Timothy by Greg Herren Page A

offering the check, which Carlo took, slipping a credit card into the leather folder. My phone vibrated—it was Valerie.
    I frowned at it, excused myself, and walked outside to take the call. “Where are you?” she demanded before lapsing into a coughing fit.
    â€œI went for a walk,” I replied, closing my eyes.
    â€œDid you clear my schedule?” She coughed again. “God fucking damn it, I am going to cough up a lung here. The doctor has just left—I apparently have strep throat, damn it all to hell, and am contagious.”
    â€œOh, no!”
    â€œYes, well. I have to stay in bed for three days or so, and he doesn’t want me to do anything other than rest. So you’re going to be on your own for the rest of the week. But that doesn’t mean I won’t have things for you to do.” She went on to give me explicit instructions, as was her wont. The reality was what she wanted me to do would take me, at most, five minutes—but since she was always convinced everyone else was an idiot, she was still giving me instructions on how to properly carry out her wishes when Carlo joined me on the sidewalk, a big smile on his face. When she was finally finished, she said, “Get that done, and I’ll be checking my e-mails…if anything comes up, I’ll be calling you.”
    â€œThank you, Valerie.” I disconnected the call.
    â€œIs she feeling better?” Carlo asked.
    I shook my head, and he smiled when I told him the news. “Good, then you can keep me company for the rest of today.” He winked at me again. “I might just press you into service for the rest of the week. Can’t have you getting bored.”
    I felt a little thrill and hoped he wasn’t teasing me again.
    I couldn’t help but think, as Carlo whisked me around South Beach the rest of that afternoon, from boutiques to art galleries to shops, that I could write an excellent article called “A Day with Carlo Romaniello.” When I commented on the fact that almost everywhere we went they knew him by name, he said, “When you have money, sales people working on commissions make it their business to know your name.”
    It was a bit overwhelming.
    It wasn’t like I was unused to going into high-end galleries or stores; as Valerie’s assistant I was in and out of them all the time running errands for her. But even the executive editor of Street Talk magazine who had everyone in the popular culture zeitgeist wooing her for column inches and mentions didn’t command the kind of respect Carlo Romaniello got the instant he stepped through the doors of any shop. He asked me my opinion on everything—from sculpture to paintings to photographs. At the Versace store, he tried on suits and asked my opinions. He even had me try one on myself—a lovely charcoal gray suit that was more expensive than everything in my closet combined.
    Once I removed it and put my own clothing back on, he wanted me to try on a suit of black wool, but I demurred. “Don’t you want to see how you look in it?” he asked.
    I shook my head. “No.” I fingered the sleeve longingly but didn’t change my mind. “It would just make me sad.”
    â€œSad?”
    â€œThat I can’t own it if it looks good,” I replied. “I don’t see the point in trying on clothing I can’t ever afford, or shopping for things I can never buy. It just—it just makes my life seem sad.” I crossed my arms. “And my life isn’t sad. I know you probably think it is,” I said hurriedly as he opened his mouth to interrupt, “you’ve made it clear you don’t like Valerie. But I like my job, I like what I do, and I like my life. So, I don’t have the time to follow my dreams? Someday I will.”
    â€œYou really are something, Church Mouse,” he said, shaking his head. “That Midwestern Kansas common sense is