Detox

Chapter 07: Fernando

You are the candle, love's the flame
A fire that burns through wind and rain
Shine your light on this heart of mine
Till the end of time
You came to me like the dawn through the night
Just shinin' like the sun
Out of my dreams and into my life
You are the one, you are the one

Los Angeles
August, 1998

It was a strange request all things considered.

Well maybe ‘strange’ was too strong a word to use, but it was curious either way. All the cryptic message had said was to meet his boss at a particular airport hangar in Santa Monica before ten a.m, which would explain why he was currently loading up his precious (and once discarded) sketchbooks, several portfolios filled with his photographs (of the non-paparazzo kind) and other tools of his trade, into the large carryall bag.

His guess was that Michael wanted to appraise his work again, or perhaps (if he was lucky) show off his portfolio to another famous photographer; maybe Annie Lebowitz or Sylvia Plachy. Fat chance though, and goodness knows he wasn’t holding his breath for that miracle to happen anytime soon. He might be working with a few more A-List celebrities these days, but his ultimate dream of being regarded as a legitimate photo-artist; one whose works would grace the halls of a museum or some prestigious gallery in SoHo, would just have to wait until he was able to be taken a little more seriously.

Until then, he would take his talents to where he was needed, and on this beautiful Saturday morning, it involved him having to drive all the way to some location that took some time to find.

Pulling up to the gates at around 9:45 (there was only one security guard on duty who had actually been dozing off when he arrived), he was taken aback at how desolate the place looked; save for a few abandoned cargo trucks, about three cars, and a lone jet (which he was quick to recognize as Michael’s Cessna 525), the airport looked like something out of a Stephen King novel. It was eerily quiet…well except for the faint sound of something drilling somewhere…

“Yo, Fernando!” came the loud hail from behind; forcing him to turn around quickly to notice Larry, one of Michael’s personal bodyguards, strolling up in casual wear. ‘Casual’ because Larry was prone to dressing in suits about 80% of the time and could present as an intimidating figure at first glance. Today, however, he was in a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, munching on what looked like a sandwich with a bottle of water in the other hand. The man was as relaxed as Fernando had ever seen him, and for some reason, this eased the tension he was beginning to feel from the bleak surroundings.

“Good morning,” Fernando greeted with a smile as the big guy approached. “What’s happening, man?”

Larry stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, dusted his hand on the seat of his pants before reaching out to pump the photographer’s hand in a firm shake.

“Nothing much, brother. Nothing much,” Larry boomed cheerfully. “He’s waiting for you in hangar number two just around the corner there. Bill’s by the door of the hangar. He’ll show you around.”

Thanking Larry for his help, Fernando shouldered his carryall, slipped on a pair of sunglasses (sun was already blazing down with a vengeance) and began the walk to his destination. There were three other hangars in the massive lot, though there were closed at this time. Hangar #2 was where the drilling noise was coming from, and as Fernando approached, he could make out the familiar slightly hunched figure of Bill, standing beside the hangar’s side doors, while engaged in conversation with a man he did not recognize.

It wasn’t until he was about two feet away, did the tall, lanky, long-haired man, who was dressed in a bright Hawaiian shirt and a pair of Bermuda shorts, finally click into place.

Are you fucking kidding me?!

He was the artist Brett-Livingstone Strong, and though Fernando wouldn’t consider himself that fantastic with the craft of painting or sculpting, this guy was one of the many considered as ‘renaissance men’ and several lectures about his works had been taught during his college days. The man was a living legend!

So what the hell was he doing in an abandoned airport?

“Hi,” he greeted as the two men stopped talking long enough to acknowledge his presence. Hoping he didn’t sound too awe-struck (Brett’s sharp gaze seemed to sear right through his soul); Fernando tried to muster a friendly smile. “I’m Fernando Gonzales. Michael said I was to meet him here.”

“Ah, the budding photographer extraordinaire,” Brett replied with a wry smile. He held out a hand, which Fernando accepted and shook. He wasn’t surprised to find the grip strong and sure; the hand of a man who had created such magnificent works of art over the years. “Brett Livingstone.”

“I know,” Fernando replied with a soft laugh of embarrassment as Brett chuckled. “I’ve studied some of your works.”

“Then we can learn from each other, can’t we? I am terrible at photography…for the most part.” He turned to Bill. “We take our leave, good sir.”

Bill tipped an imaginary hat in farewell, while giving a nod to Fernando as well. He stepped aside from the door, allowing the two men to walk into the cool building (a more than welcome reprieve from the heat).

“Watch your step now,” Brett was saying as they stepped over several wires. “It’s a mad house in here…”

Hooooly…shit.

Mad house? More like an artist’s haven!

Fernando could not believe his eyes. In fact, he was sure he actually had to take off his sunglasses to rub them just to be sure he wasn’t seeing things.

The hangar alone – compared to the other three – was relatively small, but it was what was within that was awe-inspiring. Piles of canvases were stacked up and against the walls; some with finished artwork (sketches, paintings, watercolors, and mixed media) and others that looked as if they were never going to be finished. Many were already in elaborate gilded frames, giving one the illusion that they were ready for gallery display. In the midst of this were random sculptures; some bronzed bust figures of Michael, some casts and unfinished molds of the artist, and other studies (a girl praying, a boy hunched in a corner, a pot, a flower, and what looked like a glove).

