Plans

By Natalie Smothers

"Yeah, well, I heard she used to be a big time photographer. Then one day she just stopped taking pictures and came to work here. Nobody knows why."

All great things start out as something small, a connection formed between two unexpected sparks, foundations built through trial and time and trust, future plans mapped out in baby steps. Danya Biermann never expected to be cooking for the students of the Shimamura School for Gifted Children, just as she never expected Patrick Dahlberg to agree to her book proposal, but there she'd had hope and eggrolls.

Danya always found it easy to believe in herself and take care of everyone else, but found it hard to accept that same faith and love from others. So does Nathan Weisflock, whose friendship she needs to put her life back together.

This is the story of the impact of one life that shatters more, but within is the proof that sometimes an unexpected connection borne of love and faith can bring us back to ourselves and our best laid plans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Natalie Smothers
• Release date: Jul 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466061620

Natalie Smothers

I was introduced to the music of David Byrne at a young age, which probably answers most of your questions right away. This had a side effect of causing me to develop my own way of doing things, as well as a mind that’s still slightly off kilter. I mostly write to amuse myself, but it is my sincere hope that in doing so I amuse others as well. So far I seem to be doing a good job.Born in Ft. Worth, Texas, I went to school in San Antonio and got an expensive piece of paper that says I spent a lot of time scribbling furiously in notebooks about things that were not being taught. For one reason or another I have lived in a variety of places in Texas (including Austin, College Station, San Antonio and back home to Fort Worth), Colorado, Wisconsin and most recently Chicago, Illinois. It is my deepest wish to one day live there again.

Book preview

Part One

Connection

One

At seven o’clock at night in New York, no one pays attention to the guy delivering the Chinese food, even if that guy happens to be a woman with pink hair wearing a camouflage jacket. Despite the fact that she wasn’t really a delivery person and her hair was supposed to be burgundy, Danya was grateful for this as she climbed her third flight of stairs. She had managed to bypass the locked front door by blending in with a group of people that looked like they were on their way to or from a party, and with the way she emerged from the stairwell and walked purposefully toward the apartment door, no one would have guessed that she wasn’t technically supposed to be there.

There was only one apartment on the floor, its number indicated by a brass plaque affixed to the wall beside the door. Danya paused briefly in front of it and checked the brown paper bag to make sure its contents hadn’t shifted before she took a deep breath and knocked.

She fidgeted with the strap of her messenger bag, adjusting it as best she could with one hand while she waited. The length of her wait might have been off-putting to anyone else, but Danya had been in this hallway before and she knew that he would come to the door eventually.

Just as she was thinking this, she heard footsteps on the other side of the door and dropped the strap of her bag. The apartment door opened a crack, just wide enough for Danya to see an icy blue eye underscored by the security chain, which was still fastened and pulled taut. She put on her most pleasant smile.

Hello again! Guess what I’ve got?

There was no answer from the eye, unless you counted the way it narrowed suspiciously and glanced at the bag in her hand. Danya saw what it was looking at and held up the bag, waving it in what she hoped was a tempting manner.

I brought spring rolls!

Without warning, the door slammed shut. For a moment Danya was afraid that she had just spent her last twenty-five dollars on the opportunity to eat cold vegetable lo mein for the next week, but before she could formulate another plan of action she heard the chain on the door slide back and sighed with relief.

She reached forward and pushed open the door, knowing that it wasn’t going to open any other way, just in time to see the apartment’s sole inhabitant shuffling barefoot toward a table on the other side of the room. On the table was something that resembled a half-finished model of a building, and next to it was a drafting table. A large, mostly empty desk with a computer pushed carelessly off to the side dominated the adjacent wall, making it obvious where the real work was being done.

The owner of the eye sat back down at the table and looked thoughtfully at a neat row of plastic pieces that lay beside the model. His dark blonde hair was somewhat shaggy on the back and sides, making it hard for Danya to see his expression, but she didn’t need to see his face to guess what he was thinking.

It doesn’t have to be perfectly symmetrical, you know.

Really? Oh well, I had no idea! Thank God I have you here to help me design these buildings, he said sarcastically, running an absent hand through his hair in a futile attempt to keep it out of his face. "Why don’t I just add fifty stories and make the whole thing slanted? It can be the next Torre di Pisa." Danya knew he was using the Italian phrase to sound pretentious but she wasn’t going to let him bait her this time.

