LITMIR.BIZ

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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 while autumn leaves rained down on the cold ground while they waited for an ambulance.

      He’d wanted to spend his day off doing absolutely nothing, but the call from Carla had altered his plans. At first he thought of telling her he had papers to grade, which he did. But when he’d heard the excitement in her voice, Ivan remembered his promise to the designer that he would do everything he could to help her business. And that meant opening his home to strangers who wanted to photograph the interior.

      Leaning to his right, he picked up the invitation. Getting out and attending the showing was what he needed, not obsessing about the loss of his brother. Yes, he mused, he would get out of the house, go to the opening and hopefully find something he could hang on his walls. He scrolled through his cell-phone contacts and punched in the number for a car service, telling the dispatcher he needed a car within the hour.

      He owned a classic 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray, which he stored in a nearby garage, but he’d decided not to drive downtown, where there was little or no parking, and risk having his car towed.

      Forty-five minutes later, showered and shaved, he closed the door to his brownstone and walked over to the Town Car parked across the tree-lined street. The driver, leaning against the bumper, straightened and opened the rear door.

      “Thank you, Robert,” Ivan said, smiling as he ducked his head to get into the vehicle. The dispatcher knew he liked riding with the elderly chauffeur.

      “You’re welcome, Dr. Campbell.”

      Ivan gave the driver the address of the gallery in Greenwich Village, then settled back to relax and enjoy the ride downtown.

      His smile faded with the slam of the solid door. People in the neighborhood had begun calling him Dr. Campbell, rather than Ivan or Mr. Campbell. Referring to him by his title was not only too formal, but pretentious. There was one thing he knew he wasn’t, and that was pretentious.

      He’d decided to become a psychologist, not to help people deal with their psychological or emotional problems, but to find out who Ivan Garner Campbell actually was, how to come to grips with his childhood. It’d taken years, but he’d accepted the advice he gave his patients: “Take control of your fears before they stop you from living your good life.”

      He’d set up a private practice, purchased a brownstone in the Harlem historic district and dated women who kept his interest for more than a few hours—all that attributed to him living his good life.

      Nayo Goddard felt as if she’d been holding her breath since Geoffrey Magnus opened the doors of the gallery for the caterer and his staff to set up for the opening of her extensive collection

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