The drilling noise was coming from some guy in a paint-stained apron and a face hat who was trying to shave off a piece of what looked like a sculpture of a woman, and Fernando assumed he was probably Brett’s assistant/apprentice.

He wandered around the long tables (stained with years of accumulated paints, inks, pencil marks, you name it) laden with rolls of papers of all textures and sizes, palettes, paint cans, brushes, stencils, and even some art history books or tutorials – like a man in a daze. His fingertips traced the outline of each art medium, as if hoping to memorize them. He had only taken one semester of Fine Art in college, since his calling was photography after all, but he could still appreciate the beauty in the randomness and organized chaos around him. It was not incomparable to his dark room when he was developing his photos.

“Wow,” he breathed, as he came to a stop before an unfinished sketch of a mother and baby. Propped on an easel, the roughly 36x48 image was the beginnings of a long-haired brunette who was half-turned to reveal just the side of her face. The lines of her back were still in the rough stages, but it was clear that the artist was planning on making this a nude, as he had stopped just at the small of her back. Her arms were encircled around the most adorable rough sketch of a baby he had ever seen. Said baby’s head was resting on the mother’s shoulder; his or her fingers stuck into a pouting mouth with eyes that were wide and innocent. The mother had her gaze on the baby, and it was an expression filled with such love, devotion, and peace that it tugged hard at Fernando’s heart.

In fact, staring harder at the sketch, it was easy enough to see that whoever was responsible for this, knew this mother and child intimately. Each stroke was done with a tenderness and care that came with familiarity. How else could one explain the artist’s ability to capture the subtle flow of the woman’s hair; that despite it just being pencil and paper, the vitality of each strand made it seem so life-like? How else could one explain the artist’s ability to capture the woman’s half-lidded look, the soft, knowing smile, and the strength in those slender arms?

This definitely wasn’t Brett Livingstone’s doing. There was no way that man was able to capture something this vulnerable and intense; no matter how talented he was. So if it wasn’t Brett responsible for this…then who was…?

“Incredible, isn’t it?” came the voice that had him nearly jumping out of his skin in shock. He had been so lost in his thoughts, even the damn noise from the drill (which was mercifully quiet now) hadn’t broken through his concentration.

Brett was standing beside him; arms behind his back as he too appraised the sketch.

“Ye…yes,” Fernando finally managed to mutter through lips that felt parched. He licked them and tried to ask who was responsible for this, but somehow…he was slowly beginning to put two and two together.

It all made sense now (as his gaze darted to some of the other art work). The Disney characters, the self-portraits, the somewhat random images of chairs, keys, gates…when you really thought about it, they all came down to one person.

Michael.

“I don’t...I don’t believe it,” he mumbled as he allowed his carryall to drop from his shoulders to the cluttered floor. “He…he…”

“Yes, he,” Brett finished with a smile. “He had to use the rest…ah, there’s the man of the hour himself!”

Fernando – who hadn’t seen Michael in about six months due to his new working schedule – found himself straightening up as if about to meet his professor. He wasn’t sure of what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t his boss looking somewhat sheepish, while dressed in something as mundane as an old pair of jeans (with some paint stains and soot from probably charcoal) and an un-tucked oversized khaki long-sleeved shirt (that was clearly moonlighting as a protective apron). His hair was held back from his face in a rough ponytail, and there was no fedora to shield him…or surgical mask for that matter. Save for the slight flush of color on his pale cheeks, Michael seemed relaxed and…dare he say…’free’ from the clutter that seemed to surround him whenever he was with his usual entourage.

“Glad you could make it,” Michael was saying as he reached out to shake Fernando’s hand. His color deepened as he realized the men were examining his latest effort, and trying not to show his discomfort, he moved to stand before it, muttering something about it “not quite looking right just yet” and flipping several other pages to cover it.

“The man doth protest too much,” Brett said with a laugh. “He never thinks anything he does is fine, and you know what’s even more annoying? He never went to school for this either. All self-taught. Talk about a fucking genius. Makes me want to throttle him when he becomes too critical.”

“Brett,” Michael whined; now doing a good impression of a tomato as he fussed with the can of pencils next to the easel. “Don’t tease like so. You know you’re the best. I’m just a novice compared to you.”

Self-taught?! Fernando’s jaw must have dropped about a mile long. He couldn’t comprehend it. How was it possible? It wasn’t good enough that he could sing, dance, and entertain the pants off people, but to be able to create all this without spending hours under tutelage…sometimes he swore that God just knew how to stack the deck when it came to some people.

“…now him,” Michael was saying as he suddenly pat Fernando’s shoulder and pushed him forward a little as if hoping Brett would recognize him all over again. “You should see his photography. He is so talented, he makes me sick to think of how he wasted his life working as a member of the paparazzi.”

“Oh?” Brett raised a brow as Fernando blushed in embarrassment. “Well, let’s see it then. Michael’s been bragging about you so much, it’s sickening.”

“I’m not that good,” Fernando began in a stutter, but Michael silenced him by stooping to his haunches to reach for the carryall.

“Don’t sell yourself short. Didn’t I tell you that?” Long, lean fingers were already unzipping the bag before Fernando could stop him, and before long, Brett was flipping through the pages of his portfolio, while he and Michael waited with bated breath for his verdict.