You do realize that’s a model, right? There was no answer from the man, who picked up one of the pieces and measured it with a small plastic ruler he took from a toolbox by the chair. What are you planning to do with this one?

"Not sure yet. For all I know at this point, it might have no purpose other than to simply be." He looked dissatisfied with something about the measurements. Offering no further answer to Danya about the model, he took a piece of sandpaper out of the toolbox and began to smooth out some imaginary imperfection in the plastic.

How very existential. She set the bag of food on the bar, then crossed to the opposite side of the room where another finished model sat on top of the entertainment center. The living room was spacious, hinting to Danya that it had probably begun its life as a loft that had been converted, but sparsely furnished. There was an obscenely large television in the cabinet of the entertainment center faced by a large, L-shaped black leather couch that took up a good quarter of the space of the room. Danya hadn’t seen either of them used before, but who knew what he did when she wasn’t around.

The apartment’s walls were the same boring white as every other apartment in the world and bare, save for a couple of bizarre-looking abstract pieces. As usual, she studied each of them in turn, always coming back to an intricately carved piece of what he unapologetically told her was genuine elephant ivory. A Chinese garden scene, complete with trees, animals and even flowers rose out of the curved tusk like phantoms, their vague shapes suggesting more than was really there. There was something about it, a coldness that attracted her and begged to be touched, but getting thrown out of the apartment once over it was enough. Still, she paused in front of it again before moving on to the model, which was a work of art in its own right.

It was a perfect scale model of a hotel, so detailed that it was almost possible to imagine tiny people filing in and out of it. Danya looked over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being watched before she reached over and touched one of the pillars flanking the tiny double doors. She hadn’t yet incurred the penalty for touching one of his precious models but she assumed it was at least ten times worse than the one for touching the ivory. It amazes me that you’re able to actually see what the building is going to look like before you’ve got it drawn up or anything.

It’s just something I’ve always done. A lot of architects do it.

Not on this scale, I’ll bet. I suppose you really are The Amazing Patrick Dahlberg I hear so much about. Patrick ignored her and Danya left the model alone before he realized what she was doing near it. She went into the kitchen to open the bag of Chinese food. I brought sesame chicken, veggie lo mein, broccoli and shrimp and steamed rice. What kind do you want?

Just leave it on the kitchen counter and I’ll get it myself, Patrick replied, still focused on his model. Danya closed her eyes and counted to ten. She should have guessed he was going to pull this again. It wouldn’t matter if she drove to Maine to get him a lobster salad, he’d still tell her to just leave it on the counter.

She knew there was no use in arguing with him. Trying to hold back what she was really thinking, Danya opened the paper envelope that held the spring rolls and took one out, then marched across the apartment and held it in front of Patrick’s face so that it blocked his view of the model table. He tried to swat her hand out of the way but she was unyielding. Eat it.

Fine. Patrick grabbed the spring roll out of her hand and took a single bite out of it before setting it on the edge of the drafting table and reaching for his tools. After a moment’s hesitation, he held his greasy fingers up to Danya. What about a napkin? Bring any of those?

They’re in the kitchen, she managed through clenched teeth. Danya knew exactly what he was getting at but she wasn’t about to let him have the satisfaction of ordering her around again. With the rest of the food.

Silence stretched between them while Patrick considered the model and Danya stared at him, hands on her hips. His hand was still outstretched between them, a pale, thin elephant that neither would acknowledge. After a few moments, he turned and looked at her expectantly. Right. So, were you going to get one for me or what?

For your information, Danya snapped, "I am not your maid. I’m not your assistant. And I am certainly not your mother bird. It then follows that I am not going to sit here and feed you all night, Patrick."

Feel free to leave anytime. Patrick looked over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen, then back at Danya. Get me a napkin first, though. This is just disgusting.

That was it. She reached across the model table and grabbed the remaining half of the spring roll from the drafting table, then grabbed Patrick’s chin and crammed it into his mouth. He looked up at her, his eyes wide with barely controlled rage. The only sounds he could manage were muffled grunts around the mouthful of food, and she could see him chewing as fast as he could so he could tear her a new one. Danya wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. She stormed across the room and picked up her messenger bag, shooting him a dark look before she flung open the door.

Get it yourself, you jackass.

