Draw Me a Picture, by Meredith Greene. (Book One of a series)

Synopsis: Jobless and alone, Standford grad Michelle sells pen and ink drawings on a busy, Manhattan street corner in order to eat. Lonely, she draws a portrait of a handsome, British lawyer she sees walk by every day. He sees it… so does his mum. A sweet story about finding one’s soul mate. Book one of a series; 30 very long chapters. Nominated for a SKOW (Some Kind Of Wonderful) award in ‘Best Chemistry’ category.

Sample Chapter: One

The passing faces were always interesting to Michelle. Every day a continuous crowd of people walked by her corner… a veritable lava flow of human beings. Most of them saw nothing but the quickest way to wherever they were going; some of the faces wore anger, others were worried, but the majority held a fixed expression of intense concentration. Since her move to the Big Apple, Michelle quickly learned that New Yorkers seldom smile, being completely immersed in their various occupations. At first Michelle wondered, naively, if the insane amount of stress that they embraced so willingly was worth the angst and insomnia. Three years later, she was convinced that the populace not only thrived on stress, but prided themselves in being able to do so.

Sitting quietly on her sidewalk-mat, Michelle Gregory shivered. At one time her coat had been thick and warm; lately, it was more patched on the back and shoulders. The biting fall air spoke strongly of its intention to surrender to winter. As intimidating the thought of freezing rain, icy winds and snow, Michelle knew she was one of the lucky ones… she was not truly homeless. Selling her drawings on the busy, Midtown corner enabled Michelle to purchase food and the necessary hygienic supplies.

Two years had come and gone since she was fired and blacklisted by the prominent Johnson & Black Accounting Firm; despite visiting the unemployment office frequently, no other firm would hire the overly-moral CPA from Colorado, despite her extensive knowledge of tax law. Her “ethical issues,” as her previous supervisor had put it, interfered with the firms’ normal routine of pulling illegal strings, which allowed certain large clients to get away with hundreds of thousands of dollars in taxes they rightfully owed. Michelle’s moral stand had cost her everything: her income, her dignity and even her beloved loft, a place she’d come to call ‘home’.

“Here I sit.” Michelle thought, grimly; memories of her short financial career were still unwelcome. Drawing was the only other marketable talent she possessed; she found herself ‘overly qualified’ for every menial job she applied for; there was already a veritable glut of dishwashers and waitresses. However, people did buy her $5 portraits and caricatures, to the extent that she was able to support herself, to a degree.

Each day, Michelle hid away her pride and trekked the 11 blocks from her hotel to sit, sketch and sell her pictures. The most popular items among the locals were funny caricatures of Mayor Bloomberg, and other political figures; tourists, on the other hand, favored her renderings of the Brooklyn Bridge and Empire State Building. Each sale added to the small pile of folded bills kept in a show box in the hotel room. Coming back ‘home’ with just $20 was a good day.

At least housing was not a problem, like for so many others whom tried to make it in this city. Shortly after Michelle was sacked a friendly ex-co-worker called, discreetly giving her the phone-number of a Mr. Jason Chan. Michelle was in a near panic at the time, finding the job market so hostile, so she called; Mr. Chan turned out to be the manager of the prestigious Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, whom was under pressure to shave his budget. He explained his intention to drop the hotel’s pricey accounting firm and go with a far cheaper one, with just partial audit insurance. He just wanted her to comb through the books and make sure all was in order prior to the transfer. Michelle dove into the piles of paperwork and software with a sort of ‘desperation’ to prove herself.

The experience was actually therapeutic; it reminded Michelle that she was actually talented with mazes of numbers. Her work allowed Mr. Chan to save more than he’d hoped for. The fear of IRS scrutiny gone, the manager agreed to Michelle’s bargain: in exchange for keeping a watch for audit flags, she insisted on a free room, with laundry services included. Michelle’s apartment lease was up and housing was the most precious of commodities.