“Well?” Michael insisted when Brett said nothing as he came to a photograph of the woman in the train. “What did I tell you? The man can see things through his camera. His storytelling ability with the lens is fantastic. When I saw those, I knew I had to use him for the tour.”

“Impressive,” Brett muttered. “Very impressive…and you were a paparazzo you said? I know of a few paps that made some money off their celebrity shots. Candid images of them at their worst. That could be a hit.”

Michael made a face as if trying hard to swallow something disgusting, and Fernando knew this was dangerous territory considering his boss’s brush-ins with said media hounds and…well…his antics when it came to his wife.

“I’m not doing that anymore,” he said aloud and with emphasis so Brett wouldn’t get the wrong idea. “I now do professional shoots for some movie stars and music artists.”

“The reason I wanted him here is to show you his work and how he can help with the project,” Michael interjected when it seemed like Brett was about to go off track with the scandalous photo schtick.

“What project?” Fernando asked quickly; his curiosity piqued at the notion of starting something new.

“Come this way,” was all that was said, as Brett led the way to a section of the hangar, where an unfinished gothic structure stood with a steel frame outline of someone singing in the middle of it. His guess – from the pose – was that it was going to be Michael. He explained (with Michael chipping in every now and then) that it was supposed to be a monument of sorts – not a place of fan adulation or worship, but rather a place where fans could go to have weddings or celebrate special moments with his music playing in the background – just a place for families to come together. It was supposed to be a spiritual experience of sorts…if all came together as planned.

“We need more photographs of gothic architecture and structure,” Michael explained as his fingertips danced across the edge of a jagged precipice of what could be the roof of the sculpture. “And short of sending you to Europe for a week or so, we figured you could start off somewhere close by.”

“Close…?”

“Los Angeles has some gothic architecture, but not enough,” Brett stated with a nod. “Michael believes you should be able to capture enough scenes in the northeast.”

“North…?” God, he was beginning to sound like a fucking robot.

“Yes, the northeast…Boston, New Hampshire, New Haven, Washington, hell even New York might have a few of those.”

“I see…”

“We want as many buildings and as many angles, and with your professional eye, you should be able to capture what we novices might be unable to do,” Brett expanded with a smile. “We do need them quickly though, so unless you have plans next weekend…?” He cocked his head to Michael who nodded, but was watching Fernando carefully.

“I’m free,” Fernando replied with a nod; though he wasn’t really sure about that. No matter. He could always cancel whatever appointments he might have scheduled. Who was he to say ‘no’ to Michael after all? If it wasn’t for this guy, would he even be standing here today?

“Great,” Michael replied with a smile. “Now, here’s the plan…”

For the next half-hour, the three men hunched over a work bench to hash out the details of what they were looking for and how Fernando was to pace himself and so on and so forth. By the time their pow-wow was over, he couldn’t wait to get on a plane to head off to get started. He was more than eager to see how this project would pan out, and if they needed his help to get things started on the right foot, then he would commit to it one-hundred and ten percent.

He twisted the cap off the bottle of water and guzzled thirstily. With a belch of satisfaction, he stretched out his legs and turned his gaze to the heavens, allowing the mid-afternoon sunlight to bathe his skin. He was outside again now, trying to get some fresh air as the thickening smell of metals, sawdust, and acrylics were beginning to affect him. Several cars passed by on the distant freeway, adding a surreal element to the quiet around him. He couldn’t make out Larry or Bill, but –

“Mind if I join you?” came the quiet question that had him looking up with a blank expression before it sunk in that Michael was actually asking permission to sit beside him on the bench.

“Uh…yeah…no problem,” came the flustered response as he moved a little to make room for his boss.

There was now a smudge of charcoal on Michael’s nose, but Fernando didn’t dare try to point that out as his companion raised a bottle of water to his lips to drink from it.

Amazing when one thought about it. That he had known this man now for almost six years and yet never knew he had this hidden talent. He wondered if Stephanie even knew about it, and if she did, she was definitely good at keeping secrets. Hell, did anyone in the world even know about this?

“How are the kids?” he finally asked in an effort to start up some kind of conversation.

Michael’s lips quirked into a pleased smile, and a light seemed to flicker within those brown eyes that sent the waves of jealousy swirling within Fernando’s stomach. How he wished it would be…

(no time for regrets now)

“The boys are fine,” Michael replied as he scuffed his loafer-clad foot against the stone floor in a way that made it seem as if he was almost shy to talk about his children. “School just started for them, so they had to go back to New Haven. Look…check this out.”

He sat up a little to reach for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, and like the proud father he was, opened it to reveal a small photograph of his sons mugging for the camera.

Now five-year-old David, who looked so much like his father (in his youth), and three-year-old Prince, who seemed to have taken after his mother with his softer features, were both grinning happily, while dressed in colorful swim trunks. David was holding onto what looked like a dead lizard – his prize kill for the day – with a puffed out chest in pride, while his little brother was on his haunches holding onto a rubber ball. In the background, it looked like it was a beach (although Fernando had to wonder which beach could accommodate the family without causing a mini-riot) and he had the feeling it was Michael who had taken the photo.

“Took it over the summer,” Michael was saying, unable to stop himself from nearly gushing. It was rare he got the chance to talk about his family to anyone who cared to listen. “They are getting so big now, it’s scary.”

