Man of Fantasy

Nayo exhaled inaudibly. She thought Ivan wouldn’t agree to her going through his home unaccompanied, because the first time she’d made a similar request to a potential client, she’d found herself ushered out of the woman’s Sutton Place penthouse—but not before Nayo told her there wasn’t anything in her apartment worth stealing and going to jail for.

Smiling, she winked at Ivan. “I’ll be back.”

“Would you like a café latte or cappuccino?”

“I’d love a latte, thank you.”

“Would you like it now or when you’re finished?”

“I’ll have it when I’m finished.”

Nayo was anxious to tour the house so she could recommend photographs that would be suitable for the magazine spread. Ivan hadn’t mentioned the name of the magazine, but she knew it was Architectural Digest. When Carla Harris attended the preview showing, she’d babbled incessantly about how the preeminent interior-design magazine wanted to photograph the home of one of her clients.

Switching on the tape recorder, she spoke quietly into the speaker. “I’ve just passed an alcove with a leather grouping in butter-yellow designed for small, intimate gatherings in front of a minimalist fireplace. There is no fireplace mantel, but a grouping of shadow boxes would break up the starkness of the oyster-white wall.”

She continued into the living room, where a neutral palette of white, cream and tan provided an elegant backdrop for comfort and elegance. Nayo felt the room was a little too formal with a tufted, brown-leather sofa, chairs and doubled-tiered, beveled-glass coffee table positioned at an angle on the cream-colored plush rug.

Switching on the recorder again, she said, “There are books, a chess set with full-leaded crystal pieces on the coffee table. There’s a Waterford lamp on a side table, along with a Waterford Crystal 2000 World Series Home Plate New York City Subway Series collectible. Dr. Ivan Campbell likes music, sports and chess.”

Nayo lost track of time as she entered and left rooms that bore the designer’s distinctive mark. Carla Harris had made her reputation by incorporating the personality of the owner within the space’s function. Unlike Ivan, she wasn’t a psychologist, but what Nayo saw spoke volumes. He was a chameleon, switching flawlessly from formal to informal with a change of attire.

Friday night he was Dr. Campbell. She’d found him somewhat passive-aggressive when he’d tried to talk her into duplicating the prints he wanted. It was only when she stood her ground that he backed off. Sunday afternoon he was Ivan, welcoming, cooperative and amenable to her suggestions.

It took Nayo less than half an hour to ascertain that Ivan wasn’t married. Everything in his house was as masculine as he, and nowhere was there anything feminine—no intimate products, hairdressing, perfume or deodorant on the dressing tables in any of the bathrooms. His home was the proverbial bachelor pad.

The master bedroom projected a Zen quality: platform bed with gray, black and white accessories. The minimalist Asian decor was carried over into the bath with two large, pale green bowls doubling as basins and a matching garden tub with enough space for four adults.

The furnishings in the three guest bedrooms were reminiscent of Caribbean plantation homes under British Colonial rule. The mosquito netting draping the four-poster beds reminded Nayo of her own bed, with its mosquito netting embroidered with tiny yellow pineapples.

Walking through the formal dining room with a magnificent crystal chandelier over a table with seating for ten, she found herself in a state-of-the-art, gourmet kitchen. Pots, pans and utensils were suspended from a rack over a cooking island. Her gaze swept over a subzero refrigerator, wine cellar and a collection of cookbooks on a shelf near an espresso machine.

Nayo walked through the kitchen into a well-stocked pantry, then a laundry room, then down a flight of stairs to the street level. She pushed a button on the recorder. “Framed movie prints would work well on the walls of the home theater. I’m leaving the home theater and walking into a home office. There are two photographs of Malcolm X, the only photos in the entire apartment. One is a candid shot and the other a framed print issued by the U.S. Postal Service. Black-and-white landscapes will work well in the home office.” She turned off the recorder.

The utility kitchen, with its stainless-steel appliances, and a glass-and-porcelain bathroom needed no additional adornment. Nayo smiled when she walked into the gym. Ivan’s toned body was a testament to the fact that he made good use of the workout bench and assorted weights, a rowing machine and a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling by a chain.

She crossed the room and opened the door to a steam room. It was apparent Ivan Campbell had everything he needed to make his life as stress-free as possible. She retreated up the staircase to the gourmet kitchen at the same time Ivan walked in.

“Are you ready for your latte?”

Nayo nodded as she sat on a tall stool at a counter adjacent to the cooking island. “Yes, please.”

His eyebrows lifted in question. “What do you think of the apartment?” he asked as he filled a grinder with coffee beans.

“I love it,” she replied truthfully, “and it’s certainly worthy of a magazine layout.”

“I have Carla to thank for that.”

“Don’t be so modest, Ivan. I’m sure you had some input.”

“A little,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.

“It was more than a little,” Nayo admonished in a soft tone. “I know you like movies, working out, playing the piano, chess, baseball and cooking.”

Ivan made a face. “You’re right about everything but the cooking.”

“What’s up with the cookbooks?”

“I’m trying to teach myself to cook.”

“Why don’t you take a few classes?”

“I would,” he said, “but I don’t have the time. I have my private practice and I teach classes two days a week.”

Ivan decided to experiment with cooking after his best friends refused to eat his food. He’d accepted that his grilling methods were less than stellar, but he hadn’t done too badly on the stove top or baking. The night before, he’d made spaghetti carbonara, following the recipe to the letter, and the result was amazing. He wanted to wait until he’d perfected a few more dishes, then invite Kyle, Duncan and their respective fiancées for dinner.

He couldn’t believe that his best friends’ summer romances hadn’t ended with the end of the season, but would continue beyond the time when they exchanged vows. He’d be best man at both their weddings.

Despite setting up their respective businesses in the same building, they got together less often than when they were employees of other companies. Even when he lived and worked in D.C., Ivan would drive up to New York several times a month to reconnect with his childhood friends.

He, Duncan and Kyle had vowed years ago they would always remain connected even if separated by thousands of miles. And although they did not share DNA, they were brothers in the truest sense of the word.

“What are your favorite movies?” Nayo asked, breaking into his reverie.

Ivan’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have at least three or four favorites you’ve seen more than once?”

He pushed a button and the fragrant aroma of coffee filled the kitchen. “I’m somewhat partial to Glory, Witness, The Godfather and The Departed. Why do you want to know?”

Nayo smiled. Ivan had named two of her favorite films. He liked heavy drama. “I’d like to order archival movie posters for the walls of your home theater. Now if you have a few black-and-white favorites, I’ll see if they, too, can be ordered. The contrast between the classic movies and what will become new classics will bring a nice touch to the room. If you decide you don’t want them matted and framed, they can be bonded to a board using a thermal heating process. Another option is to set them up on easels. Either way the posters will add warmth and personality to the space.”

Talented, intelligent and beautiful, Ivan mused. “Are you certain you’ll be able to get those?”

Resting her elbows on the marble-topped counter, Nayo leaned forward. “I know someone in the business.”

“I guess it all goes back to who you know, not what you know,” he quipped.

“Sometimes it’s both. I went to college with a guy whose father is a Hollywood still photographer.”

Ivan emptied the finely ground coffee into the well of the coffee machine, added water and then pushed a button for the brewing cycle. “Which college did you attend?”

“The School of Visual Arts.”

“When did you graduate?”

A knowing smile softened Nayo’s features. “Are you asking because you want to know how much experience I have in the field, or are you asking because you want to know how old I am?”

Ivan went completely still. It was apparent Nayo saw through his ruse. Not many people could read him that well. “Okay, you got me. How old are you, Nayo?”