for an initial consultation, Carla refused to take no for an answer. She called him relentlessly every other day for three weeks until he’d finally relented, then worked closely with the architect to reconfigure spaces that would restore the century-old structure to its former grandeur.
“Thanks, Carla.”
The designer pressed her vermilion-colored lips together until they resembled a slash of red across her pale face. “You don’t have to sound so enthusiastic, Dr. Campbell.”
“I know how much this means to you,” Ivan said in the comforting tone he always used with his patients, “and because it does, I’m going to agree to the magazine spread.”
The interior designer’s smile was dazzling. “Thank you, Ivan.”
He inclined his head. “You’re welcome, Carla.”
Ivan wanted to tell her he couldn’t care less about someone taking pictures of his residence. At the end of the day all he wanted was to come home and relax after spending hours with his patients and lecturing students as an adjunct college professor.
He’d purchased the abandoned, dilapidated brownstone more than three years ago. It took a year and a half to complete the renovations and another year to decorate the interior. He’d lost count of the number of hours he’d sat with Carla going over catalogs filled with tables, chairs, lamps, rugs, beds and kitchen appliances. Four stories and fifty-seven hundred square feet of living space that comprised a terrace, garden and patio, powered by solar panels and an organic garden, provided the perfect environment for living and entertaining.
The street-level space had a home theater, kitchen, bath, home office and gym. The second floor had a master bedroom, adjoining bath and two guest rooms with en suite baths. The brownstone contained two two-bedroom apartments on the third floor. One apartment he’d recently rented to young married professionals expecting their first child, and a real estate agent was setting up an interview with a recently married New York City couple currently living with their in-laws on Long Island.
Ivan still hadn’t decided what he wanted to do with the fourth floor. The entire space was without interior walls, and he’d had the contractor put in a half bath and a utility kitchen. Not only did he own the brownstone, he was also one-third partner in another brownstone a short distance away that he and childhood friends Kyle Chatham and Duncan Gilmore used for business.
“The photo shoot will take place some time in early December, but I can’t set a date until you do something for me,” Carla said, interrupting his thoughts.
“What’s that?”
“You are going to have to do something with the walls.”
A slight frown appeared. “What’s wrong with the walls?”
It’d taken him weeks to decide on the colors he wanted to paint the rooms. At first he’d decided to have the primer covered with shades of eggshell or oyster-white, then changed his mind because it was too sterile a palette.
“You need pictures, Ivan. The walls are naked, unfinished. It’s like a woman going to a formal affair. She’s wearing an evening gown, dress shoes, makeup and hairstyle but has neglected to put on any accessories. In other words, where are the earrings, necklace, ring or bracelet? She’s beautiful, but incomplete.”
“But I’m not into art.”
Carla pressed her lips together again. “They don’t have to be paintings.”
“What else do people hang on their walls?”
“Sculpture,” she suggested.
“I told you that I’m not into art.”
“What about photography?” Carla argued softly.
“What about it?”
“Would you be opposed to framed and matted photos?”
The seconds ticked off as Ivan thought about the designer’s suggestion. He did have a framed photograph of Malcolm X in his home office that had been taken by his father, who’d attended a Harlem rally in 1964 to hear the charismatic Muslim leader speak. In 1999 the U.S. Postal Service issued a stamp of Malcolm X and Ivan had bought the framed stamp, placing it alongside the photo taken by the elder Campbell.
“No.”
Carla exhaled deeply as she reached for her tote, searched through it and handed Ivan an envelope. “This is an invitation to an opening at a gallery featuring an exquisite collection of black-and-white photographs.”
Ivan removed the printed card from the envelope. The invitation was for later that evening. “Are you going?” he asked Carla.
“No. I attended a preview a couple of days ago. They are magnificent, Ivan.”
“Why didn’t you pick up a few photographs for me?”
Carla saw the sensual smile and heard laughter in Ivan’s query. “I would have, but art is very personal. I know what colors and fabrics you prefer, yet I have no idea what you’d like hanging on your walls.”
Ivan sobered again. He knew the designer was right. He never tired of looking at photographs of Malcolm X.
“Okay, I’ll go. But if I don’t find anything I like, then you’re going to have to improvise.”
“Improvise how, Ivan?”
“Rent whatever you feel would complement the rooms and decor, and return them after the photo shoot.”
He knew his reluctance to put any art on the walls was rooted in a childhood aversion to seeing clothes hanging from hooks or large nails in tarpaper shacks. As a boy, he and his identical twin were sent down South to visit their grandparents. At least, that was what his parents said, but Ivan knew the real reason was to keep them off Harlem’s streets where they might possibly get into trouble. He’d befriended another boy whose parents were sharecroppers, and the first time he visited their house Ivan was stunned to find there were no doors or closets. Rooms were separated by curtains, and clothes were hung on hooks or large nails affixed to walls. The odor from whatever his friend’s mother cooked clung to his clothes, and Ivan had recurring dreams of chickens, pigs and fish coming out of the walls to attack him.
Carla clasped her cavernous tote. She picked up a black angora shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “That sounds like a plan.” She stood up. “Now that we’ve settled that I’ll be on my way. I’ll call you on Monday to find out if you found anything to your liking.”
Ivan escorted Carla to the front door, hugged her and then watched as she walked to where she’d parked her red Mini Cooper. He closed the oak door with its leaded-glass pane after she’d maneuvered away from the curb.
Retracing his steps, he returned to the alcove, sitting and staring at the dying embers. Fall was his least favorite season of the year. It wasn’t just the cooler temperatures, shorter days, longer nights and falling leaves, but rather, the reminder of the time he’d lost his twin brother in a senseless drive-by shooting.
Ivan had thought twenty-five years was more than enough time to accept that Jared was gone and was never coming back. But whenever the season changed, it reminded him of holding his dying brother in his arms