“I know,” Fernando agreed as he accepted the photograph Michael seemed to insist he hold onto. “Last time I saw them, they were this high.” He motioned his hand to an area below his knee.

Michael giggled and dug out another picture (goodness knows how many the man carried with him). “This one was taken the same day…”

In this shot, both boys weren’t really paying attention to the camera as David was building a sand castle and apparently giving instructions to Prince who seemed to be enjoying himself with a sea shell.

“He don’t listen to a damn thing his brother says,” Michael explained with a shake of his head. “David can give all the instructions he wants, and Prince only does whatever the hell he wants to do.”

In another picture, and this time, it took all of Fernando’s acting skills not to show how much it affected him; Stephanie was a part of it…only her two precious boys were on either side of her placing kisses on her cheeks. Her beautiful features were alight with happiness that Michael’s camera had been able to capture effortlessly. This was not some posed shot, but a spontaneous moment between mother and children as it was clear that Stephanie was still in bed; hair mussed, no makeup (which made her look so much younger than she actually was), and the boys in their Mickey Mouse-themed pajamas.

His throat tightened and he found it hard to swallow. It was painful…still painful after all these years, and he hated himself for allowing emotions he struggled so hard to control to get the best of him. It was a reason he had done his best to work away from Neverland as much as possible, and was glad Michael gave him the option to cancel his ‘contract’ meaning he could do whatever he wanted now. However, here he was – still running back to the Jackson family at beck and call. Stephanie had specifically wanted him to take pictures of Prince after his birth, and like a fool, he had gone back to put himself through the torture of wondering what could have been.

He had watched her grow up in more ways than one over the years, and though her teenage self had shown a maturity beyond her years, the woman – now in her early twenties – had a maturity that was now laced with wisdom and an understated sexiness that killed him every time he turned on the news or had to read the papers with some false gossip about her.

At twenty-eight years old, he figured he ought to find himself a decent girl to settle down with, and yet…every woman he had the misfortune of dating seemed to pale in comparison to the high standard Stephanie had set in his mind.

It really was pathetic.

“…see them again,” Michael was saying, which jarred him from his morose thoughts.

“What did you say?”

Michael slid him a wary glance, though his good mood wasn’t dampened. “I said, I can’t wait to see them again. As soon as we finish laying down the first few tracks for my upcoming album, I’m heading down there.”

“That’s…good,” came the low reply. “They probably miss you.”

Michael shrugged and leaned back against the side of the building without saying anything. There was a long – not all too uncomfortable silence – before Fernando dared ask what was bugging him all this time.

“Does she know?”

“Know what?”

“About the art…this hangar…”

“Oh.”

There was a heartbeat of a pause.

“Sort of.”

Fernando raised a brow. “Sort of?” He glanced at Michael’s profile, noticing the man’s eyes were closed as if asleep. He knew of Michael’s sensitivity to the sunlight, so if he was slightly worried at what short-term effects this little sunbathing session could cause, he tried to mask it.

“She doesn’t know the location,” Michael explained quietly. “But she knows I’m an artist…not to this extent though. No one knows of this…well besides you…”

Fernando didn’t need a scientist to tell him what the open-ended statement implied, and he motioned that his lips were going to be sealed no matter what.

“It’s where I can be myself,” Michael continued in that same quiet-I-think-I-just-might-doze-off-soon voice. “My way to express myself whenever I’m not writing music or trying to create sound. I need my away place. Know what I mean?”

“I do,” Fernando agreed with a slight nod.

“There is beauty in all art forms,” Michael said, lifting his arms as if to the heavens, though his eyes remained closed. “Whether it’s with creating music or in taking photographs with a camera, or in mixing paints, or in sitting before an easel or sketchbook. When your heart and mind come together to produce something so eloquent…something so magical that mere words cannot describe…there is a beauty to that. Sometimes savage, but almost always healing. When you take a really good shot…don’t you feel that? Don’t you feel a sense of satisfaction and almost perverse pleasure in the end result?”

Fernando, unaware he was now mimicking Michael’s relaxed position, could only nod slowly in marveled agreement. He did know what it meant to take that ‘one shot’ that made it all seem worthwhile. He had assumed it was in the hunting and pursuit of celebrities to capture them at their worst, but his moment…his ‘one shot’ was that of capturing Michael all ‘alone’ in the midst of rehearsal. It was that ‘one shot’ he was yet to make public, not even to his boss. It was that image of Michael Jackson that the world might never get to fully understand, yet one that made Fernando appreciate the man so much more than he could possibly imagine.

“Hey, Mike,” came the sudden call that shattered their moment of mutual spiritual communion, and which had both men sitting up.

Brett was motioning for Michael from the door of the hangar. “Come on in. I wanna show you the finishing piece to the sculpture.”

“All right. Be there in a minute.”

He stretched out his legs, then arms, then tried to stifle a yawn of weariness. “Man, I am beat,” he protested as he scratched his lower back and chuckled softly. “You are welcome to stay if you want.”

“Really?”

Michael smirked as he rose to his feet. “Yes. Besides, I want to see your skills as well, and I don’t just mean with the camera. I noticed you had a sketch book in your bag.”

“Ah man, I haven’t really focused on that side of things in years,” Fernando protested as Michael burst into laughter. “I might end up drawing stick figures.”

