She reached for the faded golden doorknob of the café. As soon as she opened it, a pleasant French accordion tune greeted her. Despite the butterflies in her tummy, a whiff of chocolate chip cookies made her mouth water as she passed the to-go cashier. As a marketing ploy, it happened to be placed next to the pastry display. The cashier also served as a baker; a round middle-aged woman, she wore her hair pulled up in a white chef’s hat, and her purple apron advertised the café’s logo. She smiled at Janelle then turned to close the oven on the wall behind her where the chocolate-chip smell emanated from.

“Hi, welcome to Rosalie’s! Are you dining alone today?” a cheery, skinny girl asked Janelle. She wore all black and didn’t look old enough to work. “Or will you be meeting someone?”

“I’m meeting someone,” she said, putting her friendly face on.

“Sure!” She handed Janelle a menu. “Go right in!”

“Thank you.”

The music was quieter the further she went in, the din of diners drowning it out. The place was packed. She scanned the eclectic mix of booths and tables upholstered in pale pink. Vines trailed down from potted plants placed on wooden wall shelves. The letter had said the associate would be sitting near a window and would bring a long-stemmed rose. Janelle suddenly felt as if she were on a blind date.

Luckily there were only four window tables, so that narrowed it down. Two of the tables had couples seated at them, so that marked two off the list. At one, an old, heavily bearded man sat reading a newspaper, but not The Dallas Enquirer; darn the luck. She looked there but didn’t see a rose. That left one table, the one where the tall, attractive woman in the long-sleeved, black dress sat with her back against the far brick wall.

Black horn-rimmed glasses sat atop a straight-edged nose. Her dark auburn hair, clipped into a flawless bob with blunt bangs, had a purple sheen. The tips brushed against her heart-shaped face just in between her cheeks and her jaw. She seemed absorbed in a copy of The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. Janelle envied anyone who actually had leisure time to read. She missed getting lost in a work of fiction, especially the classics.

The rose lying above the woman’s face-down menu was long-stemmed, so long that the edge of its deep red petals draped off the side of the pink tablecloth. Janelle approached the table. The woman’s blue-green eyes, lined in dark brown with catlike tips, peered up over her glasses. She smiled and put the book down.

“Janelle?” she asked. Her voice was husky in that sexy way that made men weak at the knees.

“Associate?” Janelle replied playfully.

“Trixibelle Evans.” She started to stand up, but Janelle held up her hand.

“You don’t have to get up,” she said, pulling out the rustic wooden chair with a pale green cushion. “You look comfortable.”

“Very well,” Trixibelle said, giving her the once-over with those catlike eyes. “And you can call me Trixi.”

She reached out a lithe arm, her manicured nails painted the same blood red as her lips. A current of adrenaline rushed through Janelle as she took the woman’s hand. Trixi examined her as if she were looking at art instead of someone meeting her for lunch. Her eyes twinkled in a charismatic manner that made Janelle think of fairies. Charmed and a little embarrassed that she’d think of this stranger in a fantasy setting, she abruptly broke the connection and reached for the safety of her menu.

“Very nice to meet you,” Janelle said.

“And you also!”

“So I’m just gonna go ahead and ask something because I’ve been dying of curiosity about this,” Janelle said.

“Shoot.” She smiled.

“Okay. So I have to know why Edgar only responds to hand-written letters of interest.”

Trixi took a sip of her iced tea. “Eddie has many quirks.”

Janelle made a mental note of the pet name Trixi used. She and Edgar had to be close. Either that or it was a nickname that his close circle used.

“He likes encouraging a more personal sort of contact,” Trixi said.

“I can appreciate that.”

In another life, Janelle had loved sending and receiving hand-written letters. She’d held onto whole boxes full for years and years until finally getting rid of them when she’d gotten her job at The Enquirer and had gone on a mission to de-clutter her apartment of the old to make way for the new. There were times when she regretted getting rid of some of those memories, but there were also memories she’d been only too happy to rip up.

Their waitress stopped by the table, the same young woman who had greeted her upon her entrance. She hadn’t had time to decide what she wanted, so she let Trixi order a soup of the day and salad first, and then she told the waitress that she’d have the same.

As if they hadn’t been interrupted, Trixi continued, “Edgar also likes seeing his applicants’ handwriting. He’s an amazing reader of people.” Her voice took on a dreamy tone. “But you probably could already tell that from his portraits.”

