Drawn Together (2 page)

Yamane stood and leaned over the table. “Look.” He spoke with a soothing voice. “I know it’s a disappointment, but surely there’s someone else at this convention who would enjoy receiving flowers from a nice young man? I’ve seen no less than fifteen Princess Celendriannas. Maybe you could make a new friend.” Rory couldn’t speak right away. He waited for Yamane to sit back down and then wordlessly drew his portfolio out of his bag. “I bought this on eBay, sir, and I wonder if you would be kind enough to sign it for me.”

“My,” said Ran. His pen stopped in midair. “That’s quite an accent you have. I presume you’re from the South?”

“Yes, sir,” said Rory politely. He noted another one of his cherished notions was being destroyed before his eyes. His artist was as American as he was. “New Orleans. You’re American?”

Yamane nodded. “My mother is Japanese, but I lived in New York with my father until I was in my teens. I now claim Japan as my home, and Ran as my surname, but I sound as American as…” The man trailed off and grew silent.

“As what?” asked Rory, used to his accent being the subject of much conjecture. He frankly thought the man was rethinking saying, “As you do.”

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but this drawing isn’t one of mine,” Yamane said quietly.

Rory digested this. “Are you sure?” He frowned, looking at the picture in question.

“There’s no mistake?”

“I’m sorry.” Yamane shook his head. “Did you pay for this?”

“Not much,” Rory lied. “I got it on eBay.”

6 Z. A. Maxfield

“Here.” Yamane motioned to one of the men standing beside him to get him a book from a stack next to all the abandoned flowers. “Here, I’ll sign this instead. It’s a safe bet you don’t have this. It’s brand-new.” He slid his thumbnail into the top of the shrink-wrap covering the book and removed it. “What’s your name?”

“Rory Delaplaines,” Rory answered, swallowing his disappointment.

“Fine,” said the man as he autographed the book. “Thank you for your interest. I’m sorry I wasn’t what you expected.” He handed Rory the book and turned on a smile of such detached Asian politeness that Rory’s heart shattered into a million tiny pieces.

“Thank you, sir.” He opened the book Ran Yamane had signed for him and gave himself wholly up to his quiet despair. It read, Best wishes to Laurie Dellplane from, and some kanji characters Rory could never hope to read. He felt tears sting his eyes and hesitated on the platform that had been his dream destination for half his life.

Rory briefly studied the cover of the book he held in his hands. He felt an immense, almost consuming desire to convey what he was feeling to Yamane. He lowered his head again, holding the flowers out before him. If anything, his bow this time was deeper.

“Excuse me,” Yamane said in a stage whisper. “What are you doing?” Rory didn’t lift his head. “Well, as to that, sir, after careful consideration, there is no one in the world on whom I can bestow these flowers but you.”

“No,” Yamane said implacably.

Surprised, Rory straightened. He leaned over to speak to Yamane quietly. “I’ve thought about this, sir, I really have. I came to venerate the artist who created the work I admire, and I simply must be allowed to offer this token of the gratitude I feel.”

“Don’t you see I have enough flowers?”

Rory frowned and felt himself dig in his heels a little. “That is why I don’t understand why you won’t take mine with a simple thank-you instead of giving me a hard time.” He pushed the flowers at Yamane. The men who’d been flanking Yamane stepped closer.

“Your flowers were for a woman named Ran Yamane who does not even exist and into whose image you have been pouring fantasies from your fevered imagination.” Yamane pushed them back.

“Well, of course they were!” Yamane blinked in apparent shock, and Rory gained the upper hand. He smacked the flowers against Yamane’s chest so the artist had no choice but to wrap his arms around them. “But it cannot be considered your fault that none of it was true. I love your work. I really, really love it.” Rory bowed again and took a deep breath.

He continued. “I traveled a long way to get here. I left my home and my job and I arrived here this very morning with no plans, no place to stay, and nothing more than the cash it took to get in and buy some food. Whether you are a man or a woman, surely you can accept that graciously.” He remained with his head bowed, but he didn’t really know why except that maybe he was afraid if he lifted it he would see people laughing at him.

