardew, novelist.”
A novelist? Worse, he was a self-published fiction author.
He wore a cheap “suit”—black jeans, a blue shirt, and a black suit jacket. It wasn’t appropriate attire for such a gala. We forgave him; we thought it was the best he could do.
We waited to judge his work. Was it worthy of our time, our effort to listen?
Jaron began his pitch with a joke. Something like, “Who still reads books? Guess you do, eh?”
There was a spattering of pitty snickers.
He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and read. As he continued to read, the room fell silent—no talking, not even a whisper.
Worlds Between
Who was he?
His hair needed a cut, and his face a shave. His clothes were worn. Regardless, wealth surrounded him—kings and queens, mansions and castles.
What was he doing there? Was he a thief?
They observed him and realized, to their surprise, his focus wasn’t on their wealth.
His secret: he possessed a gift their riches could never buy. This gift made acquisition of their tangible wealth unworthy of him. Magic poured forth from his fingertips. He conjured prose and verse. He transformed ink and paper into mystical visions. These creations were portals through which they could glimpse his exotic world. How they longed to remain there forever. They, however, could only visit, and only if he guided them.
Victorious, Jay drank from his wine glass. He knew we were captivated. “Want to hear more?” It was obvious that we did, but he simply refolded the paper and slipped it back into his pocket. “Well, then, give me money so I can write.”
It was crude, but effective. Many wrote him cheques; others gave him cash. They were charmed, as was I.
My dress, knit from a bamboo blend, hugged my curves. It was like hanging a billboard around my neck—this piece of meat is fresh. I snapped my fingers, and every man in the room jumped but Jay. He continued to talk with a blue-haired old lady. Yeah, well... Not! I pranced over to him.
The old lady was in the middle of some boring monologue.
I didn't have the time. "I enjoyed listening to your story."
He spoke to the old lady.
I spoke louder, "I'd love to hear more, see more of you."
That had the desired effect. He looked at me. I grinned and licked my lips. I knew he had heard everything I had to say, and yet...
"I'm glad you enjoyed my story," he said in an offhanded way, like he was talking to his kid sister, like he was dismissing me.
“Your story had a clear message."
"Oh, really? What was that?"
"You wrote it."
"And you listened. What did you hear?"
“You think our society undervalues artists,” I offered. “And you think this is an unfair judgment.”
“And what do you think?"
“I think your assessment is accurate.”
After that, conversation flowed easily between us. We talked about what mattered—politics, economics, media, and societal concerns, such as poverty and homelessness. “Your dress is beautiful." So he had noticed it. "Where did you get it?”
"I... It's m... Hmm."
“How long have you been a designer?”
Me? A designer? I froze. Here, in this place, it was like he was accusing me of a grave social faux pas. But... his words had held no sting. And... my bedroom was full of handknits—in the closet and bureau. My purse contained car keys, a wallet, lipstick, eye shadow, and a small sketchpad half-full of design ideas. I didn't know when inspiration would strike and wanted to be ready to catch it when it did. But...was...I...a Yes, I was a designer. I just hadn't recognized it. Yet, this man I just met saw me for who I truly was.
“I would be happy to show you my collection.”
“I'm eager to see it."
"Where are you parked?"
"I took the bus," he told me.
And so I drove him home.
"Just this way." I purred, ushering him into my bedroom. Thankfully, I'd remembered to make my bed and pick up my dirty laundry.
He eased onto the end of my bed. Like a panther, I prowled up to him. He was my prey, and I was hungry. I--.
He gently grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “I came to see your designs.”
He had some nerve. No man had ever refused my advances before. Haughtily, I threw open my closet doors and pulled open my dresser drawers.
I pointed out details, taking pride in my creativity. “I used seed stitch accenting here. It’s my favourite stitch pattern. It’s so easy, but it can make a dramatic effect.”
He listened attentively and asked questions that revealed a genuine interest. That just didn't sit well with me. He was so sweet, so encouraging. I thought the least I could do was be honest. “I’m not really a designer, and this isn’t really a collection. I get all these ideas for things to make, so I knit them."
"Natural talent is what's important, and you're gifted with an abundance of it."
His words were all I had ever hoped for: someone to believe in me. I felt exposed, vulnerable. Losing control, I began to sob. He comforted me. He held me in his strong arms, stroked my hair, and let me cry. Not all guys can deal with emotions, but Jay could.
I found a home in his arms. I found passion in his lips.
The Sweater Curse
The message ended with directions to a café in Kitsilano, The Starving Artist.
Tea Time
In the 1920s, my paternal grandfather opened a dry goods and tea room in my hometown—Eriksdale, Manitoba. My maternal grandmother excelled in all things domestic—including