Janelle didn’t want to admit that she hadn’t actually seen any of his infamous portraits, which were currently all the rage in art circles. But she’d done her research and had read plenty about them and their cult following. Since Edgar didn’t allow photos of his work to be posted online, and it had been ages since she’d been to a museum, she had no mental image of his work to link with the man. Except for one piece…

Ages ago, in another life it seemed, she had seen a sculpture of Edgar’s at the MoMA in San Francisco. It was a life-size white unicorn in mid-run. The sculpture had given her chills, as when she’d first spotted it in her peripheral vision, she’d mistaken it for a real animal. For years afterward, she’d dreamed that the unicorn had come to life and was running through a misty forest. For a reason she never could explain, that dream always made her wake up with tears in her eyes. Eventually she’d stopped dreaming about it. But she’d never forgotten it.

“I imagine he is a great reader of people,” she said.

“He has an uncanny ability, really. You’ll see. And the other reason he does the hand-written letters is he doesn’t much care for technology. I keep telling him that emails are quicker and more efficient, but he won’t listen. He also hates cell phones. All phones, really. I’ve never seen him make or take a call.”

Janelle laughed. “If I didn’t have email or my cell phone, I’d feel like I’d lost an appendage.”

Trixi looked out the window. She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows.

“You know, that’s funny you say that.” She met Janelle’s stare. “He doesn’t allow his guests to use the Internet or cell phones when they’re there.”

The smile fell from Janelle’s face. “You’re kidding.”

“Afraid not. It’s all in here, actually.” She reached under the table and pulled out a manila envelope, which she then handed to Janelle. “The terms. He’s selected you out of thousands. He really fell in love with that photograph you sent, and he’s spent hours reading and re-reading your letters.”

That was slightly creepy, but the man was an artist. Artists were entitled to be weird. So he’d picked her out of thousands? This whole thing was feeling more and more like destiny, as stupid as the concept of that was.

“Maybe we could negotiate about the cell phones and Internet. From our correspondence, I understand he’d want me to stay a minimum of six weeks and possibly longer. I could leave if there was an emergency, but preferably he wants me to stay that entire time. Correct?”

“That is correct.”

“That’s a long time. I don’t know if my editor-in-chief would be too thrilled if I couldn’t do some work remotely.”

“I do understand. And you could try to talk to Eddie. But I will warn you, he is fairly stubborn.” She tilted her head to the side. “Then again, he’s aware that you’re a journalist, and he still wants you to come.”

“What, does he have something against journalists?”

“He doesn’t much care for them. That’s all I know.”

The waitress arrived with their food. Trixi happily dived in, but Janelle’s mind was spinning with this new development. Edgar didn’t like journalists. He allowed no Internet and no cell phones at his mansion. She felt physically ill at the thought. Surely Edgar could be persuaded to let her use the technology if it were for work purposes.

“So,” Janelle began, “how do you know him?”

“We’ve been friends for a number of years.” The slight smile on her lips only had Janelle even more curious. “I actually live in L.A. But I come stay with him at the Art House several times a year, to get away from the city. If my husband wasn’t such a California boy, I’d insist we move out here.”

“Interesting. Your husband doesn’t come with you on these trips?”

“Nope. Anyway,” Trixi said, “when you finish reading the terms, and if you’re okay with them, write me another letter with the date you can come. I’ll arrange for someone to pick you up and bring you out. You and Edgar will sign the official contract once you’re there, along with a notary, which I happen to be.”

Janelle cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps we’ll wait to sign until there are some negotiations first?”

Trixi flashed a conspiratorial grin. “Perhaps. I won’t mention anything to him about amending it. I’ll let you broach that topic.”

“Fair enough.”

They finished lunch making small talk about the local happenings of the weekend. Janelle knew plenty about the events planned to occur, though she wasn’t likely to attend any of them unless she was needed for a story. As it turned out, she and Trixi had a fair amount of things in common. They loved watching documentaries, they enjoyed reading, they liked both classic rock and classical music—especially piano, and they had a special place in their hearts for chocolate. To close out their meeting, as if they’d known each other for a lot longer than an hour, they split a piece of cake. As Trixi carefully cut it down the middle, Janelle mused on how oddly comfortable she felt around this woman. After dessert, Trixi leaned back, the fairy sparkle back in her eyes. She seemed almost ageless when she got that look, as if she were a young girl keeping a delightful secret. The energy of it was contagious.

