Chapter 14

 “So, how’d it go?” Mira asked, smirking at the sullen look to Uncle Ian’s mouth.  She sprayed cleaner on the front windows where she had the perfect view of him and Ophelia talking in the bookstore across the street.  She saw everything and sympathized a little with a deaf person.  She heard none of the conversation, but she witnessed plenty of animation.  Namely Uncle Ian hauling Ophelia into his lap and sniffing her like a dog.  

“Fine,” he grunted.  “Joey likes her.”

 “Yeah, I saw,” she said, wiping down the windows with a paper towel and grinning at him because he had no idea how canine-ish he'd been acting just ten minutes ago.  “But?”

 “But nothing,” he replied in that surly voice of his when nothing goes his way.  “She turned me down again.”

 “I kind of figured, considering your bottom lip is sticking out far enough to trip over.”

 Uncle Ian sighed and grappled next to him for a chair.  Mira nudged him toward the nearest wooden, ladder-back.  “I really hate it when you move things around,” he grunted, lowering his body to the seat.

 “I moved nothing,” she retorted.  “Daddy did.  He closed up last night.  If you have a problem, go talk to him about it.  Now...back to Ophelia.  So, you're giving up?”

 “Hell, no, I'm not giving up,” he scoffed loudly, causing an elderly woman in the corner booth to glare at him.  “I'm just calling in reinforcements.”

 Mira's hand stilled on the window.  Streaks of cleaner dripped down to the window sill.  She turned to him.  “Oh, no, no, no.  I lied.  I'm not getting involved any more.  I did my part.  You've been introduced, and I think that you've met your match with Ophelia.  You're on your own, buddy.”

 “I just want you to do what you do best,” he said, grinning wickedly at her.  She closed her eyes and took the bait. 

 “And what do I do best?”

 “Pester,” he said.

 “And I suppose you want me to pester Ophelia?”

 Uncle Ian leaned back in his seat.  “I just want you to go over and ask why she doesn't want to date me.  Point out some good things about me.  Make her so frustrated and flustered by you that she'll come crying to me when she gets fed up.  You know?  Pester.”

 She finished wiping the window before speaking.  Setting the spray bottle and paper towels on the nearest empty table, she sat across him and studied his face for a long time.  He was serious.  He really wanted to play upon that woman's emotions and weak points just to bulldoze her into another date.  Maybe he should read Portrait of a Lady.  How could he be so against his niece becoming a doormat when he acted just like Gilbert Osmond, a calculating man set on shaping the people around him into the persons he preferred?

 “Do you really think that will do any good?  She's got a temper.  She'll turn on you, sure as the sun sets every day.” 

 “Just do this for me,” he said with the perfect amount of pleading in his voice.  Mira snorted deep in her throat.  That pathetic bit was getting old.  Until recently, he would have died from shame before playing the helpless destitute.  Now, he pulled every string he had available just to get close to Ophelia.  Hmm, maybe he does like her.  However, this infatuation thing was getting a bit creepy. 

 “What's in it for me?” she asked, only curious to see what he'd offer.

 Uncle Ian sat up straighter, a shrewd interest crossing his countenance.  “What do you want?”

 Mira thought about that for a minute.  She could be petty and demand monetary compensation, but that really wasn't her style.  A brilliant idea popped into her head.  “Your first born.”

 A beat of silence stretched between them.  The old woman in the corner got very quiet all of a sudden, too.  Ultimately, Uncle Ian smiled and said, “I do hope you're kidding.”

 Mira smiled in return.  “It is part of what I do,” she explained.  “It goes with the pestering.”

 “So, you'll go talk to Ophelia?”

 Mira fanned back a piece of hair tickling her cheek.  “Yeah, of course, I will.  But if this goes sour, don't come whining to me.”

 He nodded once and then left the shop.  While she continued cleaning the remaining windows and wiping down the tables, Mira glanced out to scan the bookstore across the street.  There for a while, Ophelia talked to a guy until he left through the back of the bookstore.  He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place him. 

 After she refilled the condiment counter and swept the floor, she glanced over to Ophelia's, trying to figure out how to do Uncle Ian's bidding.  A glimmer from the apartment on the second level had her squinting to make out a faint shape of the same guy from earlier.  She frowned with preoccupation and pressed her nose to the glass for a better view.  The unknown man unwrapped something white from his naked waist and ruffled his hair with it.  Mira stepped back as she realized she was spying on someone emerging from the shower.  Tilting her head to the side, her lips tipped up in a small smile.  He's kind of cute.

 Her source of fascination disappeared from the window, and she turned her attention back to Ophelia on the lower floor.  Sometimes, simplicity was best.  A direct approach.  Something Uncle Ian should have done in the first place.

 *****

 Three hours later, Ophelia was nursing a headache and about to rub a hole in Lucky’s surface when Mira burst into the bookstore.  “What gives?” the young girl asked.

 “I’m sorry?”