Not waiting for him to regain control of his mouth, Danya slammed the door behind her hard enough to rattle the chain on the other side. She couldn’t help but smirk, even though it was altogether possible that she had just ruined any hope she had of getting him to agree to let her use his designs. Playing the enamored groupie was getting tiresome. She was halfway down the stairs when she realized that she had left her own food on the counter in his apartment too. In an instant, her minor victory was empty as her stomach. There was no way her roommate was going to loan her a packet of ramen, much less five bucks for something to eat.

Dammit.

Two

Late the next morning, Danya and her studio partner Becca were taking turns washing the fixer from a series of black and white photographic prints. In the dim red light of the darkroom it was hard to tell whose prints were whose, but they seemed to know what they were doing. It could all be sorted out after they were finished drying anyway. The School of Visual Arts preferred that any students using the photo lab did so in pairs to prevent accidents. Developing photos involved a series of chemical baths and it was rumored that they had decided to institute the policy after a student had died from inhaling the fumes. There was no hard evidence to support this, but the new ventilation system spoke volumes. Luckily for Danya and Becca, the new policy had come at the same time as the expanded equipment budget, so there were two full sets of photo developing equipment that could accommodate both their needs. Even so, things still got mixed up.

"Did you mean to take photos of the inside of your bag?"

I didn’t take those, Danya said defensively. She picked up a square magnifying glass from the table and held it over a spot on the print Becca was hanging on the line. Look at this. ‘Hot Hot Hannah’s Naughty Nail Gloss.’ That is most definitely not mine.

Let me see that. Becca picked up the other, smaller magnifying glass. Squinting at the image, she scratched the corner of her mouth with a neatly painted fingernail that was a clear indicator of her guilt. Huh. I don’t remember taking these. The lens cap must have fallen off.

If we weren’t already an hour behind schedule, I would hit you with a sack of film canisters. Danya went back to her side of the darkroom and agitated the prints that were resting in the fixer and developer trays. You know, I never really appreciated the advantages of digital photography until I had to share a studio with you, Becca.

What’s that supposed to mean? You’re the one who always takes forever in here. How is it that we start at the exact same time and don’t get out of here until after six? The two women were standing with their backs to each other, squabbling conversationally while they rinsed and hung their prints. And if everyone could afford a shiny Nikon D1x, maybe they’d appreciate the advantages of digital too.

Mom said it was either that or a car. I think my father would been pleased with my choice. Danya wiped her hands on the rag that was draped over the edge of the sink. Besides, digital is still a brave new world as far as SVA is concerned. When I was an undergrad, they wouldn’t have even let me bring something like it into the room without laughing. There’s no way they’d take any work I did with it seriously.

So why even bother? A pair of rubber gloves snapped on Becca’s side of the room, meaning that she was going to be pouring chemicals into the thick-walled disposal jugs, and Danya slipped a dust mask over her nose and mouth. You could have had an amazing Leica for what you paid for that thing.

Whether you believe it or not, digital photography is the wave of the future and I plan to get as familiar with it as possible before everyone jumps on the bandwagon. The familiar developer fumes wafted over to Danya’s side of the room and she turned the fan from low to high. Though I don’t think I’ll ever totally switch from film cameras.

Speaking of impossible dreams, Becca said through her own mask, How are things going with the Hermit of Prescott Avenue?

What, Patrick? It’s going all right, she said vaguely. He’s a difficult person to talk to, that’s for sure.

He’s a prick, Becca said bluntly. He’s rude, he’s arrogant and he thinks he’s God’s gift to the world of architecture just because everyone in the design world runs around after him like a litter of hungry cats.

You’ve met him, then.

I had the misfortune of running into him at the opening of one of his giant works of conceptualist art. Literally. He bit my head off because some wine spilled on his jacket and afterward all everyone could talk about was how lucky I was to meet him because he never leaves his studio. Turning to face Danya, Becca set down the plastic jug and pulled off her dust mask. You’d have thought he was the Second Coming.

Danya barely managed to stifle a laugh. That sounds like Patrick, all right. He’s a tougher nut to crack than I thought he’d be, but I’m making progress. At least he’s letting me into the apartment now.

Yeah, after only a month of pleading with him. She tossed the gloves into the sink and leaned on the edge of the table that held the enlarger. Why don’t you just give up on him? Do your thesis on something else and write the asshole off as one of the follies of youth.