“You have fantastic cheekbones,” she suddenly said.

Cheekbones?

“Oh?” Janelle smiled, a bit stunned by the comment. “Thanks. I think there’s some Cherokee blood in the timeline somewhere.”

“I can tell. And I love your hair color. You’re a natural redhead, aren’t you?”

“Was it my vampire-white skin that gave it away or my freckles?”

“Lovely pale skin. But the shade of red looks too natural, the way it’s highlighted with gold. I’ve been trying to achieve that look for years and have never come close.”

“Oh, yeah? I guess when you live with it, it doesn’t seem that exciting.”

“I’m actually a natural blonde, or some dull shade of it, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen my natural hair color I’ve forgotten exactly what it looks like.”

“Hah, yeah.”

“Hmm. What size are you?”

She blinked. “Wait, what? What size am I? Like clothes?”

“Yep.”

“That’s a strange question.”

“I’m a little strange,” she said. “People can be that way, according to the late, great Jim Morrison.”

Janelle chuckled, appreciating the song reference. “I’m a size eight. Shoes and clothes. Why?”

“Oh, just wondering.” She gave a playful shrug.

After the waitress brought the check, Trixi took it and fished some cash out of her compact black purse.

“The meal’s on Edgar,” she said.

“Oh, well, thanks, Edgar,” Janelle replied, though her opinion of the man was rapidly declining.

She imagined the Mt. Everest of emails, calls, and texts that would be waiting for her if she ditched her phone and Internet for six weeks. The idea was so ludicrous it made her want to crack up laughing. She just couldn’t get over it.

Then Trixi suddenly asked, “Do you have any tattoos, Janelle?”

“What?” She wasn’t sure if she’d heard this clean-cut, conservative beauty correctly. “Did you ask if I had any tattoos?”

“Yes.”

“Um, no. No, I don’t.”

“Ever wanted to get one?”

“No. Why?”

“Pity.” She brought up a finger and tapped it against her lip. “So is there any boyfriend you’ll be missing if indeed you do come out and stay at the Art House?”

She immediately thought of Carlos, which fueled her with annoyance. “No.”

Trixi’s eyelids lowered to half mast, and she placed her pointer finger on her full lower lip. “A girlfriend then?”

It was the way she said it. She was flirting. Janelle reached for her iced tea to hide the blush she felt rushing to her cheeks.
Lowering the glass, she said, “No.”

When Trixi broke out into a sensual little laugh, Janelle didn’t know whether to get up and leave or straight-up ask the woman if she was hitting on her. She chose neither, responding with stunned silence.

“Oh, Janelle,” Trixi said, still giggling, “Eddie is going to have so much fun with you.” She stood and slid the slender rope of her purse’s strap over her shoulder then picked up her book. “Talk soon.”

As she walked away from the table, Janelle sat staring at the long-stemmed rose that had remained in between them for the duration of their meeting. She blinked, hoping she hadn’t gotten herself into something too unpredictable to handle. Suddenly realizing she hadn’t asked one of the key questions she’d come in here with: why had Edgar chosen her to be his model when she’d never modeled before in her life? She picked up the rose, stood, and turned to try and grab Trixi’s attention before she left.

What she saw nearly knocked her back into her seat. What appeared to be a conservative dress was actually completely backless and so short that it was a wonder it completely covered the trim curves of Trixi’s bottom. But it wasn’t the dress that was the real shocker. It was the elaborate art tattooed across the woman’s back.

It was as if someone had taken an amazing picture with an expensive camera and developed it on her skin. The work was exquisite. Set amid a backdrop of emerald green foliage, the maple tree’s gnarled dark trunk and branches looked as if they would be rough to the touch. And those leaves. Those brilliant autumn leaves all aflame.

“Trixi?” she said, her voice so quiet she didn’t know how the woman heard her.

Trixi turned around. “Yes?”

It wasn’t the question she was originally going to ask, but it came out just the same, “Who did the tattoo?”

“My husband.” She proudly lifted her chin. “You should see the one I did on him.”

“Is it a tree, too?”

“A star nebula.”

Janelle fingered the rose in her hands, wondering how far down Trixi’s tattoo went and if she had more on her covered arms.
“Wow.”

“Anything else?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Have a good day. It was nice meeting you.”

Trixi blew her a kiss and darted out of the café, her mile-long legs having no apparent trouble as she walked away in dainty black stilettos.