Man of Fantasy

Chapter 2

Nayo climbed the stairs in the three-story East Harlem walk-up. When she’d returned from her four-year, forty-eight-state project to photograph bridges, her first choice had been to return to Greenwich Village where she’d lived while a student at New York’s School of Visual Arts. However, most of the apartments she saw were either too small or too expensive. Turning her sights uptown, she’d found a large studio apartment in a renovated, three-story walk-up at Madison Avenue and 127th Street.

Geoff had offered her an apartment his family owned, but Nayo declined. It was enough that she’d lived temporarily at the beautiful St. Luke’s Place row house after she’d returned to New York. It took several months for her to secure a position as a cataloger for a small Upper East Side auction house. A month later she moved to East Harlem, a neighborhood like West Harlem that was undergoing rapid gentrification.

The door to the neighboring apartment opened as Nayo put the key into her lock. A ball of smoky-colored fluff darted from between her neighbor’s legs to wrap itself around Nayo’s. Bending slightly, she stroked the British shorthair kitten.

“How are you, Colin?” she said softly, smiling at the friendly cat with striking copper-colored eyes. The kitten meowed softly.

When she’d asked her neighbor, Mrs. Anderson, whether she’d named her feline companion for former secretary of state Colin Powell, the retired librarian sheepishly admitted she’d formed a lasting crush on Colin Firth after watching Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice over and over until she’d memorized the dialogue.

Lucille Anderson stared at the young woman who came and went inconspicuously. “I have a package for you, delivered earlier this morning.”

Nayo’s smile widened. “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. As soon as I put my things down and change, I’ll be over to get it.”

Lucille nodded at the young woman she’d begun to think of as the daughter she’d never had. She’d married young, but lost her husband when he suffered a massive heart attack at thirty. She’d never remarried or had children, but managed to maintain a rather active social life. She was a lifelong member of a sorority, and along with her sorors she socialized with other librarians and schoolteachers.

“Do you have time for a cup of coffee and some pound cake?”

“I’ll make time,” Nayo said.

Nayo had become rather attached to the woman who reminded her of her paternal grandmother. Grandma Darlene had given her the money she needed to fulfill her dream to travel coast to coast photographing bridges and whatever else caught her attention. Unfortunately her grandmother hadn’t lived long enough to see her granddaughter’s success. A week after she returned to New York, Nayo was sitting in her parents’ living room when a call from a local hospital reported that Darlene Goddard had collapsed in a supermarket. By the time she and her parents arrived at the hospital, she was gone.

She opened the door to her apartment and Colin scooted in to jump up on a chaise where Nayo usually sat watching television. Whenever Colin came for an impromptu visit she and the kitten would cuddle together on the chaise.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Colin,” Nayo warned the feline that had settled down for a nap. “I’m taking you back home as soon as I change my clothes.”

Slipping out of her heels, she picked them up and placed them in a closet close to the door. She was fussy when it came to everything being in its place, because she had to eat, sleep and relax in a space measuring only 450 square feet.

A four-poster, queen-size canopy bed occupied one corner, along with an armoire, bedside tables, double dresser. A padded bench sat at the foot. A glass-topped table which doubled as a desk held a computer and printer. Nayo had stored mats and photo paper in canvas-covered baskets lined up along the wall. Her prized cameras, lenses and memory cards were in a safe in the back of the walk-in closet.

The kitchen along a brick-wall area served as her food prep and dining room. A butcher block table and four chairs covered with cushions in a sunny yellow created a cheery atmosphere for dining and entertaining.

Her small living room had a tufted sofa upholstered in the same fabric as the dining-area chairs. The coffee table was littered with art books and photography magazines. Another table against the wall held a flat-screen television and an assortment of Nayo’s favorite movies. Floor lamps and strategically placed track lighting afforded the apartment a warm glow.

It took her less than fifteen minutes to remove her makeup, apply a moisturizer and change into a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans and a pair of running shoes. “Come, Colin,” she called out, whistling and clapping her hands.

Reaching for her keys, Nayo headed for the door, the kitten trotting after her.

Ivan found his mind drifting. He had to read the same paragraph twice. He taught two classes: Clinical Use of Free Association and Dreams, and Multicultural Psychology.

The first course explored psychoanalysis dating back to Freud’s study of his own patients’ dreams. Course work included the introduction to current theories about dreams, empirical research on dreams and clinical work with dreams. Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams was required reading.

Leaning back from the desk, he stood and stretched his arms over his head. He’d spent the past four hours reading the papers of college students who, if their lives depended upon it, couldn’t type a simple sentence with the correct subject and predicate agreement.

He walked out of his home office at the same time the phone rang. Retracing his steps, he picked up the receiver on the wall phone. “Hello.”

“Ivan Campbell?”

His eyebrows lifted when the soft female voice came through the earpiece. “This is he.”

“This is Nayo.”

A smile tilted the corners of his mouth as Ivan sat on the edge of the mahogany desk. “How are you, Nayo?” He’d met her for the first time Friday evening and he hadn’t expected to hear from her just two days later.

“I’m good. Thank you for asking. I’m calling because I’ve found quite a few prints I believe would interest you.”

“Are they of bridges?”

“I have bridges and landscapes. However, before you see them I’d like to come and take a look at your home.”

“When would you like to come?”

“My days and hours are flexible, so I’ll leave that up to you.”

Ivan glanced at the desk clock. It was minutes before noon and he had to correct two more papers before tomorrow. He taught classes on Monday and Wednesday. “I have some time this afternoon.”

“Where do you live?”

He gave Nayo his address. “Where do you live?”

Nayo’s tingling laugh came through the earpiece. “I’m within walking distance of you.”

“Where do you live, Nayo?” Ivan asked again.

“I’ll tell when I see you.”

“When should I expect you?”

There came a pause. “I’ll be over in half an hour.”

“Have you—” Ivan’s words trailed off when he heard Nayo had hung up. He’d just replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. “Nayo?”

“Sorry, brother, but I’m not Nayo.”

“DG, what’s up?”

“Don’t plan anything for the first week in June.”

A slight furrow appeared between Ivan’s eyes. “What’s going on, Duncan?”

“Tamara and I are getting married, and I’d like for you to be my best man.”

Ivan went completely still. It was the second time in two months that one of his best friends had announced he was getting married. He’d met Duncan Gilmore and Kyle Chatham when they were in the same second-grade class. They also lived in the same building in a public housing complex. The three had become closer than brothers, watching one another’s back. Even when Duncan’s mother died and he went to live with an aunt in Brooklyn, they’d never lost touch.

Kyle and Duncan were there for him when he lost his twin brother, they attended one another’s graduations, offered a shoulder when a somewhat-serious relationship ended and now, at thirty-nine, they’d fulfilled a childhood dream to own a brownstone in their Harlem neighborhood. All had worked hard to stay out of trouble when the streets had been a seductive siren, beckoning them into what would become a life of fast and easy money—and prison or certain death.

Kyle had become a lawyer, working as a corporate attorney before deciding to set up a private practice. Duncan, or DG, had made millions for clients at a Wall Street investment firm, while quietly amassing a modest fortune with his own investments.