I can’t. I know I should, but I just can’t. Danya sighed. There’s something about the way he pushes that makes me want to push back. Harder. Until he breaks.

Oh, that’s healthy. After a quick look around the room to make sure all the unexposed film and paper was safely put away, Becca flipped the switch for the dim white lightbulb that was supposed to help their eyes make the transition to the fluorescent lights in the hallway. You know, you never did tell me how you managed to find him in the first place. It’s not like he hands out business cards with his address and phone number on them.

There’s a very good reason for that, Danya said, turning off the ‘In Use’ light before she opened the darkroom door. I think lawyers call it plausible deniability. She pretended she didn’t see the look of alarm on her friend’s face.

Oh my God, Danya, what did you do?

Did you mark your prints? Ignoring the question, Danya tossed Becca a roll of photo labels and a pen. McMichaels said she’s going to start trashing them if you don’t put your name on them before you go. She pulled her camera bag out of the cubbyhole under the sink and put it over her shoulder. She’d do it, too.

You aren’t answering the question. How did you find him? Please just tell me it wasn’t something illegal. Becca took Danya’s continued silence to mean the worst. I would really hate for you to get sent to jail over something as stupid as this, especially if you didn’t even get an answer about your thesis out of him.

Let’s just say that if I was going to be arrested, I would have already been arrested by now. This did not set Becca’s mind at ease and Danya knew it. Patrick’s not the kind of guy who would wait to call the cops on someone, so either he doesn’t know how I found him or he doesn’t care.

Danya…

Can we just drop it? The only thing that matters is that I’m sure I’m close to a breakthrough with him. In light of her friend’s current line of questioning, it seemed prudent to Danya to edit out a few of the details of the previous night’s visit. There was no reason that she had to know about the shouting, or the abandoned Chinese food, or that she had to search under the couch cushions to scrape together enough change to buy coffee and a bagel after Clarissa absolutely refused to let Danya borrow money. He’s stopped slamming the door in my face.

Well, that’s something at least, Becca said dubiously. They walked to the end of the hall and into a small locker room that looked like it had been transported locker by filthy, chipped green locker from her middle school.Danya opened the one with her name plastered across it in green electrical tape.

Trust me on this one, Beccs, everything is going to be all right. Dropping her camera bag on the metal bench in the center of the room, Danya pulled off the paint-spattered Olly’s Organix t-shirt she wore and hung it on a hook after a test sniff and a long look. I’m going to have to get a new one of these soon.

Becca gave the shirt a distasteful look. That is the most horrible shirt.

It’s a wonderful shirt, Danya said, pulling on her long striped sweater and sitting down to take off her jeans. I’d wear it more often if it didn’t stink of developer and have all those little bleach spots down the side.

"Just don’t wear it into the graphic design studio or your foul-mouthed little cartoon dog will be the subject of next week’s Cautionary Tales seminar." It only took Becca a few minutes to change out of her work clothes, so she leaned against the lockers and watched while Danya took her time. Except for their height, the two women were as dissimilar as they could possibly be and still remain friends. Becca’s blonde pixie cut and big blue eyes made her look delicate and ethereal, while Danya’s darker tones gave the impression that she would just as soon punch you as talk to you. They both enjoyed going thrift shopping and visiting coffeehouses, but where Danya was more willing to fly by the seat of her pants, Becca preferred to have everything neatly planned and mapped out. And though neither would ever admit to it, there were plenty of times that each of them had thought seriously about strangling the other.

I’m ignoring that for the sake of our friendship. Danya hung her work jeans on the hook beside her shirt and closed the door. There, I’m done. Why are you still here, anyway?

I thought we were going to Angelino’s for Leaning Tower of Panini Night.

We were? A horrible, hot flush was working its way up Danya’s neck and into her cheeks. Leaning Tower of Panini Night was a once a month event where Angelino Bianchi invited his customers to build their own giant panini sandwiches. Anything was fair game as long as he could fit it into the hot press. Danya usually loved to challenge Becca to a stacking competition, but this time she had completely forgotten. There was no playing it off, either. Becca could already see it in her panicked expression. "I, you see, Beccs, I completely forgot. I mean, it’s not that I completely forgot, but I didn’t think it was the second Thursday already. Besides, I don’t have any cash anyway, I spent it all on the Chinese food last night." Realizing that she just said more than she had intended, Danya snapped her mouth shut, well aware that Becca was already grinding her teeth.