“Then let’s see your stick figures,” his boss insisted with a playful wink. “It’s got to be better than Prince’s hand painting efforts at least.”

“Oh? Another artist in the family?”

Michael snorted and pushed open the door into the welcome coolness of his studio. “Don’t encourage him. My son’s trying his best, but I swear his mother thinks he’s going to be the next Jackson Pollack. You should see the way she…”

__

With all my soul I've tried in vain
How can mere words my heart explain
This taste of heaven so deep so true
I've found in you
So many reasons in so many ways
My life has just begun
Need you forever, I need you to stay
You are the one, you are the one

New Haven, Connecticut
September, 1998

“It’s wonderful, sweetheart!” Stephanie gushed as she held up the painting of…

…eeeh…

She wasn’t quite sure of what it was, because all it was a mess of different colors spread all over the piece of paper, but damn it her son had worked hard on this masterpiece and it was going to find its place on the fridge…right next to the other painting of squiggly worms…lines…something. She was sure Prince had said it was a painting of her and Daddy, but she could be wrong.

“There,” she said as they both stepped back to admire the growing gallery. “It looks beautiful, honey. Your Dad’s going to want to frame it and hang it up on the wall when he comes back.”

Actually Michael might decide to just add it to the piling collection of his children’s artwork over the years. Between David’s humble efforts and Prince’s decent productions, he had a treasure trove back in Neverland.

“When’s Daddy coming back?” Prince asked, dutifully lifting his leg to allow his mother to tie up his shoelaces as she stooped to her haunches to complete the task.

“Daddy’s coming back on next Sarrrurday,” David offered loudly, skipping into the kitchen while shrugging on his favorite Burberry jacket with Grace in tow. “Right, Mommy?”

“That’s right, sweetheart.”

“Yay!” Prince whooped in pleasure. In his humble opinion, the summer spent with their father had been way too short.

For today, however, they were preparing for ‘a day out’ with Uncle Fernando; something Stephanie had announced over breakfast that morning much to her boys’ delight. To them Uncle Fernando was an exotic creature; not just because of his accent, but the way he liked to take pictures a lot…almost like their father.

For Stephanie, it was a nice excuse to sightsee with her children, and when Michael had mentioned over the phone that Fernando was stopping into town to take some pictures for him, naturally she had jumped at the chance to be the photographer’s chaperone. She could show him some impressive Gothic architecture if he wanted.

“…but what’s it for, babe?” she asked while applying a layer of exfoliating mask on her face the other night.

“A secret,” Michael had drawled. She could clearly picture him lying lazily in bed with nothing but his boxer shorts and a tee-shirt on.

“Pfft,” Stephanie stuck out her tongue playfully…though she had to quickly spit out the taste of the minty skin care product in the process. “What’s this super secret you can’t tell me? Why’s he coming to…waaaait a minute. You’re not trying to build a church in Neverland, are you?”

This had Michael cracking up with laughter before he could control himself. “The Neverland Church of the Jacksons,” he sputtered between giggles. “All denominations welcome.”

“Hardy har har,” she replied, trying to pout; though she had to admit that hearing him sound so care-free made her heartbeat quicken as it almost always did. “Very funny, Michael.”

“Aww, come on, babe,” he cajoled in a husky whisper. “I swear if I decide to build a church, you’ll be the first to know.”

“So what’s it for?”

“Just a project I’m working on.”

She rolled her eyes and with a single tug removed the towel that had been wrapped like a turban around her head. “You have so many projects going on, babe, it’s becoming a little hard to keep up.”

“You just worry about graduating from that school of yours, and let me worry about my gazillion projects.”

“Hm.”

“Hm what?”

“Hm nothing.” She brushed at her hair with a bit more force than she would have liked. Sometimes Michael and his need for secrecy…

“Well, I’ll show him around, I guess.”

“Show who around?”

“Fernando,” she replied patiently. “He won’t know his way around here, will he? I can take him to some good spots.”

“…”

“What?”

“Alone?”

She stopped brushing her hair to stare at the phone in disbelief. “What on earth are you trying to imply, babe? That I can’t see him all by myself? That he’s likely to pounce on me again?”

“Well…”

She laughed and shook her head. “Honey, he’s over me by now. Gosh, it’s been like…years since that happened, and besides, we haven’t seen each other in a while-”

“Take the kids with you.”

“Michael-”

“Please…humor me, my darling. Squash my jealous notions and tell me later how much of a big deal I was making out of this.”

“You are impossible.”

“And I love you too, my love.”

“Shut up,” she blushed at the tone of his voice. Her brushing motions becoming uneven and clumsy.

“I love you, oh yes I do,” he sang, giggling as he was sure he could picture how embarrassed she looked right now. Which wasn’t far from the truth. She had longed dropped the brush and was now covering her face…

“Now look what you made me do,” she protested at the mess on her hands. “I’ve got this damn cream all over me.”

“What?” Michael whined/groaned/moaned. “You’re all covered in cream, and I’m not there to clean you up? God damn it.”

“Serves you right for not being here on time,” she teased as she rose to her feet. “I’m taking off my robe now, and guess what I’m wearing beneath.”

“What?”

“Ab.so.lute.ly…nothing,” she whispered.