 Mira bounced up to the counter and leaned over.  “How come you turned him down?  You did have fun last night, right?  Uncle Ian was a gentleman?  I know he was.  He’s incapable of being anything else.”

 “Maybe I’m not that interested,” she said.

 Mira snorted.  “Were you even looking at him?  I know he’s my uncle and all, but that man’s got it all.  He’s funny, and good-looking, and rich, and smart.  So, what’s the deal?  You got a thing for less attractive men?”

 “I’m not sure I should be discussing this with you,” Ophelia said, backing away into the display of bookmarks.

 “Why?  What’s wrong with me?”

 “You’re biased,” she pointed out.

 “Oh,” Mira said, and grinned.  “Okay.  I don’t know anyone named Ian Fisk.  Now talk to me.”

 “And I don’t know you,” Ophelia acknowledged.  “How do I know that anything I tell you won’t accidentally be spilled to the uncle you claim to not be acquainted with?”

 “You don’t,” she cheeked Ophelia with a smarty grin.  “You know he’s been bugging me all day.  I haven’t got a lick of work done.”

 “Join the club,” Ophelia moaned and pocketed her coin.

 Mira nodded, looking around the empty store.  “Yeah, I can see you’re loaded down with duties.”

 Ophelia blinked at her.  “Why are you in here?  Do you need another book?”

 “Book?  Why would I need a book?”

 “For your character study,” she answered.

 Mira gave her a sheepish, hooded gaze.  “Oh, that.  Right.  My character study.”

 Ophelia experienced a light bulb moment.  “You never had such an assignment, do you?” 

 “Not exactly,” Mira said slowly. 

 Ophelia’s head pounded.  “What’s going on?”

 “I’d figure that you would’ve guessed that by now.”

 “Enlighten me.”

 The younger girl pursed her lips.  Deciding quickly, she said, “Okay, here’s the scoop.  Uncle Ian passed you on the street about a week ago…”  Mira told the tale quickly and Ophelia blushed with uncontainable flattery.  Not that Ian had been truly stalking her as she previously presumed, but in effect, he’d been trying everything in his arsenal to ask her out.  And she kept turning him down.

 “So, you think I’m horrible for not wanted to date him, is that it?” Ophelia asked when Mira finally wound down to a full stop.

 “No,” Mira denied, shaking her head, “you’ve just been careful.  A strange man asked you out on a date.  I’d be a little wary, too.  But he really is sincere.  You just don’t know the kind of girlfriends he’s had in the past.  In a way, you’re completely different.  And I’m just glad he’s looking in another barrel.”

 “Great,” Ophelia moaned.  “I’m in that barrel.”

 “No,” Mira repeated, “You’re in The Barrel.  Uncle Ian finally came to his senses, and stopped looking for companionship in the slut bin.”

 “Thanks,” Ophelia said sarcastically.  After making amends with Noah, playing e-mail tag with one of her distributors, and listening to Tandy’s voice mail explanation as to why he/she would be late for his/her shift, the last thing she needed on her plate was Ian’s niece berating her for denying his advances.

 “So?  What are you gonna do?”

 Good question.  Nothing.  Ian was still off limits.  Ophelia was determined to not date for a while.  No more nice guys; no more guys period.  Frankly, because all those men that fit her criteria turn out to be boring, senseless imbeciles that don’t know the upside of a woman’s body from the inside.  Never mind the fact that Ian would never fit into her suburb, picket fence dream.  He just wasn’t part of her plan.  “I’ll have to think about it,” she lied.

 “Well, think faster.  He won’t stop.  Either you put your foot down now, and break his heart, or allow yourself to be seduced as you’ve never been before.”  With that, Mira left in a flurry.  Gracious, that family.  Ian’s niece just talked about him seducing someone.  Either the whole bunch was precocious and stubborn…or just plain crazy.  Where had all the normalcy in her life vanished off to?  And how could she get a one-way ticket back to it?

 Tandy arrived for his/her shift an hour late, and Ophelia was glad to submerse her troubles in the pile of paperwork on her desk for the rest of the afternoon.  Nevertheless, the office sanctuary soon became a way-station for the same bothersome people.

 Noah showed up, amazingly clean and normal-looking, his hair combed free of those god-awful, spider braids, and dumped three overstuffed canvas laundry bags at her feet.  She called a laundry service to pick them up and to return the clothes in a few days, since she didn’t have the energy or time to do the chore herself.  Tandy asked for an extended break at dinner time so he/she could stand in line for concert tickets.  And Mira came back…twice.  By the time she locked up, flipped the door sign over and set the alarm system, Ophelia’s head near about burst with frustration.

 The message on her answering machine at home didn’t help matters either.  “Phe-phe,” her father’s voice rang out, “where are you, baby girl?...”  Ophelia deleted the rest and went to bed early.