What do you mean, you spent it all on the Chinese food? Where did you get the money for the bagel, then?

From my couch. Look, I’m sorry I forgot about Panini Night. I’ve just been so busy with school and this whole Patrick project that it slipped my mind. I promise I’ll go with you next time, and we’ll have an even more amazing contest. Danya skillfully avoided the topic of money, looping her arm through Becca’s and guiding her down the hall toward the exit. Maybe a preemptive strike was best. Or how about we go for lunch this weekend? My mom will be putting my weekly allowance into my account tonight, so it’ll be my treat.

I can lend you the money, Becca said, sounding slightly put out. I mean, it’s not like I’d be paying your tuition or anything. Before Danya could give her an answer, she pulled her arm away and stopped in the middle of the hall. Wait a minute. You’re going over to his apartment again tonight, aren’t you?

Sort of, admitted Danya, becoming interested in one of the posters on the bulletin board near her head. I was going to go over to the grocery store near his studio and get some things to make dinner for him. She continued in a rush, hoping she could convince her friend that what she was doing was really important before Becca gave up and stormed out. See, Patrick kind of forgets to eat sometimes and he’s already pretty thin, so I’m kind of worried about him.

I don’t remember him looking that thin when I saw him. But then again, he was wearing a sweater and a leather jacket so I couldn’t really tell. I was more aware of the fact that I was getting yelled at in public. Becca looked like she was thinking hard about something. What do you mean, he forgets to eat? Is he anorexic or something?

No, he just gets so wrapped up in his work that he completely shuts out everything around him and there’s usually nothing in his refrigerator for him to eat anyway. Do you know what was in there the first time he let me in the door? A shriveled lime and a half-empty bottle of capers. I mean, what the hell is that about? So I thought that if I made him something there, like a huge portion of it, then he’d have leftovers he could eat if he gets hungry.

How altruistic of you. They walked out of the locker room and toward the stairs that led to the first floor exit, Becca rolling her eyes at Danya. And how exactly were you going to get the money for this, anyway?

Oh. Uh, Danya grinned at her in what she hoped was a disarming manner. She hadn’t thought that far ahead when she opened her mouth. I figured I’d just write a check. They won’t be able to cash it ‘til tomorrow, and by then I’ll have money in my account to cover it. Becca looked like she was going to be sick.

Oh my God.

Hey, Danya, how’s that thesis coming? The voice came from the top of the stairway and Danya looked up to see a guy in a suit coat and Modest Mouse t-shirt hanging over the railing of the next flight.

It’s going, she answered truthfully. How about you? Has the MaFA killed your soul yet? Matt was one of Danya’s few friends in the Art Critique department and she never tired of needling him about becoming a cog in the capitalist machine.

If I have to deconstruct another one of those goddamned DeBeers commercials, I might just have to swipe a gallon of developer from you so I can off myself. He waited until they had reached the top of the stairs, by which time another girl had joined them, this one with dark brown hair and eyes. Hey, Theresa.

Well if it isn’t the elusive Miss Biermann, Theresa said, switching her bag to the opposite shoulder. I haven’t seen you in at least two weeks.

I’ve been busy with thesis junk, Danya said defensively. The more people that showed up, the harder it became to justify her actions. But who am I telling? We’re all in the same position, I guess.

Yeah, but you had to go all Don Quixote on us and try to achieve the impossible, Matt said, shaking his head. "What the hell gave you the idea to try and do your thesis on Dr. Dahlberg, anyway? It’s like you want to spend another year in this place."

Why are you even trying to get him to talk to you? You don’t have to have his permission to do a thesis on his work, you know. Always level-headed, Theresa pointed out one of the biggest flaws in Danya’s logic right away and the rest of the group turned their eyes toward her expectantly.

I know, but I was hoping that I could interview him and get some, you know, input on what his design process is. What inspired him to make each building a certain way and ask him how he would compose an image of it if he could. It sounded appropriately intellectual and for a moment Danya thought she might have gotten away with it until she heard Becca scoff.

It’s because she wants to turn the stupid thesis into some kind of book after she graduates but she needs his permission to use the images of his work because he’s such a prick about them being his ‘intellectual property’ or whatever.