He sucked in a harsh breath. “Baaaabeeeee,” came the helpless whimper.

She laughed and blew kisses into the device. “Sweet dreams, my love.”

“You’re killing me here, Stephanie,” he protested. “Don’t leave me now.”

“I have to wash this gunk off my face. It’s getting sticky now.”

“Sticky…Stephanie! You said that on purpose!”

She snickered at his voice and darted into the bathroom to complete her toilette, knowing full well that Michael was going to bug the hell out of her tonight until they were satisfied…though they knew it was only going to leave them more frustrated than ever at the end of it all.

God, she couldn’t wait to feel him again.

And now, as she helped Prince into his coat – a four-button Ralph Lauren number she adored – she found herself actually looking forward to spending the day with the photographer who had become nothing more than a friend over the years (she really wished Michael would stop worrying so much). Brushing away the initial stalking tendencies (due to his job) and overzealousness, beneath it all was a nice, young man who could be socially awkward.

She didn’t know a lot of people in L.A – at least people in his social circles – that she could introduce him to, and considering she was now based here in New Haven and he wasn’t, her role as Cupid wasn’t exactly going as well as she would have liked.

“Let’s go, Mooom!” David hopped from one foot to another in excitement. He loved going out with his mother, though he was beginning to realize that they sometimes got extra looks from strangers on the street, but Mom had explained that it was because they were special, and David thought he understood…for the most part.

Did special mean weird people he didn’t know had to take their pictures for no reason?

“All right, sweetheart,” Stephanie replied absently, as she gave last minute instructions to one of the maids and Grace. She would be leaving with only Javier as a bodyguard/driver. They weren’t really bothered that much in the neighborhood. In fact, they weren’t even looked at twice. It was only when their outings took them to the city ‘proper’ did they begin to get the curious looks and random paparazzo trying to get a shot of them.

She stepped out into a cool mid-afternoon Northeastern weather (winter seemed to come here a little faster than in other parts of the country) with her boys running ahead of her and past the door of the waiting Sedan Javier was holding open for them. And as she tightened the belt of her knee-length trench coat, she smiled to herself and thought of what a wonderful day this was going to turn out to be.

__

You came to me like the dawn through the night
Just shinin' like the sun
Out of my dreams and into my life
You are the one, you are the one

The plan was to meet in the Union League Café – which was oddly enough not too far from the Yale campus.

Already Fernando had fallen in love with the buildings here, and it reminded him so very much of the architecture in London while they were on the Dangerous tour. He had already taken a few snap shots of the street corners, and resisted the urge to wander into Yale itself, where its architecture literally screamed ‘GOTHIC’.

The restaurant – a French establishment with a dash of contemporary cuisine – was half-empty, which was fine with him. His seat by the window gave him a good view of the intersection where he could watch the activity without being noticed, and as a photographer, every scene seemed magnified in his mind. He could set up an entire portfolio from just watching this little nook of New Haven, Connecticut.

Pity this did little to ease the turmoil he was experiencing at the moment.

He took another sip of the coffee he had ordered for himself, trying to calm the nerves that threatened to make him spill the drink as he thought of what the day held for him.

An entire day with her.

God really did hate him.

He sighed and stared morosely into the beverage, wishing he had made up some excuse to forfeit this sight-seeing excursion, and yet each time he replayed her surprise call on his mobile phone (he assumed Michael must have given her the number), there was just no way he could have said ‘no’ to her offer anyway. Hell, just hearing her voice at the other end had sent the familiar teenage-crush-like feelings raging through him, and goodness knows his dreams had definitely taken a turn for the better…in every way possible.

What would he do if he saw her face again? How long has it been since they actually saw each other in person? Good grief, it’s been almost a year, hasn’t it? So, there was no doubt going to be feelings of –

“Fooood! Fooood! I want food!” came the muffled but clearly audible voice from outside, which forced him to glance towards the origins of the childish chant.

Sure enough, it was a young boy – of about five – with a mass of curly black hair beneath a wool hat, hopping out of a black Sedan, but stopping long enough to realize he had to wait for the others. In tow was a much younger boy, whose excitement was not as obvious as his big brother’s.

David and Prince.

Michael’s legacies, and a sharp reminder of what he was thinking…of what his dreams and thoughts meant; of how terrible he was to even contemplate…

Sweet Mother of God.

She had finally stepped out of the car, not exactly looking any different from any other woman on the street, and yet everything about her screamed Stephanie. Her trench coat was a simple black piece that stopped right above her knees to reveal what, he assumed, was a cream-colored dress or skirt of some sort beneath. Knee-high black boots complemented the black hat (which looked like something from the 20s) which sat on that familiar mass of thick, wavy hair he had fantasized about for so many nights.

He watched as she leaned down to say something to her sons, each staring at her with wide-eyed innocence and nodding at her instructions. Probably satisfied that they wouldn’t act up in public, she held on to each boy’s hand and began to lead them into the building. Fernando forced himself to sit up and to look relaxed, though his heartbeat had not slowed in the slightest and his palms were beginning to get sweaty, and he was sure he was going to forget his name and screw things up royally.

The familiar chime of the door had him (and a few others) looking up, and he wasn’t surprised when the maitre d’ approached with a wide smile and an expression of familiarity on his features and tone. It was clear that Stephanie and her children must frequent this place often, and the boys – as polite as ever – held out their hands to shake the older man’s hand in greeting.