Sitting on the chilly street corner, Michelle looked over at her display of portraits and wondered what her parents would have thought about their daughter vending sketches in order to eat. If they were still alive that is. Her mother would have wanted her to move back in; her father would joke about getting the Stanford tuition money back.
Tears brimmed in Michelle’s eyes at the thought of them; it had been four years since a car accident had taken their lives. Time did little to heal the void they left. Even moving to New York had not chased away the ache in her soul; they were her only family in the United States. There were some distant family relatives in Scotland but Michelle had never met them. She did have an uncle, her father’s brother but he was very ‘eccentric’, always sailing around the world or holed up in some little-known country, often disappearing for years on end. He had not responded when Michelle sent news of her parents’ death; she feared that he was dead as well, or worse, that he didn’t care. Amid the millions of people in the city that never sleeps, Michelle felt completely alone.

A sharp beep brought Michelle back to reality; glancing down at her watch, she smiled. 12:05. Sitting up, she eagerly searched the oncoming lunch crowd for a particular face, one with brilliant blue eyes. Sequestered beneath Michelle’s bed at the hotel, inside her art portfolio, was a portrait… one lovingly crafted. It portrayed a handsome man in his early thirties, with a strong jaw, merry eyes and a downright gorgeous smile. The man’s face reminded Michelle of how one of the Knights of the Round Table must have looked, minus the beard, possible fleas and hygienic issues. When she was drawing it, Michelle was amazed at how the lines seemed to drip right from her pen onto the thick paper, as if they had a mind of their own. Each night, she took the portrait out and allowed herself a moment’s gaze and a wistful smile before putting it away again.

The object of Michelle’s secret portrait actually existed; he that walked by her little corner every day, at exactly 12:06. Even on weekends. His routine appeared to be everything to him, like so many of the other passers-by. It was the thing which made Michelle take notice of him in the first place. He was never late. Always he was immaculately dressed in tailored suits, with a variety of costly thick, wool overcoats; he was clearly well situated and independent. Dark blond, groomed hair set off his cobalt eyes nicely, and he was tall, right around six-foot by Michelle’s reckoning.

In spite of the stranger’s good looks, Michelle did not entertain romantic thoughts about him until the day she saw him smile. Several months before, a small child accidentally bumped into the man, interrupting his stride; Michelle watched as the scene unfolded, not seven feet away. Brows gathered the man frowned down at the little urchin, and then a smile spread slowly over his face; his eyes shone like sapphires. Michelle stared at him; the stone mask of the no-nonsense businessman cracked and a ray of light shone through from some unearthly realm. Smiling, he was the most handsome man Michelle had ever laid eyes on; she was smitten. It was his smile that had inspired the portrait.

As she searched for his face in the crowds, Michelle reminded herself how futile it was to look and hope; once, in a mad moment of bravado, she had actually toyed with the idea of falling into step with him and saying… something. Courage failed her. Later, she laughed at her own foolishness. What would she say? “Want to go get some dinner?” Ha. Michelle imagined him looking at her askance, lifting an eyebrow or just walking away in disgust. Sure, her face and clothes were clean, but her bedraggled, worn attire was just one step above ‘waif’, especially compared to his severely neat, expensive clothes, not to mention her currently ‘unemployed’ situation. The very idea was unthinkable. Still, something compelled her to look for him each and every day; she could not help herself.
12:06. The face she sought appeared; the blue-eyed man was walking swiftly towards her, talking on a sleek cell-phone. Sitting straight, Michelle leaned forward as much as possible in order to hear his voice. Bits of conversation floated toward her through the other sounds of the street. He had a pleasant voice; masculine with a clear, British accent. He passed quickly and was soon lost in the moving crowd of walking suits, heading to wherever it was he went.