Drawn Together

7

“Hey, Forrest Gump,” someone behind him called. “You’re holding up the line; get a move on.”

Rory stood and began to walk away.

“Wait,” called Yamane, “wait a minute.”

He said something quietly to the two men who stood next to him and motioned Rory to follow him. To the assembled crowd, he said, “I need a cigarette. I’ll be back in five minutes.” He mimicked smoking with his free hand. Holding his flowers against his chest like a shield, he left the platform.

Rory trailed after Yamane as he wove between exhibits and vendors of every kind.

Where normally Rory strode briskly, he found himself taking smaller and slower steps than usual, noting that Yamane’s way of walking was rather furtive, even timid by comparison.

When they reached the end of the convention center floor, Rory noticed they were headed straight for a burly security guard standing before a door that said NO EXIT.

“Perhaps,” Rory said tentatively, slowing down, “this would be a good time to mention that I mean you no harm, and even had you been a woman, you would have been safe with me. I am not any kind of stalker so there’s no need to…” Yamane nodded to the security guard, who let him through the door. “He’s with me.” He gestured toward Rory behind him and went through to the brightly sunlit area behind the convention center.

Rory followed him out.

“You scared me; I thought you were going to have me arrested,” said Rory with a sigh.

“Is there any reason why I should?”

“No, sir, there is not,” Rory said, practically standing at attention. “I’m sorry we got off to a bad start. I was just rather surprised by you.”

“And disappointed,” Yamane added.

“Perhaps a little,” Rory agreed. He took that opportunity to look, really look, at the man standing before him. Yamane was a diminutive man, reaching no higher than Rory’s shoulder. He wore his long hair in a braid, but some wispy strands floated around his face in what seemed, to Rory, a rebellion against the man’s perfection. He wore a pair of black jeans and a white linen shirt buttoned all the way to the collar. Over that, he wore a long black overcoat made of some lightweight fabric, probably silk, which accentuated his shoulders and chest. Instead of buttoning down the center from a traditional trench coat lapel, this coat buttoned down the side and was held together by knotted black silk ropes, the style at once exotic and distinctly Asian in its design. His hands where they clutched his flowers were long-fingered and elegant, even though they bore ink stains from the marker he’d been signing autographs with all day. Rory had to give credit where credit was due; this was a very, very beautiful man.

8 Z. A. Maxfield

“Sorry.” Yamane fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and an expensive-looking gold lighter. He tapped out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. Rory stepped forward. He took the lighter out of Yamane’s hand, which trembled very slightly as he relinquished it.

“Please allow me.” Rory reached out and removed the cigarette from Yamane’s lips, threw it on the ground, and crushed it under his foot. “Those things will kill you dead.”

“Are you insane?” Yamane seemed shocked. He tried unsuccessfully to retrieve his lighter.

“Now, how can I stand by and watch you kill yourself?” Rory drawled.

“You remind me of a dog I once had as a very small child. I used to twist its ears until it howled in pain, and still it came running whenever I called it.” Rory frowned. “Well, to my mind, that does nothing to recommend either you or the dog.” He held the lighter out. Yamane took it but merely put it in his pocket with his cigarettes.

“Are you always like this?” Yamane asked. “Like a radio tower, broadcasting everything you think on your face as clearly as if it were written there?”

“Probably.”

“You’re very simple.”

“But enough about me -- what do you think of me?” Rory leaned against the wall, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. He closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them, Yamane was staring at him with something like…interest.

“Why did you really come here?” Yamane asked. “I want the unvarnished truth.”

“To find someone I thought…” Rory remained silent for a minute. “Someone I thought I loved.”

“Give me your arm, please.” Yamane uncapped his marker.

“Why?” Rory did as he was told.

“Blind faith should be rewarded, and outright stupidity should be eradicated. I haven’t decided which we have here, yet.” He wrote something on the interior of Rory’s forearm.

“What is that?” Rory asked when he saw the numbers on his arm.

“That’s the number of my room at the Hyatt. I’ll be in and out at events all evening and into the early morning. If you wish, you may rest there since you have nowhere to stay. I’ll let the hotel know I have a guest. Ask for a key at the desk.”