Her ulterior motive revealed, Danya tried to grin her way out of the circle of knowing looks that had formed around her with no success. What’s so wrong about that? Are you all going to try and tell me that you’re not going to sell your thesis material, that you’re going to frame it and keep it forever to remind you of our magical time together at SVA?

I don’t know about you, but it was magical for me, Matt said, leaning his head on Danya’s shoulder and snuggling up to her neck. At least when we were in undergrad and you’d let me have the pleasure of your company.

Tell me about it, Becca said, looking forlorn. She’s even skipping out on Angelino’s with me tonight.

But you always go to Panini Night together! Theresa looked scandalized and Danya groaned as Becca gave a sad little martyr’s sigh.

Could you guys make me feel any guiltier tonight?

We could, but what would be the point? Matt still had his head on Danya’s shoulder and was gazing up into her hair. He reached up to the longer side and held a chunk up to the light. What color is that? Plum? Maroon?

Burgundy, Danya answered, glad the conversation was taking a turn away from what a terrible friend she had become. Part of the Rebel Reds series by Roxie Hairshow.

Uh-huh, Matt said thoughtfully, letting the strands fall through his fingers. Looks like you’ve been neglecting it, too. I can see your roots.

That’s it, Danya said, irritation plain in her voice. I have got important thesis-related business to take care of right now, so you can all continue your little Danya-bashing party without me. It’s much easier to talk about someone behind her back anyway. Normally, she would have pretended to leave in a huff but tonight she wasn’t kidding. Who the hell did they think they were? It wasn’t like she was enjoying these nightly showdowns with Patrick, and she was already going to have hell to pay tonight after what she did yesterday. She was halfway out the door when she heard Matt call out to her.

Hey. You still coming to Jaq’s with us for coffee on Sunday?

Danya stopped, her hand on the door, and considered her options. She was annoyed with them now but things could be different by Sunday. Pains in the ass though they were, they were still her best friends. They couldn’t really call themselves that if they didn’t worry about her. Of course. But I get first choice of Scrabble tiles because you were all so mean to me.

Fat chance.

Are you calling me fat now?

Three

At the same time that Danya was leaving her friends, Patrick was getting a drink of water from the filtration pitcher in the refrigerator and thinking about how he was going to make her pay for assaulting him with a spring roll. He didn’t wonder whether or not she would show up. It was practically a given that after her evening studio work was finished she’d come directly to his apartment, weasel her way through the door and proceed with her nightly routine of tormenting him and interrupting his work.

He was actually rather surprised by what she had done the night before. Every other time he let her in the door she had been polite, inquisitive, and almost sycophantic. The last thing he wanted was for someone who amounted to little more than another art school ass kisser to plaster her name all over his work so she could rise to the top of the art world’s shit heap a little faster. Last night, though, she had shown a little hint of something resembling nerve. Patrick wondered if she was like that with her friends.

Surely she has friends, he thought as he closed the refrigerator door, pointedly ignoring the boxes of half-eaten Chinese food she had brought. He had given some serious thought to just trashing it after she stormed out of the apartment, but he couldn’t when it came right down to it. The lo mein had smelled good and he hadn’t eaten in more than sixteen hours, so he put the whole incident out of his mind and ate a little out of each box. Well, maybe not completely out of his mind. Otherwise he wouldn’t be thinking about it right now, would he?

Patrick took his glass to the model table with him and sat it on the edge of the drafting table, his default position for things he wanted out of the way. It was rare for him to do any work at the drafting table unless he had finished a model. Only after the details were completely ironed out would he draw up the plans to send to whatever construction team had bid high enough for the privilege to work on one of his buildings.

He told Danya that most architects worked from models before they drew the plans and she hadn’t managed to figure out that he was lying yet. Patrick was markedly different from other designers in that he almost never made any measurements or preliminary sketches before he sat down to work. Every model he created represented a design that had come from his mind fully formed and ready to be constructed. This demanded an above average ability to utilize spatial relations and a level of concentration that many people did not possess. Patrick, however, had both.

He picked up a tube of super glue and inspected the tip carefully. It was crusted over with dried glue and most likely clogged. Not wanting to bother with trying to clear the tube, he pulled off the applicator, threw it into the nearby waste basket, then took a fresh applicator out of the tackle box that comprised his toolkit and fitted it onto the end, then trimmed it carefully to make sure it was the right size. What he was doing required precision, and he wasn’t going to compromise the integrity of the entire model by cutting corners. It didn’t matter how many or how few people were going to see it, every model had to be absolutely flawless. One mistake, no matter how small it might seem, was cause to throw out the entire project and start over in Patrick’s mind, and he was ruthless in his enforcement of the policy.