Michelle sighed, heavily. For the few seconds she saw the blue-eyed man each day, she felt light. But, in his wake, her emotions shifted to more downcast feelings, accompanied by a tendency to pity herself. He was so strikingly good-looking, so poised and groomed; she imagined herself looking like the Little Match Girl: soot-ridden and sunken-eyed… lighting matches to keep herself warm.

“Ah, well…” she whispered, “Until tomorrow.”

After two years of selling her drawings out on the streets of Manhattan, Michelle to embrace optimism. The alternative was depression; she saw daily examples of that in the lined faces of lost souls who shrouded themselves in alcoholism and misery. The sight of these rock-bottom-dwellers kept Michelle’s spirits up; there was a lot to be thankful for, even in her situation.

A middle-aged businessman in a dark suit passed by, glancing at one of the cartoons on Michelle’s display. He laughed and dug in his pocket for money. Taking the picture down from the display board, Michelle quickly wrapped it in brown paper and tied a length of twine around it before handing the package over. As the man walked away, Michelle smoothed and folded the precious bills, discreetly stowing them away in her sock.

It was a good day; she sketched five drawings and sold four. Eventually, the sunlight waned; Michelle stood in the fading light and folded her cardboard display. Adjusting her coat, she picked up the little rug, rolled it and pulled down the brim of her hat. It was not wise to be out after dark, not here. Stepping into the narrow river of people, Michelle joined them for the walk home, eleven blocks of familiar sights, smells and sounds.

The sharp tang of Chinese food and hot-pastrami filled the air. There were hot dogs and chestnuts for sale, too. It was time to pick up dinner. Working her way toward a fruit stand, Michelle exchanged a nod with the ancient Vietnamese woman sitting behind the rows of apples. The woman immediately picked up two apples and put them in a small sack; she knew Michelle by sight. Handing over the money, Michelle took her fruit with a smile. Down the block, there was a take-out window with excellent Chinese food. With today’s sales, she was able to get chow mien, broccoli beef and egg-rolls. It smelled sublime; Michelle hastened her step toward home. She couldn’t wait to sit down in her room and devour it.

The alley running behind the Waldorf teemed with people at all times of the day and night: kitchen assistants carrying bins of vegetables and fruit, bakery vans, carpet cleaners, linen delivery trucks and security. Michelle smiled as she spotted Samuel, a fatherly security guard she had come to know fairly well. From almost day one, the older man tended to look on Michelle as his responsibility.

“Miss Michelle.” he said, tipping his cap. Michelle smiled at him.

“Sir Samuel… you are valiancy, itself.” she replied, shifting her packages in order to shake his hand. Laugh lines deepened around Samuel’s eyes as he returned her smile.

“I see you have Chinese tonight.” he commented, walking with Michelle to one of the back entrances; swiping his card, he opened the door for her. “Mabel was getting worried you weren’t eating enough.”

Michelle chuckled a little; she’d only met Samuel’s wife a few times but was inclined to sit straight and click her heels when the stout, matronly woman was around. After just a few minutes, however, the severe woman’s initial stern facade melted and she’d fussed over Michelle like a mother hen. Once, the woman had Samuel bring her a care-basket, with canned food and such, but Michelle refused it; she had no kitchen to bake or cook and nowhere to store cans. Michelle did appreciate the thought and wrote a note saying so, sending it back, via her husband, along with a single rose (cut discreetly from the Waldorf garden courtyard). From then on, Mabel’s deliveries consisted of cookies with the occasional fresh loaf of bread.

“I have fruit today, too.” Michelle said, holding up her paper bag. “She needn’t worry. My parents taught me how to take care of myself.” Walking through the door, she turned back to Samuel. “Please tell her how I adored her raisin bread. It was simply delicious.” Samuel nodded, looking wistful.

“I know.” he said, sadly. “She wouldn’t let me eat any of it; says it’s bad for my diet.” He patted his belly affectionately. “I may have been forced to commandeer a few slices.” he added, his eyes twinkling. Smiling, Michelle nodded goodbye and chuckled all the way down the service hall.