“That’s very kind of you, but --”

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

Drawn Together

9

“Hm,” murmured Yamane. “I see. Then if you are a complete fool, I’ll probably never see you again.” He knocked on the door of the convention center and the security guard let him in. When Rory made to follow him back inside, the guard closed the door in his face.

“Well, now,” he said aloud, picking up the paper and filter part of the cigarette he’d crushed, watching its loose tobacco blowing lazily around on the ground. “That was unexpected.”

10 Z. A. Maxfield

Chapter Two

Yamane shook the tension out of his hand on the way back to his hotel. The Hyatt Regency was within easy walking distance to any part of the Expo, plus, due to the pedestrian walkway, it was a quick step to some fine dining establishments on the water. He reached the lobby of the hotel and pulled open its massive glass door. Yamane ignored the many stares he drew as he walked to the registration desk.

“Ran Yamane, three twenty-four,” he said. “Any messages?” He knew there would be none, unless that boy… He wondered again why he had done such a thing. Really, writing on a man’s arm like that.

“No, sir,” said the clerk. “Are you expecting something in particular?”

“No,” he admitted. “I just invited an old friend to stop by and visit. Could you please make sure he gets the key to my room if he should come while I’m out?” He cursed himself for flushing as he said this. The clerk was looking at him speculatively.

“Certainly, sir, I’ll add him as a guest of your room, if you’d care to give me his name.” Yamane fished through his memory, faulty for names at the best of times. What was the boy’s damned name? “Laurie.” He came up with it at last.

“Yes, sir.” The clerk began typing.

“Give him a key if he asks for it. I don’t actually know if he’ll really come…” The clerk looked up at him again, eyebrows raised. “He just mentioned that he might.”

“I see. Fine then, that’s all taken care of. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Um, actually…” Yamane pictured the younger man. “Could you please send a basket of fruit up to the room? Maybe with a big note that says ‘for Laurie’ or something so he knows he can eat it? I don’t think he’s eaten yet, and I won’t get out until late.” Drawn Together

11

The clerk continued typing without looking up again. “Certainly, sir, I’d be happy to call the kitchen. That’s a very thoughtful thing. I’ll write the note myself.”

“Thank you again,” said Yamane.

“No trouble at all, sir, really.”

Yamane left the hotel and looked around. That was strange, he thought, even for me.

He wasn’t unused to one-night stands. Of those he’d had plenty. He simply never took in strays, which is how he thought about his admirer. He kept hearing those words, “Please allow me,” in his head. He’d found something very compelling in that voice.

What kind of a person just packs up and goes on a cross-country odyssey to meet an artist whose work he admires? It was crazy.

Crazier still, he knew, was inviting that person to take refuge in your hotel room.

Yamane knew he was taking a tremendous chance; he’d been terribly mistaken about people in the past, and it had cost him. He simply didn’t want to be wrong about this…Laurie. He couldn’t abandon hope that Laurie was everything he seemed.

He passed some people who were dressed like Princess Celendrianna and her royal court and eating soft serve ice cream, and smiled to himself. Aside from his art, so little in his life was pure. He couldn’t bear to be wrong about this.

* * * * *

Rory was in a desperate quandary. He was tired, his whole body ached, he was hungry, and he was completely out of cash. He needed a shower and a place to change. He stood indecisively by his car. He had a small pilot case with his clothes in it. There wasn’t much; he wasn’t a slave to fashion. He had a couple of pairs of jeans, a couple of T-shirts, socks, underwear, and two nicer button-down-style shirts. He didn’t expect to attend church while he was here. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. If he took his pilot case and went to the hotel where Ran Yamane was staying, he’d feel embarrassed. Like he was some white trash relative come to call.

Yet today his options were limited. Furthermore, since the hurricane, he found he liked the taste of pride less and less. Rory knew enough to take what kindness was offered him. He picked up his case and wheeled it the long distance to the Hyatt Regency Hotel.

At first glance, the huge lobby bustled with so much activity that Rory, whose eyes were adjusting to the soft light, had trouble locating the main registration desk. He waited patiently in line to talk to a clerk. When it was his turn, he stepped forward.