It was this level of perfectionism that made it impossible for him to ever have an assistant, even if he had wanted one. It was also the reason that he worked alone. When he was much younger he had attempted to work as part of a group assigned to design a pool house for his school. It had been disastrous. Not the pool house itself – it had looked so impressive that they still used and showed it off to prospective students – but Patrick’s constant demands on the other students resulted in their refusal to ever work on another project with him. Not that this had bothered him in the least. In fact, the headmaster was halfway convinced that part of the reason he had been so difficult was so he wouldn’t have to do any more group projects at all.

None of this was going through Patrick’s mind as he picked up a small piece of plastic molding and applied a hair’s breadth of glue along its edge. The only thing on his mind was finishing the second story before Danya showed up and started driving him crazy. He turned the model so the rear of the building was facing him and squinted his eyes for a second before pressing the piece into place and holding it for a moment so the glue could set. When he was sure it was secure, Patrick moved his hand and picked up a magnifying glass so he could examine the seams more closely.

To his chagrin, the piece he had just set into place had a bead of glue bubbling out of the join. Cursing himself for not being more careful when he trimmed the applicator, Patrick took a bottle of paint thinner, an orange stick and a handful of cotton balls from the tackle box and set them out on the table. If he was going to fix this before it ruined the entire model, he was going to have to do immediately. He pulled the cotton between his fingers until he had a strip of it that was small enough to wrap around the fine point of the orange stick, then moistened it with the paint thinner.

Working carefully, so as not to dissolve more of the glue than he intended, Patrick used the cotton-tipped point of the orange stick to clean up the bead of glue before it could run down the side of the roof. He leaned back from the table, chewing on his lower lip and examining the model to see if there were any other spots that needed cleaning while he had the tools prepared. There was no other glue to clean, but he did see a spot on the opposite side where the paint didn’t quite match. Patrick pushed aside the paint thinner and orange sticks and took a paint pen out of the toolbox, searching through one of the drawers until he found just the right shade.

As he was shaking the pen to mix the paint, Patrick had a strange, unsettling feeling that someone was watching him. He lowered the pen but didn’t stop shaking it while he looked slowly over his shoulder in the direction of the couch. There was no one there, and Patrick exhaled with relief.

For what felt like the first time in a month, there was no one watching him.

He had gotten so used to having that girl hanging around his apartment that he wasn’t sure whether it was a relief to have her gone or whether he should be worrying about what she was off doing. Trying to keep his mind off the latter option, Patrick uncapped his paint pen and leaned down over his model. Using the lightest of light touches, he dabbed at the uneven spot on the model until it matched the pieces around it. Once it dried, it would be like it had never been damaged at all.

Let’s see what you look like from over here, Patrick muttered, getting out of his chair and backing a few feet away from the table. He rubbed his chin while he wandered around the model, mumbling under one breath about whether or not the angle was right on the roof and deeming it acceptable in the next.

On his final trip around the table, Patrick noticed that Danya had left a stack of contact sheets scattered across the coffee table. He hadn’t been able to see them from the angle at which he was seated at the model table, and the night before he had gone straight to bed without even locking the front door. He had half a mind to ignore them until she got there but even this slight bit of disorder in his studio was more than he could handle. If he didn’t pick them up now, it was going to eat at him while he was working and probably cause him to make another mistake like the one with the glue.

Some master photographer, he grumbled, kneeling beside the coffee table to gather up the pages. Leaving contact sheets strewn all over the place. There were numbers in the bottom corners of all the pages that Patrick assumed was the order they were supposed to be in, but a second glance told him that they were already in order. Frowning, he flipped through the pages to confirm his suspicion, then sat back and stretched out one leg. That little shit, he said incredulously to no one. She did this on purpose. He should have known that Danya would be too clever to just leave her work lying around like that.

Chuckling to himself, Patrick leaned against the couch and flipped through the contact sheets again. The girl had some real talent, he couldn’t deny that. There was no doubt in his mind that her thesis would be a success with or without his help, but a book? That was something completely different.

