Crimson Footprints (28 page)

Deena stood and made her way
over to the dry erase board. And with her back to the investors and
tears pooling in her eyes, she began to write line-by-line the
expenditures of a $350 million dollar project. And when Steve
Young, the project manager, arrived twenty minutes later, she would
be forced to start the presentation from scratch.

Three hours after a meeting
that should have taken one, Deena sat at her desk staring at the
caller I.D. It was her grandmother.

She greeted her as she
dabbed her eyes with Kleenex.

“
Don’t you ‘hi Grandma me.’
Where you been? You was supposed to be at your granddaddy service
the other day!”

Deena sighed. “Can we talk
about this another time? I’m at work and swamped and very
stressed.”

“
No, we can talks about it
now. You always at work, always swamped, always stressed. And since
we talking about work, when you gone get back on that fellowship
hall?”

“
I already told you; I
don’t have time for the fellowship hall.”

“
And I already told you
that you ain’t gone shame me. Now where you been? I called your
house the other night and ain’t gets no answer. Now where you
spending your nights?”

“
I’m at home every night.
I—I was probably just asleep.”

“
Mhm. Sleep where is the
question. When you was supposed to be at your grandpa service you
was sleep den, too, I reckon.”

“
I just…forgot,
Grandma.”

“
Forgot! After all that man
done did for you? Supporting you all them years? I reckon you gone
do me da same way when I’m dead and gone.”

Deena traced a finger along
a shiny paper clip. She marveled at how small and slight, how
tightly wound, that piece of wire was. Like her. “I have to go,
Grandma.”

“
Go? Your grandfather was
just likes a father to you. Better than a father cause he wasn’t
your father yet he treats you like he was. He was a good man and he
done right by you. And you, well you just a ungrateful
little—”

Deena slammed the phone into
its cradle. She wouldn’t take another word of how her grandfather
had been the father she never had. Not another goddamned
word.

CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE

“
Dee, baby, I’ve got
awesome news. Guess whose upcoming gallery showing is being
featured in The Herald
?
”

Tak switched the sleek black
phone from the left to the right ear, a piece of charcoal for
sketching in his hand. He frowned slightly at the canvas before
him.

His excited declaration was
met with sniffles.

“
Baby? Baby, what’s
wrong?”

“
Nothing,” Deena said.
“
The Herald
is—is
wonderful news. And you work so hard. You deserve the
recognition.”

“
Yeah, but why are you
crying?”

“
I’m fine, Tak. Just…having
a rotten day. A really rotten day.”

Tak stepped back from the
rough sketch of Miami’s skyline and frowned. There was a
discrepancy between the buildings and its reflection in the bay. It
needed a do-over.

“
I’m listening,” he
said

“
I just—I just fired like
two hundred people and the investors are angry at me and—and Sam
and Donald called me a whore and—”

He dropped his charcoal.
“What?”

“
I said that I
fired—”

He shook his head. He didn’t
know how Deena could fire anyone or who in the hell Sam and Donald
were, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t know shortly.

“
Hey, hold on., You’re at
work, right? I’m coming to you.”

He hung up before she could
protest, grabbed the keys to his Ferrari and made tracks for The
Tanaka Firm.

Tak popped the top on a Bud
Light and handed it to Deena before returning to the cooler to get
another for himself. She took it with a grateful sigh. They sat in
silence with the hot sand beneath them and the cool and glistening
waves before them. On the horizon, the sea and sky were a seamless
and perfect blue, indistinguishable in the distance.

Tak waited for her to finish
her beer and then spoke. “So, how are you feeling?”

Deena shrugged and
eventually gave a deep inhale.

“
A little better. The view
is nice. The company nicer.”

“
That’s good. So who was it
again that called you a whore?” he said impatiently.

“
What?”

“
You said on the phone that
someone called you a whore. Who was it?”

“
Oh. That. Just these guys
at the firm. Sam and Donald.”

“
Well, do Sam and Donald
have last names?”

“
Tak, there’s no
reason—”

“
Last names,
Dee.”

She shot him a pained
expression. “Sam Michaels and Donald Mason.”

“
Michaels. Mason. Got
it.”

“
Tak, what are going to do?
Are you going to get them fired?”

He would’ve preferred
feeding them his fists, but yes, fired would have to do.

“
Nothing. I’m not going to
do anything,” he lied. “Here’s an idea. How about we just enjoy the
breeze and try to forget about this day?” He stretched out on his
back, hands behind his head, his face being warmed by the
heavens.

“
Oh. Let me say this first.
Then we forget. A couple things. I talk; you listen.” When she
nodded, he proceeded.

Tak held up a finger. “One,
you’re not responsible for all those layoffs.”

“
But—”

“
Let’s review the rules. I
talk; you listen.”

Deena sighed.

“
Second,” another finger
joined the first. “You’re not an intern, but an architect. A
brilliant one, with more talent than my father even.”

“
Tak, your
father—”

“
What amazes me is that
despite your brilliance, you’re having trouble with these simple
rules. I talk. You listen.” He shot her a look of impatience. She
met it with stony silence.

“
Three. You don’t owe
anyone anything, not even your grandparents. And four, you’re not a
whore.”

He sat up. “Look at
me.”

“
I am looking at
you.”

“
No. Really look at me.” He
beckoned her with a single finger. When she leaned in, he cradled
her face with both hands. “You’re not a whore. You’re not a whore.
And you’re not a whore.”

He smiled at the glisten in
her eyes. “Now, you tell me.”