The air grew in humidity and warmth as she neared the kitchens; walking forward in the dimly lit hallway faint scents of rosemary and garlic filled Michelle’s nostrils. A half-smile formed on her face at the familiar sound of the sous chefs arguing. There was a loud clang and the head chef began screaming obscenities. It was one of the few moments Michelle was grateful for her ignorance of the French language; she stepped aside as two kitchen assistants darted by her, trying to escape the chef’s wrath. Ducking into the stairwell Michelle climbed quickly to the second floor.

The hotel’s cheapest rooms were small but very pleasant; her room looked out over the top of the maintenance ‘shed’ onto the corner of the garden courtyard. As far as she knew, Michelle was the only permanent resident; she rarely saw anyone but the cleaning crews in her sector of the second floor. Not many people actually rented the tiny rooms, unless all others were full. Using her key card, Michelle let herself into her room; she let out a sigh as the door closed behind her. Her eye rested on the familiar things: the gray, Berber carpet, the bed in it’s elegant, deep-red linens, potted flowers growing by the open window, the diminutive antique table and the tall, cherry armoire. It was so good to be home.

Closing the window against the night, Michelle drew the curtain and began her nightly ritual: her battered boots were removed, wiped down, and placed carefully in the bottom of the armoire, her coat hung and the other clothing bundled into the laundry basket. Michelle’s tiny bathroom boasted a toilet, pedestal sink and a slender shower, one just big enough for someone like her to squeeze into; the big plus was the hotel’s boiler system: never-ending hot water. At the end of the day it was pure bliss just to stand under such cascading heat and let it wash away the grime of the street.

After a hot shower, Michelle dressed in dark green yoga pants, her Stanford sweatshirt and slippers; she put her wet hair back in a pony tail, picking up her key card and laundry. The second floor had a small laundry ‘room’ at the end of the hall, which was really a small, converted closet with a washer dryer, covered up by folding wooden doors. Checking the inside for clothes, Michelle set her wash going and walked back to her room, reveling in the quiet.
“If I didn’t have to go outside to make money, I’d gladly make this my hermitage.” Michelle thought. The idea rather appealed; beside Oscar and Mabel, she really had no one to worry about, or anyone to worry about her. Here, at least, she had a small measure of secluded comfort.

Back in her room, she turned on the miniature CD player adorning her night-table; it was one of the few things she hadn’t had to sell. Her flat screen TV had succumbed to the grasp of the local pawn shop long ago, but music she refused to be parted from. Soon, the lovely strains of a piano concerto filled the air and Michelle sat on the floor by the bed. Pulling out the leather portfolio from under it, Michelle sifted through the drawings inside; she held the 12:06 man’s portrait up as if it were a fragile thing. It did look like him; Michelle thought it was probably her best work. She’d managed to capture that radiant smile from nothing but memory.

Smiling, she slid the picture into the portfolio again, fastening up the silver buckles; Michelle held the briefcase a moment, inhaling the faint smell of leather. The portfolio had been a gift from her father on graduation day; the expensive charcoal pencils and fine pens inside came from her Uncle Oscar. Somehow they knew she’d kept her passion for art, even amid the myriad tax classes and volumes of law. Looking at them, Michelle’s eyes misted; she put the portfolio away. Looking at the writing desk, Michelle smiled at the pictures of her family; photos of her parents on their wedding day, a picture of them smiling over her as a baby, a picture of her next to her uncle, almost lost in the huge sombrero he had brought her from Mexico.

Standing, Michelle turned the music up slightly and glanced at the clock; her laundry would not be done for another twenty minutes. Looking around, she wished she had a teapot, or some kind of kettle. She missed tea; she missed a lot of things. Sighing, Michelle’s eye drifted to the unopened Chinese food on her desk. Smiling, she grasped it and sat down on the floor again; the spicy aroma cheered her up immensely. The egg rolls were especially good. Michelle ate, gladly abandoning the realm of self-pity and want.