 *****

 Hefting the chunk of butternut onto his work table, Ian let his palms drift over the surface, feeling the rough bark and grain lines on the cut ends.  For a week, he’d been playing around with an idea for a new piece for his art exhibit.  He needed a collection of related pieces to finish the show, and inspiration hit him a few days ago while he was digging out some spare change for the cancer kid jar at the pet store.  Today, after six solid days of Ophelia avoiding him, he decided to actually try to get some work done.

 Of course, in those six days, Mira did her best to hark his good points, but so far Ophelia had resisted.  She was a stubborn lady, that was for sure.  He was amazed at how much he learned about her without being around her much at all.  Ophelia was stubborn, kind, intelligent, flustery, and intoxicating.  The perfect woman, right?  Ian groaned.  The perfect woman would realize when a man showed interest.  He stayed away from her bookstore, because he figured he'd give her some space, but every day, he died of dissatisfaction a little further. 

 He'd not been able to get much work finished, and with only three weeks until his spring exhibit, he needed to finish the last few pieces.  Yet, he'd been having trouble deciding what those sculptures should be.  So when his fingers felt the grooved edge of a quarter as he donated it to the charity jar, Ophelia’s features flashed in his mind and soared down to the nerve endings in his fingers.  Yes, he knew exactly what to carve.  Travis, his assistant and intern, stood off to the side, allowing Ian to survey the wood in his own way.

 “Whatcha thinking?” Travis asked.

 “I’ll need large coins for study,” Ian said over the rock music blaring out of the studio’s stereo.  “The bigger the better.  All with the busts of women.  And this,” he said, slapping the butternut, “I’ll need sliced.  Six to seven inches thick.  As many as you can get out of it.  For the main piece, I'll need you to order some Italian walnut from our supplier in Italy.  Get the biggest slab they can get to me in the next week.”

 “Sure thing, Ian,” Travis said.  The younger man got to work, and Ian moved over to the giant childlike mask he was carving for a software tycoon, whose wife was expecting their first child.  He preferred working on his own sculptures, but the specific ones ordered by wealthy people around the world paid his bills and added to his bank account, which was growing exponentially every day.

 While he gingerly rubbed the rough edges of the nearly finished project with fine sandpaper, his mind wondered back to Ophelia.  Mira had gone to see her several times and made no more progress.  Desperate, he sought out Tiki and caught up with her at an art opening downtown the previous night.  The second he stepped through the double glass doors of the gallery, Tiki’s voice and distinctive scent zeroed on him like a heat-seeking missile.

 He stumbled and picked his way through the crowd and asked, “What does she like?” without any greetings or pleasantries.  Tiki knew immediately who he was talking about.

 “Now, why would I tell you that?  Phe-phe’s on hiatus from men at the moment, and she wants nothing to do with you.”

 “Phe-phe?”  He almost smiled at the nickname.  Somehow, he couldn’t see Ophelia as the cute nickname type.

 “You got a problem with that?”

 “No.  I’ve just never heard it before,” he admitted.

 “And it’ll stay that way.  Ophelia told me herself that she doesn’t want to date you.  So, why can’t you get that through your thick skull?”  Tiki moved away, and Ian followed her.  She didn’t go far.  The room was jam packed with people, studiously admiring and critiquing the artwork around him.  Art he couldn’t see.  A fact that never ceased to rankle him.

 “Did I do something to you in another life?” he asked, curious about her animosity toward him.

 She huffed, a gust of turpentine-scented air smacking him in the face.  “Listen, I don’t know why you’re doing this.  Ophelia’s got it in her head that men aren’t worth the hassle.  And she thinks you are the same.  So, do us all a favor, and leave her alone.”

 He shook his head.  “I can’t do that.  I like her.”

 “So?  Go like someone else.  It shouldn’t be hard for someone like you.”

 “I don’t want anyone else,” he concurred.

 “Too bad,” she crooned and escaped again.  This time, Ian was unable to trail after her.  People suddenly surrounded him, asking him all sorts of questions, and one person, a news reporter from a local television station, commandeered his attention for the remaining hour.

 The squeal of a power saw jerked Ian back to the present.  Travis finished cutting the disks of butternut and called out, “Hey, Ian!  It’s lunchtime.  I’m heading over to Taste of Tokyo.  You want me to get you anything?”

 Ian pushed the button on the side of his watch.  “The time is…twelve, twenty-two,” a disembodied, male voice announced from the tiny speaker.  What time did Ophelia close shop for her lunch hour?  Twelve o’clock, or one?

 “Nah,” he said to Travis.  “I’m going out for the rest of the day.  Stop by the bank on your way back and get those coins.  Then take the afternoon off.”

 “Hey, thanks, man,” Travis said.  “It’s Shelly’s birthday.  Don’t wanna miss that!”

 Ian felt vaguely alone as his assistant left the studio.  Travis was barely nineteen, but a hard worker.  And the fact that he was already engaged to the woman of his dreams only increased Ian’s view of his own bleak status.  There was a woman out there.  If only, he could get her to see reason.