“Uncle Fernando!” David cried out, forgetting decorum as he recognized the man now standing up to welcome them.

“David,” he laughed; unable not to do so anyway as the boy had dashed up to hug his legs. He stooped to give both boys quick hugs; petting Prince’s head (though shyer than his brother, he had retreated back to his mother’s side after the initial greeting).

“Hi Fernando,” Stephanie smiled as she reached out to give the man a hug of her own. If she noticed him tremble slightly, though his arms around her were strong and steady, she kept it to herself.

She pulled back to appraise him from head to toe. “Good grief! Look at you! It’s been…!”

“Almost a year,” he mumbled shyly as he reluctantly released her; his senses still tingling with the sweet aroma of her perfume that seemed to permeate into his pores and the feel of her slender figure against his body. “Please…have a seat.”

“Thank you. David…Prince…over here…”

He watched as she arranged her boys to sit beside her and across him, and once she was sure they were settled in and not likely to get caught at the edge of the table cloth (there was that incident at another restaurant she was not going to get into), she beamed at the hovering waiter and motioned for Fernando to order before her.

“School is good,” she said over a delicious plate of carnoroli risotto, about half-an-hour later, while the children enjoyed their finger food of chicken nuggets and probably the most expensive plate of macaroni and cheese they’d ever have. Prince couldn’t seem to get enough of them because he was chowing down with gusto, while David picked apart the veggies that the chef had been sneaky enough to hide within the creamy goodness.

“I’m about to enter my first year of residency…David stop doing that.”

“But I don’ like brocooooli,” came the whine.

“They’re good for you,” she responded with a sigh, already knowing this was going to be losing battle. She was trying ways to get him to eat the necessary part of a healthy diet, and ‘sneaking’ the veggies within his favorite foods was one way of going about it. It was a darn shame the boy was getting smarter each day. Such tricks were not going to cut it anymore.

“You should listen to your mother,” Fernando chimed in, turning a bright red at the quick glance of gratitude Stephanie threw his way.

“See?” He picked up a piece of broccoli from his plate in which a well-seasoned salmon now lay half-finished, and stuck it into his mouth. He chewed with a somewhat exaggerated display of delight, trying not to smile at the expression on David’s features.

It was as if the boy wasn’t buying it all that much, and yet seemed fascinated that any human being could consume something that green and nasty and actually enjoy it.

“Yuck,” he finally commented when the show was over, but at least he stopped picking the tiny green dots in his meal and tried to eat a little slower this time. Only he kept taking a sip of orange juice with every forkful into his mouth as if hoping to wash down the aftertaste.

Stephanie exchanged a knowing look with Fernando, who chuckled and tried to finish his meal. “Last year of your residency?” he asked to draw her back into the conversation.

“No, first year,” she explained. “I begin next semester. I’ll be working with some of my father’s colleagues at a hospital near here. It’s not going to be easy, but hey…I survived Medical School with little to no scars.” She laughed and (almost on autopilot) leaned down to wipe Prince’s mouth with a napkin. The boy seemed to eat with his whole face.

Talk about motherly instinct, Fernando thought with admiration and that inescapable twinge of envy. It was clear that the bond between mother and children was strong, and Fernando couldn’t help but feel like an outsider intruding into something so intimate and endearing.

An hour later, the boys – already familiar with the grounds of their mother’s school – entertained themselves with some of the stone structures (David would close his eyes and count to ten so Prince could run around and try to hide beneath a statue of some famous scholar until he was found mere seconds later), while Fernando took his pictures of the buildings from every possible angle.

Stephanie sat on a bench to watch him, while taking care of his bag of equipment filled with enough high-powered cameras to make her head spin. She couldn’t tell you the difference between taking a shot of the same roof ten times in a row, or why one had the need to stand a certain way to take the shot, so it really was fascinating to watch Fernando at this craft.

She had seen him work his magic before (the tour and the family portraits of course), and for some reason, she had never really studied him this intensely or bothered to do so. Maybe she had hung around Michael for too long, she thought with a small smile, but there was something rather…graceful about Fernando as well. So no, he didn’t spin around and do some wacky move with his feet, but it was in the subtle things that his body tended to do – almost subconsciously.

For a guy was who was tall with a solid build (not footballer-size like Chris but not as slender as Michael either), he could stoop and get back into standing position with a fluid grace that was impressive to watch. He had no qualms lying on the grass just to get a particular angle of a building; neither was he shy about climbing onto certain structures or hanging precariously off the edge of something just to…yes, get that one shot.

He was clearly in the zone in those moments, unaware of whatever danger he was putting himself in as he focused on his task. His features would lose that eager quality it tended to have, and its place, the studious savant with a penchant for his skill would take over. In those moments, Fernando the bumbling, shy, man would be replaced with a professional who could give clear and concise directions without skipping a beat.

It took him nearly two hours to get enough pictures, and they had only spent time at Yale so far! There were many other buildings in the city to get to, and no time to waste.

By around seven in the evening, with the excitement of the day finally getting to them, the boys were now fast asleep in the car with Javier watching over them, while she and Fernando made their way around the small church seemingly hidden amongst the many other modern buildings in the vicinity.