Tossing the empty food containers away down the hallway garbage chute, Michelle caught a glimpse of a family checking into a room down the hall. The small boy and his parents were smiling, talking excitedly as they maneuvered their suitcases into the door; they looked happy. Michelle felt lighthearted just looking at them until the moment their door shut; the hall suddenly looked barren. Michelle went back into her room quickly. Loneliness had been her only companion for the last four years but she still resented its presence.

Lying in her bed an hour later, Michelle listened to the slow jangling of a janitor’s cart as it passed; in the distance an ambulance siren rang out over the never-ending sounds of cars.

“I am lonely.” she whispered into the dark. She felt it so acutely it was almost painful. She thought briefly of the 12:06 man, of his cerulean eyes and brilliant smile. “…and, I’m a coward.” Michelle admitted, smiling to herself. There had to be a way to signal the blue-eyed man she so admired, to let him know she existed; a subtle way… one that did not require heroics. She would give almost anything to see him smile at her. Peering over the edge of her bed, Michelle could just make out the portfolio. Perhaps it was time to let her portrait see the light of day. “It’s worth a shot.” she murmured; she was tired of being lonely. She was tired of merely existing. Lying back on her pillow, Michelle smiled as Sleep danced its slow steps around her room.

The next morning, Michelle traveled with a singular happiness along her route to work; she wore her patched coat and a brown, corduroy skirt, with thermals underneath. Her boots were clean, but scuffed, her dark red/brown hair all tucked beneath her floppy-brimmed, gray, canvas hat; a gray scarf and mittens rounded out her ensemble.

“If this next week goes well I just may have enough to shop at the illustrious Goodwill Store for my winter wardrobe.” Michelle thought, giggling at her own excitement.

Walking with new-found energy, Michelle arrived at her corner. The location was not so desirable for panhandlers, due to the fast pace and general snobbishness of the passers-by. Michelle was never bothered by other vendors wanting to stop there; the crowds just moved by too quickly. The pedestrians did stop for pictures, however, their eyes caught by a cartoon or drawing; even the most staunch, stern-faced Brooklyn-ite seemed to want a bit of brevity in their lives. Having set up her display, Michelle pulled out a wrapped picture from her bag; with bright eyes she slid the thin package behind the display, out of sight.

All through the morning hours the stream of foot traffic did not lessen. For the first time since she began selling portraits on the corner, Michelle was unable to concentrate on her sketch-pad; she fidgeted and nervously bit her lip. At 12:00, she could wait no longer. Fetching the mystery package out, Michelle pulled the wrapping from the blue-eyed man’s portrait and fixed it to the display with care. She put it near the top, where it had the most advantage of being seen. Looking into the oncoming crowd, Michelle scanned it quickly and then glanced at her watch; it was 12:05. Michelle wondered if he’d even see the portrait, let alone recognize the picture as himself. It wasn’t much of a flag but at least she had raised it.

12:06; her mouth went dry. Michelle picked up a water bottle and took a small sip, keeping her unblinking gaze on the moving crowd. People walked forward, seven or eight deep, each keeping an inch or so of ‘personal space’ around them. Michelle realized her heart was racing.

“Stop.” she silently chided herself. “Calm down; he’s just another person walking to lunch.” Taking a deep breath she watched, waiting.

He was late. Michelle’s hazel eyes searched the crowd at a faster pace. 12:08. She wondered if she’d chosen the one day to bring her portrait and he decided to call in sick; he was never late. Another two minutes went by; Michelle’s heart sank in disappointment. Then, through the crowd she glimpsed his face, but it was obscured again. Sitting up, a smile crept over Michelle’s mouth as she waited for him to come closer. He was walking somewhat slower than the other travelers.

