EXCERPT:
“You want to drop the smart comments and tell me what you’re talking about?” growled Zeke. He pushed away from the wall and straightened up. The lowering sun from outside caught his eyes as he moved and he threw up his hand to shield them. The shaft of pale sunlight ran down his arm and across his hair, lying loose on his shoulders. He hadn't got around to a hair cut recently and he’d not bothered tying it back today.
Miles Winter was staring at it. The look on his face was one of astonishment.
“Hey?” Zeke snapped. “You got an answer?”
Miles bit his lip again and his eyes focused back on Zeke’s face. Once again, they were cool and steady. “I'm offering you the job. And it’s acceptable for you to call me Miles, as most of my executives do at the office.”
Zeke stared, still angry. “Look. There's no-one else here, Miles.”
The other man frowned. “I… no, I can see that. My eyesight's fine, thank you. What do you mean?”
“Assuming this isn't some kind of twisted joke, there’s still no-one here to see you flaunt your benevolence. Your charity towards the impoverished artist, whose livelihood and home you've recently acquired. Sort of an empty gesture, ain’t it?”
“It’s – dammit!”
Zeke was startled at the sudden expletive. Surely the uptight Miles Winter wasn't that kind of guy. Was he?
“What’s up with you,
Zeke was still wary. “Why me? What do you know about me? Except that I’m a failed artist – failed businessman – failed just about everything….”
“You’re an artist.” snapped Miles. “You can’t fail at that,
Zeke stared at the clear-cut features of Miles’s face; the strong mouth spouting such surprising words. Words that seemed to be mismatching somewhere between Zeke’s ears and his brain. “Yeah. I… I wanted that long, deep view, to draw the eye all the way from the front of the building, back to the smaller works. It catches the sun: it runs through a range of shading at different times of the day. Though it used to get a bit dark later on.”
“Not any more, not with the Perspex facing it, that’s an improvement on the solid wall that was there before. It’ll open the whole thing out, now, giving you the illusion of more space. And the ceiling hangings?”
Zeke had forgotten about them. He’d once thought he would exploit the height of the gallery ceiling by suspending some of his works. Then the supplier of the twine had let him down, and he’d abandoned the effect, but the fittings were still there. He was amazed that Miles had noticed. “I – yeah… thought it’d be an unusual effect. All I ever wanted to do was to get people to see as many paintings as I could force on them, you know? To make them see….”
“That’s what I want,” said Miles. “That kind of thought. Those kind of ideas.” His voice was firm though his eyes still looked confused. “Of course, you may be painting again. You may not have the time to take on a job as well.”
Zeke’s mouth opened, then shut again. He swallowed. “I won't be painting again this side of Armageddon, okay? I've got so much time, I’m thinking of selling it to your own brokers.”
Miles looked like he was struggling to follow the harsh humor. “You have a God-given talent, you must know it. People are envious of that. Even I might be envious of that. You ought to use it.”
“What the fuck do you know about it, Miles?” Zeke replied, even though there was less force in his hostility now. “There’s a hell of a lot of things people tell me I ought to do. So join the club. Is painting – or not painting – a condition of the job?”
Miles’s eyes widened. He looked like he might laugh, but whether from amusement or frustration, who knew? “No. Only that you make something of it, that you commit to it. That’s what I do with my own work. It’s the only way to succeed.”
“And you like success, don’t you, Miles?”
“I do,” he replied. Zeke heard the passion in the man’s voice and realized that these words were coming from Miles's heart. “That’s the one area I can’t yet judge in you – whether you have that appetite as well. I want this gallery to be an oasis in the middle of the city, a gathering place for those who want to see things of beauty and of challenge. And I want its reputation to be known throughout the state, perhaps beyond. For high standards and appreciation of good pieces. For an innovative approach.”
Miles paused, staring back at Zeke. “Can you do that, Mr. Roswell? Can you make that work?”
Zeke was more than a little stunned, and he couldn’t fail to see that Miles was amused at that reaction. Dammit, this man wanted him, Zeke Roswell, as part of his team. What the hell was all that about? Madness, that’s what. Miles Winter was obviously a guy who lived in his own personal reality, and expected others to meet him there, rather than reach out to them. Yeah, Zeke knew that was probably his profile, too, but he wasn't eager to examine his own navel. That wasn't the problem, not right now. Was he afraid? Maybe a little. It was a feeling he didn’t ever want to share. And of what? The job? The expectation? All the things he didn’t know – and didn’t understand – about Miles Winter?
“Okay,” he said, quickly, before he could panic himself out of it. “Sounds good. I can do it. If you’re willing to take my word for it.” He took a deep breath, suddenly aware of how tense he was. He ran a hand aimlessly up and down the skimpy shirt, and the thin fabric crinkled and creased across his torso. When he glanced back at Miles, he thought he glimpsed the glint from a bead of sweat on that cool, steady throat.
Miles nodded, slowly. “Good. I'll have a contract drawn up tomorrow. We can talk about the range of executive salary, I hope it’ll be acceptable to you. And… are you going to let me call you Zeke, in return?”
Zeke laughed aloud, and the sudden noise seemed to startle Miles. “Only you would ask that. Mr. Proper, eh? I've been called plenty of things in my life and most of ’em were in a tabloid newspaper or at the top of some legal clerk’s papers, but Zeke’s fine by me. I've never been an executive before, though. You’d better not expect some smart suit and tie, or the punch card mentality. If that’s going to be any kind of problem….”
“I expect professionalism,” said Miles, shortly. “Commitment, as I said. How you apply that, is your decision. It won’t be easy. I assume you know how much hard work will be required, that’s a given. And I'll know if the project’s not working.”
“It will work.” Zeke watched the steely glint in Miles's eyes and knew he was stepping into something very new. He startled himself with the confident tone of his voice. “That’s a given, too, right?”