Deena took a deep breath.
“I’m not a whore.”

“
And you’re everything a
man would want.”

She blushed.

“
Say it.”

“
And—and I’m everything a
man would want.”

He lay back down and
returned his gaze to the sky.

“
What is it that you want,
Dee?”

“
Want?”

“
Yeah. ‘ Want.’ Is it your
family’s acceptance or their love that you want?”

She hesitated. “Their love,
I guess.”

“
And if you never get it?
Could you be happy?”

“
Could anyone?” she asked
in disbelief.

Tak sat up. “Did it ever
occur to you that might find the very thing you want somewhere
else?”

“
I don’t know what you
mean.”

“
I mean with me, Dee. With
my family. This thing that you think is beyond your reach—well,
maybe it isn’t. Maybe you’re just looking at wrong.”

She blinked profusely,
cheeks tinged with red.

“
If this is a marriage
proposal, Tak, it’s a pretty shitty one,” she said finally,
smiling.

Tak grinned. “Duly noted.
Work on presentation skills before proposal.”

Deena rolled her
eyes.

“
Tak, please, this is all
talk. Your father doesn’t even know about us.”

“
We could tell
him.”

“
I can’t tell him. You said
he would hate it. And I can’t have him hating me when, for the
first time in my life…” Deena trailed off, head shaking, bursting
with words she couldn’t bring herself to say.

“
For the first time in your
life, what?” Tak said carefully.

“
It’s just that everything
in my life is a fight. Work, family. Being with you is the only
time I get to just be. Don’t take that from me. Not
yet.”

Tak exhaled in
defeat.

“
O.k.,” he said.
“Alright.”

CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO

For Deena’s first gallery
showing, she was nervous, even more so than Tak. A write-up
in
The Herald
meant the possibility of a huge turnout. Any sort of buzz for
an artist was good, but she knew Tak’s art had undergone a drastic
departure and worried that attendees might resent the lack of
nefarious underpinnings he’d come to be known for. His art these
days was decidedly more self-indulgent.

Tak and Deena arrived at
Frankfurt P’s Art Gallery at 6:30, some thirty minutes before the
opening reception for the private exhibition. The single double
doors on an assuming stretch of sidewalk gave no hint of the
gallery’s enormity. Maple hardwood floors, ecru walls, and cream
paneled cathedral ceilings combined to give the room an understated
elegance. Each of Tak’s paintings were mounted on a stretch of wall
or a fit of easel and made prominent with an unassuming
spotlight.

Once introduced to Deena,
the gallery’s owner, Tate Hutchinson, chatted idly with Tak about
the buzz his opening night had generated. Hutchinson was a
fifty-something-year-old with the purchased body of a man half his
age and the annoying habit of wearing shades indoors.

“
Jana and I are expecting
an awesome turn out,” Tate said to Deena, a glass of red wine in
hand. Jana was his wife.

“
This guy’s a rising star.
Soon he’ll be bailing on Frankfurt P’s for the grandeur of Paris.”
Hutchinson rolled his eyes in exaggerated fashion. “As it is, I’ve
already got to share him with those bozos in Manhattan.”

With a grin, Tate slapped
Tak’s back good-naturedly.

Boredom plain on his face,
Tak turned from Tate to Deena. His gaze traveled the length of her
discreetly. She wore a simple cream dress, the neck of which
plunged to reveal just a hint of cleavage. A thin strand of
shimmering pearls and sleek cream pumps completed the ensemble.
Deena smiled at the furtive attention.

“
Let me get you some wine.”
Tak took her hand and led her to a broad banquet table covered with
cream cloth.

“
You look delicious,” Tak
murmured.

Deena blushed.
“Delicious?”

Tak paused to open a bottle
of merlot and pour her a glass. He handed it to her with a smile.
“Delicious,” he reiterated. “Appetizing. Mouthwatering.
Succulent.”

The doors opened and a
cluster of five entered.

“
Game time,” he said. He
gave her a hurried kiss, threw back the merlot he knew she wouldn’t
drink, and disappeared towards the crowd.

As the gallery erupted with
life, quickly, Deena lost Tak to the crowd. He moved from group to
group, working the room like a silver-spooned socialite, clearly in
his element among the people. He had the talent of his father and
the social graces of a debutante. People were drawn to him, wanted
to hear what he thought, what influenced him, what made him. He
took their compliments with a gracious smile and a humble word,
made them laugh with effortless quips and always, always thanked
them for their interest.

For Deena, the whole picture
that was Takumi Tanaka always amazed her. His art always amazed
her. There were times when he created things that gave her emotions
she couldn’t articulate. She would want to reach out and touch his
work, was compelled to do so, but knew she couldn’t. It was the
same with these people. They stared at his creations, lifted hands
to touch them, hands that waivered with both want and knowledge
that they could go no further. His art moved people, inspired joy
or sorrow, hope or hopelessness, with an ease that had no
equivalent. Deena knew that one day his fame would come from this
very thing.

She moved from painting to
painting scrutinizing each with a laymen’s eye. A seaside village
in blinding shades of amber and sage. A glistening pool of
turquoise in an otherwise barren desert. A man and woman locked in
naked embrace and near-blotted from view. There were names for
each, like Serenity, Respite, Rhapsody. They were in keeping with
the emotions they invoked.

Deena continued in this
fashion, giving each painting careful attention before stopping at
a crush of attendees gathered around a single large canvas. Off to
the side Tak and Hutchinson busied themselves in muffled
disagreement.