The crowd parted and the reason for his tardiness suddenly became clear; walking next to Michelle’s mystery man was an elegant, older woman, beautifully dressed. She held onto the man’s arm and spoke to him with a smile. He inclined his head to one side as if to hear her over the sounds of the street. The woman’s face was similar in feature and form to his; Michelle assumed the lady was his mother; her artistic eye missed nothing: the older woman was well-dressed, her manner and walk exuded British sophistication from her deep-red suit-dress and black, fur-lined coat, to her button-up boots and tasteful garnet jewelry. She was easily a matron of considerable social status.
Looking at her, Michelle felt conscious of every stain and hole in her clothing; even the scuffs of her own shoes seemed to leap out into view. The older woman’s face seemed kind, but Michelle just wanted to disappear, feeling every inch the bedraggled street artist. Eying them from under her hat brim, Michelle watched as they walked closer. The man from Michelle’s portrait must have said something humorous as the older woman laughed, and looked around with a smile.

Something next to Michelle caught the lady’s attention; she paused, her face dressed in mild surprise. “Oh, no!” Michelle thought. She had forgotten all about the portrait. Ducking down quickly, Michelle squeezed her eyes shut, all bravery draining away rapidly. She prayed that the lovely, rich lady and her gorgeous son would just keeping walking. A few seconds ticked by; she opened her eyes again. Two, polished boots stood in front of her mat.

“That picture, there, William.” came a pleasant voice. “It’s you! I am certain of it…” Michelle wanted to die, hide or fall into a sidewalk crack… anything but look up.

“Ahem.”

A deep voice sounded somewhere far above Michelle’s head. Taking a big breath she peered up, from under her hat. She had a long way to look. Twin sapphires met her gaze; his eyes were as inviting as tropical waters from a travel magazine. He looked momentarily surprised, then amused. “My mother favors this picture.” he said, pointing at it. Michelle glanced at the woman next to him; the lady smiled down at her.

“Well, aren’t you a dear…” the woman murmured in a soft voice, a gloved hand to her chest. Michelle blinked. Under the lady’s kind gaze she felt unduly juvenile, despite her 22 years; her want-induced ‘diet’ made her look slight, and with her hair all tucked away Michelle supposed she looked a little middle-school-ish.

“The sign says five dollars.” came the blue-eyed man’s delicious voice again. “It does look uncannily like me, I’ll admit.”

“Five dollars?” his mother repeated, still looking at Michelle. “It’s worth much more than that, my dear. Really well done. How nice it would look on the ballroom wall… I could never get you to sit for a portrait.”

“Dammed waste of time.” the blue-eyed man said, grinning. “That’s what cameras are for.”

“He walks by here each day at 12:06.” Michelle heard herself saying. Where the hell did that come from? She bit her lip to keep more words from coming out. Blue-eyed man’s eyebrows rose slightly; his mother clapped her hands together and smiled.

“I knew it!” the lady said, happily. “It is you… a mother knows. Would you be so kind, my boy? I’ve no paper money with me… I don’t suppose she takes checks. It must go in my gallery.” The man chuckled at her enthusiasm, digging in his pocket for money.

“For five dollars, I can buy it for you.” he stated, counting out the bills.

Though she hadn’t breathed in over a minute, Michelle forced her arms to move; carefully, she unpinned the portrait, wrapped it swiftly and tied the twine. Looking up again at the man, she held the package up to him; their eyes met a second time.

William Montgomery had allowed his mother to guide them over to a street artist. The huddled figure sat next to a simple cardboard display with pen and ink drawings pinned onto it. Some of the pictures weren’t bad, but his mother pointed to the one in the top corner; his own face looked back at him. The portrait was very good. Curious, William looked down at the artist, sitting so small on her mat with her back to the building. The girl’s odd, beautiful eyes struck him as she looked up from under her dingy hat; they shone out from her fair skin like greenish-gold gemstones. He’d never seen their equal.

