Man of Fantasy

Her expression brightened. “I love it.”

“Are you lactose-intolerant?”

Nayo shook her head. “No. Do you mind if I bring dessert?” Ivan flashed the smile she wanted to capture for posterity. Somehow she had to get him to agree to sit for her.

“Of course not. Call me and let me know what time you want me to pick you up.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I live practically around the corner.”

“Even if you lived next door I’d still come and pick you up. The days are getting shorter and by six it’s starting to get dark.”

Nayo knew she had to play nice with Ivan, because she wanted to shoot him. “Okay. I’ll call you when I’m ready and you can come and get me. Thank you for the latte.”

There was just enough sarcasm in her tone to make Ivan give her a pointed look. Pretending she didn’t notice it, she turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen, Ivan following. He picked up her jacket off the chair in the alcove, holding it while she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

“Don’t leave yet,” Ivan warned as he opened the door to a closet off the entryway. Reaching for a lightweight windbreaker, he put it on, then opened the drawer in the credence table and took out a set of keys. “Now I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To walk you home.”

Nayo gave the man with the superinflated ego a baleful look that spoke volumes. Yes, he was gorgeous, educated, owned a beautiful home and apparently was solvent, but that didn’t translate into her gushing over him as if he were the last man on the face of the earth.

She knew her youthful appearance shocked a lot of people, but she wasn’t a girl. She’d had a long-term relationship that ended in a broken engagement; she’d spent several summers in Europe, avoiding the advances of men who saw her as easy prey; and she’d put more than one hundred thousand miles on her car when she’d crisscrossed the continental United States shooting more than a thousand pictures.

Ivan had admitted he’d been flirting with her, but Nayo Cassandra Goddard wasn’t biting. Growing her career, not becoming involved with a man, had become her priority.

“I’m not going home. I’m meeting someone for dinner.” She’d made plans to meet Geoff at a seafood restaurant on the Upper East Side. “I’ll call you,” she said cheerfully.

Ivan nodded numbly like a bobble-head doll. Nayo was there and then she wasn’t as the door closed quietly behind her departing figure. He’d detected a subtle defiance in the photographer, defiance he saw as a challenge.

Many of the women he’d dated failed to hold his interest for more than a few weeks, but there was something about the petite photographer that intrigued him, intrigued him enough to want to see her again.

He hadn’t realized that until he’d opened the door to find her standing there. Ivan knew he could’ve asked Carla to purchase or rent the requisite art, but after seeing Nayo’s photos and meeting her, he realized he didn’t want or need Carla’s involvement.

He liked Nayo, but what he had to uncover was why.

What was it about her that made her different from other women?

And how had a little slip of a woman managed to get to the man who’d earned the reputation of “love them and leave them”?

Nayo hadn’t outright rejected his advances, but Ivan knew she wasn’t going to be easy. And that was the difference between her and other women—they’d been too easy.

Chapter 4

Ivan picked up a piece of chalk and began drawing and labeling columns on the chalkboard. “Today we’re going to talk about culturally mediated belief and practices as they pertain to different racial and ethnic groups. We’re going to cover five ethnic groups—Russian, Native American, Mexican, Asian and African-Americans. Each group, although American, relates differently to birth and dying, religion, role differences and communication.”

Turning, he stared at the students staring back at him. The course was open only to juniors and seniors, and was a favorite of Ivan’s; the dozen students came to class with the intent to challenge him at every turn.

A male student who’d bleached his jet-black hair a shocking flaxen color raised his hand. “Dr. Campbell?”

Ivan turned, noticing that the young man had applied black polish to his nails. “Yes, Mr. Hernandez?”

“You have Mexicans, but you didn’t include Puerto Ricans.”

“We’ll discuss them separately. With more than four hundred ethno-cultural groups it is virtually impossible to cover every group in North America. As therapists it is incumbent on you to familiarize yourself with the customs and characteristics of most of the groups you’ll work with. Sensitivity to any customs that aren’t your own will determine how effective you’ll be with your patients. I always require an ethno-cultural assessment during the intake process.”

“What are some of the questions on the form?” asked a female student who always came to class with her head and body covered.

“Don’t be afraid to ask the patient their ethnic origin, the primary language spoken at home or if they require an interpreter. Religious beliefs, restrictions and practices are important for understanding and perception of mental-health therapy.”

“I am Muslim, so how does dying differ from someone who is African-American and Christian?”

Ivan moved over and sat on the edge of the desk. He never liked the traditional classroom seating, so he had his students rearrange their chairs in a U formation.

“Muslims believe death is God’s will,” Ivan replied. “They always turn a patient’s bed to face the East, or Mecca, and read from the Koran. There are no cremations or autopsies. The only exception would be for forensics and organ donations.

“African-Americans are reluctant to donate their organs, and family members will usually make the decision when it comes to the deceased. Their response to death is varied, so you may get a lot of different ones. Funerals and burials may take as long as five days to a week after death. It is very important to ascertain the patient’s religious affiliation during the interview process and know the importance of religion or church in his or her life.”

Ivan made certain not to make eye contact with his Muslim student. He’d learned that some females avoided eye contact with males and strangers. He wasn’t a stranger, but he was male. “Islam instructs you to pray five times each day, fast during Ramadan and take a pilgrimage to Mecca at least once during your lifetime.”

He gave the students an overview of the ethno-cultural differences before giving each a handout of the assessment tool. This was Ivan’s first year teaching a humanistic view of a course that covered selected psychological literature on non-white Americans, and most of the data was derived from his published doctoral dissertation.

A lively discussion ensued until Ivan glanced at his watch, noting he’d gone ten minutes beyond the time for dismissal. “For those of you who have another class, you’d better hustle or you’re going to be late. Have a good weekend, and I’ll see you Monday.”

He gathered the extra handouts, slipping them into a leather case, then checked his cell phone. Someone had sent him a voice-mail message. Punching in his PIN, he listened to the soft, feminine voice coming through the earpiece.

It was Nayo, and this was the first time he detected an inflection in her speech pattern that was different from those living in New York City. Pressing a button, he replayed her message: Ivan, this is Nayo. Please call me when you get this message. She left the numbers for her cell, home and work.

Ivan wrote down the numbers, then dialed the one for her cell. “This is Ivan,” he said after hearing her soft greeting.

“Oh, Ivan, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel Friday. I just remembered that a friend is hosting a pre-Halloween party and I promised her I would attend.”

“What costume are you wearing?”

“Costumes are optional. Is it possible for us to meet tonight?”

“I can’t give you an answer until I check with my office. Hang up and I’ll call you back.”

Ivan had purposely kept busy so he wouldn’t have to think about Nayo Goddard, but just hearing her voice again conjured up the image of her doll-like, wide-eyed gaze. He didn’t know why, but he remembered every curve of her petite body as if she were standing in front of him. He dialed his office, counting off the rings until his secretary answered the call. It rang six times, followed by a distinctive click that indicated the call had been transferred to the reception desk.

“Counseling Center, Demetria speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“Demetria, this is Ivan. Can you check my calendar and tell me who’s scheduled to come in this afternoon?”