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I grab our leather-bound book where we log our customers’ special requests, and hurry forward, walking past rows of books and trinkets that don’t move fast enough to pay the bills. We count on being contracted to locate high-end collectibles. My translation services have helped during a few random large projects, but that work isn’t steady.
Passing two offices, mine on the left, and Gio’s on the right, I pause at the wooden stairs that lead to two separate apartments we had built when we bought the place, and I hesitate, listening for another creak. It doesn’t come, but then suddenly I wonder if Gio is back. I rush up the stairs, drop my bag by my door, and knock on his. When he doesn’t answer, I grab my keys and open his door, pushing it open to reveal his studio. I scan the room and the oversized brown leather couch and chairs that eat up the space. He’s not immediately in view, and when my gaze lifts to the stairs leading to his bed, that space is empty.
“Gio?!” I call out and walk to the bathroom, but my hope is quickly dashed. He’s gone. He’s still gone.
Fear stabs at my heart and I exit the apartment, throwing myself into the only solution there is: finding him. I have to find him. He’d find me if I were lost. That’s what we do. We protect each other. I lock up his place and open mine. Entering the identical space, outside of furnishings, I flip my locks and then pass my light blue couch and chairs on the way up the stairs. Tossing my things on my bed, I find comfort in my view of what’s below, safe. I feel safe. Or rather I feel safer here than down there.
A few minutes later, I’m in leggings and a sweater, curled up on the bed, with an extra bag of nuts aside from the one I ate on the subway on my way home. I scan our customer book, and the list of outstanding items they hope we’ll locate for them. Next, I pull out the schedule the receptionist had given me. Apparently, the items are listed in more detail online and I quickly pull up the list. Immediately, a bottle of rare wine catches my attention. I have a client, an oilman with deep pockets, who collects fine wine. I do my research on this particular bottle, and once I’m ready to pitch to him, I dial his number.
“Ed, this is Aria.”
“Aria. Tell me something good.”
“I have a lead on a rare 1787 Château Lafite. It could run as high as three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It was said to be a part of Thomas Jefferson’s collection. It’s not drinkable, though. This is for collectible purposes only.”
“I’m stunned at such a find. Yes.”
Relief washes over me for more than one reason. I need to pay our bills. This will carry me for two full months.
“Count me in,” he continues. “I’ll put money in the escrow I set-up for you. When will I know if I can have it?”
“Friday night.”
“I can’t wait. If you need more—I’ll just deposit a bit extra to be safe.”
“You do remember we charge a seven percent fee?”
“I will happily pay it if you claim this treasure for me.”
“You’ll know the minute I know.” We disconnect and hope fills me. I’m closer to answers just by gaining Ed’s approval. And this is a good deal for the business. There was a time when we thought we’d do deals like this one often. I’ve avoided the auction houses to stay out of the spotlight, but no more. We have to pay the bills. And I, oh damn, I have to buy something to wear to this event. I need to look like I belong, and unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of friends walking around I might borrow clothes from. And with good reason: the people I care about disappear.
I scan the auction list again and look for any other item that might match a client’s needs. Unfortunately, I can’t find one. But this wine is a respectable purchase, albeit not the ten million a Stradivarius violin would sell for, but it’s going to have to do for now.
I don’t know how it happens, but I lean against my headboard and google Kace August. I have no business showing interest in this man, but I tell myself it has nothing to do with those blue eyes and all that talent. It’s simply that he’s too close to my roots for comfort. He’s potentially trouble for me. I need to know who I’m dealing with. But he’s a private person off the stage. I find only the basics. He’s thirty-four. As a prodigal violinist, he studied with some of the best violinists in the world and did so as young as ten years old. He’s traveled the world to perform. He’s also been attached to a few actresses and models. Of course, he has been, and yet I replay our exchange today and the perfect roll of his tongue when he spoke Italian. I pull up one of the many YouTube videos of his performances and hit play. I sigh after the first is complete. He’s brilliant. I wanted to play and be brilliant, too. I used to play. But that wasn’t my destiny. And so, for now, I indulge myself. I get lost in listening to the beautiful way he plays.