She was a young woman, far too young to be out here peddling drawings in William’s opinion. He was instantly glad she had the sense to dress so plainly, lest she attract the wrong kind of attention. She caught his attention, however, and he was drawn right in; he wanted to know all about her. Questions were on the tip of his tongue as he counted out the money. Why was she out here? Where was her family? When she lifted her eyes again to his, holding out the wrapped portrait, William decided to get a better look at her. Instead of taking the picture, he clasped her wrist and gently pulled her up to stand.

Michelle felt like she was in some kind of trance; the man just reached out, took her hand and made her stand up… she didn’t say even one word in reprimand; her voice wouldn’t work. Up close the man was even better-looking, if that were possible. Unlike most of the British men she’d seen on TV, he was tall and broad-shouldered, possessing a manly chin along with those incredibly blue eyes. He seemed to be scrutinizing her closely.

Giving the young woman an encouraging smile, William pressed the money into her slender hand; her gloves were stained and worn. He had a strange urge to cover her hands with his own and keep them warm. His mother spoke up.

“You’re very talented, my dear.” she said, softly. Glancing at her, Michelle was comforted by the kind look in the lady’s eyes; she had blue eyes like William’s, though a little paler.

“Thank you, Ma’am.” she managed to say, resisting the temptation to bite her lip. The woman lifted her gloved hand and touched Michelle lightly on the side of her face; the gesture was natural and concerned, but it caught Michelle off guard.

“So young.” the lady said, smiling sadly. Michelle blinked; tears threatened to show themselves and she struggled not to cry. Not in front of them.

“We should go, Mother.” William, said, sobering. He saw the young woman stiffen at his mother’s touch; he knew his mum meant it kindly, but there were times he’d seen homeless people flip out. This girl was pretty and shy, but she could easily be mentally ill. His mother looked up at him and nodded.

“Please take care of yourself, my dear.” she said, looking back at Michelle.

Michelle just nodded, stupidly; her tongue seemed frozen. William and his mother began to walk away, Michelle left staring after them. William bent down a little towards his mother.

“You have to be careful; the homeless here are very touchy about their lifestyle.” His words, though quietly spoken, drifted back to Michelle’s ears. Wound up already, her emotions brimmed over and something in her snapped.

“I am NOT homeless!” she yelled after the retreating pair. They stopped at once, looking back at her with surprise. Michelle felt her face flame, but the embarrassment merely fueled her outburst. “I live in a nice hotel!” she continued. A few pedestrians stopped and stared, too. “I just can’t find work! I’m a CPA! I went to Stanford! And I… take care of myself… just fine!” Tears welled up, blurring Michelle’s vision; she did, however, see William’s shocked expression perfectly well.

Shame hit her like a slap in the face; she flung the dollar bills over the heads of the crowd and turned around, needing to escape. Grabbing her things in one, swift movement, Michelle darted headlong into the throng of moving people, weaving among them as fast as she could, in the opposite direction as William and his mother. Though no one followed her, she did not stop running until she reached the Waldorf’s back alley. Samuel was not on duty, and Michelle was glad of it; she knew she appeared distraught but didn’t feel like explaining herself at the moment.

It was not until she’d reached the sanctuary of her room that Michelle fully realized what had taken place. Collapsing on the floor, she caught her breath and began sobbing. What the earth had she done? She… calm, steady Michelle Gregory NEVER acted like that. Making a scene was not in her nature, let alone running away like a spoiled child. She was mortified, in the ultimate sense of the word. Not only did she yell and throw money at the man she’d been hoping to impress, but his mother was there to witness her unhinged behavior. Well, if William was wondering whether or not she was mental, he knew what to think now. Hanging her head, Michelle allowed her tears to flow unchecked.

“Oh… my… stars. I’m such an idiot.” she said, pressing her fists against her forehead. William wouldn’t want anything to do with her now, she was sure of it.