They were allowed to go inside, where (luckily) only a priest was on duty cleaning up the altar. Fernando whistled in appreciation as he took a few pictures of the altar and the majestic stained glass window that towered above it, before lying on the ground (no concern about messing up his clothes) to take a few extra shots of the ceiling with its high birch alcoves and arches.

It really was a beautiful place of worship, and Stephanie – who always found her peace within the walls of her faith – closed her eyes and clasped her palms together on her lap in silence. There was so much to be grateful for, and goodness knows it would take a long time for her to list all her blessings. Her children, for one thing, were her most precious gifts from a man she would willingly die for if given the chance; and in less than a week, she would have him in her arms again...right where he belonged.

Fernando, who had been ready to call it a day, suddenly felt his entire being freeze with a combined sensation of heat and ice that almost rendered him speechless.

Dios mio

That one shot.

He couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to, and as he raised the camera to his face to seize the moment, he had to bite his lower lip hard to stop himself from welling with emotion.

To the ordinary eye it was nothing more than a young woman sitting on a pew with her head lowered in prayer, but at that moment, the last rays of sunlight seemed to filter right through the stained windows to bathe Stephanie in a soft, ethereal glow that was simply breathtaking. He couldn’t describe it in words even if he could, and later on as he would develop the images, he would come to the conclusion that no other photograph he could ever possibly take from here on out could compete with it.

As if on cue and just as soon as the shutter went off, the light diffused as if whispering farewell, and Stephanie was back to being…well…Stephanie. Even she seemed to shake herself a little as if drifting back to reality, and unaware of what she had magically created, she smiled at the still stunned Fernando.

“Everything okay? Did you get what you wanted?”

Did I get what I want? What kind of a loaded question is that? Do you have any idea how many things I want that I cannot have? Do you know how much it hurts to know that you will never, ever reciprocate my feelings for you, and that my suffering is only magnified by the knowledge that you are happy and content in your relationship? I hate what I am for feeling this way, and though I tell myself that it’s useless, it doesn’t stop. I cannot make it stop. You have to help me in some way, Stephanie. Tell me what to do so I can stop loving you. Please tell me!

“Fernando?” came the bemused query. “Is everything all right?”

He blushed and nodded, clutching the camera to him as if a lifeline. “Yes…I’m fine,” he replied in a voice that sounded hoarse and miles away. “I…I’m all done here.”

“Good,” she said, rising to her feet to stretch in exhaustion. “I don’t know about you, but I am ready to call it a night.”

“I’m sorry,” he began apologizing as he walked after her. “I didn’t meant to take so long-”

“No need to apologize,” she interrupted with a laugh. “It was fun to watch you actually. I almost feel like becoming a photographer myself.”

He smiled at the wink she threw his way. “Really?”

“Uh huh. In fact,” She motioned for him to give him the camera, which he did with a raised brow of amusement. “You should teach me something.”

She held the camera up to her face and squinted into the optical viewfinder. “So I just press the shutter, right?”

“Yes, but do you have a good subject?” he chimed in with a chuckle as he leaned against the wrought iron railing at the front of the church with his arms crossed on his chest.

“Of course I do,” she replied with a playful pout as she zoomed the camera onto him. He tried to hold up his hands to prevent her from taking his picture, but the flash went off and with it a low whine of protest.

“You don’t like taking your own pictures?” she asked incredulously.

Fernando shrugged and scratched his head; looking flustered. “I’m not a very good subject.”

“Nonsense, you have character,” she insisted, holding up the camera again. “You don’t realize how special you are. Now smile and I’ll post up your picture on those matchmaking websites and maybe we can find some lucky gal to remind you of that.”

He was so embarrassed, he wished for the ground to open and swallow him whole, and as she took another shot of him, he suffered her teasing and friendly banter – each time becoming more and more aware of how many times she kept breaking his heart with every smile and touch.

Later that night, in his lonely hotel room, he would recount the day, down to the every second spent with her, though his fingers continued to automatically unload the films he had used from his equipment. On the T.V. Seinfeld was on rerun, but he was not interested. His beer was becoming tepid, and he just didn’t give a shit.

He already missed her.

(The kids had so much fun today. We should do this again the next time you come around here.)
(I’m not sure when that will be. I’m based more in L.A. now.)
(That’s true…but still you can stop by whenever you want…and we’re in town. Promise?)

You just aren’t making this easy for me, are you?

(I promise.)
(Great! It’s a deal then. Goodnight and have a safe flight.)

He absently reached out to caress his left cheek; the imprint of her lips still etched within the very pores of his flesh. It was a chaste goodbye kiss and nothing more. It would be discarded from her mind the moment she turned away to focus on her children, while he would latch on to it like the lovesick fool he had become.

Forgetherforgetherforgetherforgetherforgethergoddamnit!

“Urgh.”

Easier said than done.

Still, it really was no use crying over split milk, and as he shuffled into bed and forced himself to get some sleep (his flight for Washington left at seven in the morning), he allowed himself to drift into memories of his days as a young lad on the streets of San Juan, only this time instead of being the lonely, quiet kid who preferred to stay on his own, there would be a beautiful black-haired senorita with soulful hazel eyes always by his side; always cheering him on, and never ever giving up on him.

En nuestra próxima vida, mi querida Stephanie, yo deseo que usted y yo podríamos estar juntos ... para siempre ...