Sighing, Michelle wiped her eyes on the corner of her coat. Staring at the edge of the worn garment, she decided to take off her things; she carefully put them away and started the water going in the shower. She got out a towel automatically and stepped into the bathroom. Letting hot water pour over her, Michelle was assailed by sobering thoughts.

She couldn’t go back now; sitting at the same corner was impossible. Thanks to her brave effort at being seen he blue-eyed man was aware of her presence. If she went back he might yell at her for scaring his mom, or something. Even if he said, or did, nothing, Michelle knew she wouldn’t be able to bear him passing by each day knowing she’d so royally screwed up her chance at making a good first impression.

“Ah well.” she thought, her eyes shut. “It’s not like he would’ve asked me out anyway. I’ll find another corner.” with melancholy, Michelle sank down to the floor. “Hopefully, he’ll forget all about me.” She sat in the shower a long time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Behind his broad, mahogany desk, William Montgomery stared out the windows of his office; he did not really see the splendid view. A pensive look marred his features, his blue eyes troubled; piles of papers sat on his desk, unnoticed. The altercation with the pretty street artist at lunch bothered him and he couldn’t escape the urge to do something.
Like most people would have been, he was startled by the girl’s outburst but her look of acute pain and embarrassment struck William like an arrow. For the entire lunch hour following, his mother had done nothing but say she hoped the young woman was alright, where was her family, etc; she was mortified that they might have inadvertently caused the ‘poor girl’ additional suffering. She wondered if the girl really had gone to Stanford and if so, what was she doing selling drawings on the street. After seeing his mother to her car, William returned to the corner; the girl was nowhere to be found.

Standing, William walked over to a window and stood, his hands clasped behind his back. Grimly, he pondered why he’d assumed the young woman was homeless. The idea apparently insulted her. To be sure, she was sitting on the street, but she wasn’t panhandling; her clothes were worn, but they were clean and she did look as though she took care of herself. Perhaps it was her jobless condition; once she admitted she’d seen him each day, it was easy to draw the conclusion that the girl was otherwise unemployed.

Maybe it was her stained, drooping hat. William smiled, recalling her lovely eyes suddenly looking up from under the brim. It was if the sky had opened, pouring a single ray of sunlight down on her face. Though slight, the young woman possessed a haunting beauty that William could not shake from his mind; not that he tried. He appreciated a bona fide distraction the same as any man, let alone a pretty mystery-girl; one whom may need rescuing. Perhaps she might return to her corner, but it was also probable she would never come back.

“Perhaps she wants to be found.” William murmured, looking down; his window went all the way to the floor, offering a substantial view of the streets, far below. As he stared as the moving cars, he wondered about the girl. Why was she out there? The young woman certainly didn’t like her unemployed situation and was clearly mortified at being called ‘homeless’.

The heated words she shouted earlier came floating back to him; William returned to his desk. When angered, people usually give out far more information than they intended to. “A nice hotel… CPA… Stanford.” he said, as if reciting notes in a meeting. In his profession, remembering all the minute details meant the difference between losing a client and making the deal of the century. Picking up the phone, William decided that if the mystery-girl could draw an exact portrait of him without even meeting him, he could find her with just a bit of effort.

He dialed his mother’s cell number. “It’s William. Fine. What’s the name on that portrait you got today? Yes, I’ll wait.” He tapped his foot on the wood flooring, impatient to put a name to the face in his mind. “Yes? Got it.” William wrote the name given on a nearby notepad. “Thank you. No, I’ll be working late. Alfred will drive you to the station. You too. Get plenty of rest. Good bye.”

Hanging up, he read the name he’d hastily scrawled, a boyish look of satisfaction crossing his eyes. “Michelle Gregory.” he said, to himself. The name fit her; she looked like a Michelle.

Ambling absent-mindedly to the window again, William fingered the paper awhile before folding it and putting it into his pocket. Looking down at the streets, he smiled to himself. He had no idea what he’d say to her if he ever saw her again. “First…” he thought, “I have to find her.”

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