Patrick had been approached before by writers who wanted to do some sort of biography about him but he had turned them all down before they even made a proposal. His life, his work, those things were complicated, things he couldn’t trust anyone else to write about. They’d only screw things up or get the details wrong, and then everyone in the world would have the wrong idea about him. This sort of thing was best left to the only person he would be able to trust with such a responsibility, and he had long since given up on the idea of wasting time on something as frivolous as a biography.

Still, Danya wasn’t asking him to let her do a biography. She was more interested in doing a visual book on his work, something he could help her with in what little spare time he had. Of course, that would mean he would have to let her work in his studio so he could keep an eye on her. He pulled himself onto the couch and looked over at the desk. It wasn’t like he ever really used it.

This is insane, Patrick thought, tossing the contact sheets onto the coffee table again. He couldn’t believe he was even considering this. She was going to have to do better than a few photographs before he would agree to anything.

The rumbling in the pit of his stomach had turned into a full fledged growl by the time he finished straightening the contact sheets and got off the couch, and the thought of the leftover Chinese food in the refrigerator was unappetizing. Another sigh escaped him. It was so inconvenient to have to stop and feed himself.

Where the hell was Danya, anyway? She should have been there by now, carrying some sort of grease-soaked paper bag and wearing that goofy smile she always had when he opened the door, knowing exactly what he was going to find outside. Irritating though she might have been at times, she did have decent instincts when it came to bringing him the right kind of food.

What the hell am I thinking? Snapping at himself for even considering being dependent on someone else, Patrick got his jacket out of the closet and pulled it roughly over his arm. He was perfectly capable of going down to the market and picking up something to eat. Stop being ridiculous, he said to himself, taking his keys off the hook by the door and running a hand through his hair. It was the first time he’d said anything that wasn’t mumbled half to himself all day and he felt himself frowning before he even realized he was doing it.

Was that what his voice really sounded like?

Four

After she somehow managed to extricate herself from the claws of her friends and their plaintive stares, Danya hurried toward the natural market down the street from Patrick’s apartment, hazarding a glance at her watch. Shit, she thought, it’s already after eight? He’s going to be an absolute terror, especially after last night.

For a moment she thought about turning around and going to Angelino’s instead. Matt and Theresa were going with Becca so she wouldn’t have to eat alone, and Danya was pretty sure she would be able to get them to let her join them, provided she showed the proper amount of repentance. She might even be able to catch up to them before they got to the restaurant if she went back right away.

The idea seemed more and more attractive with every step she took toward the market’s doors, mostly because she knew that if she committed herself to this crazy idea she was eventually going to have to leave the market and face Patrick’s wrath. Even without seeing him, she was already sure that wrath was the proper word to use. She wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if he had stopped working on his model just long enough to open a window and throw her contact sheets into the street. Not that it would matter that much. Danya had made copies of all the prints and contact sheets she left with Patrick just in case something like this happened.

Maybe Becca was right, it had all just been a waste of time. Every time she thought she was making a little headway with Patrick, something set him off and he either slammed the door on her or kicked her out of his apartment and they were back at square one. Slowly but surely, she could feel her determination weakening.

She wondered if he had even noticed that she left the contact sheets yet. Surely he had, seeing as how he started to get even more irritable anytime something was out of place in his precious studio. The bigger question in her mind was whether or not he had looked at them before he threw them out, since she was sure that was what he had done by now. She could actually see the thick sheets of photographic paper exiting the window and fluttering down to the busy street below, where they would be run over by car after car, scratched and smashed into the asphalt like---

Pardon me, miss. A soft voice snapped Danya out of her trance, and when she looked up she realized that it belonged to an older woman who was standing patiently in front of her with a full cart of groceries. The woman offered her a gentle smile and Danya wondered what she was waiting for.

Yes, ma’am?

My taxi is already outside, and I don’t think he’d take too kindly to me asking him to wait any longer, she said, still smiling.

Huh? It took Danya a second to realize that she was blocking the door and that there were several people standing behind the woman with the cart who looked much less inclined to be as kind. Oh, God, I’m sorry! I was just kind of spaced out, she said, taking a basket from the stack by the door and hurrying out of their way. Sorry, she repeated to the customers streaming past her on their way out. A couple of them nodded in her direction, but for the most part she could hear them grumbling things about inconsiderate people and how the girl was probably on drugs from the looks of her.

Danya hurried, head down, to the back of the store where the produce was kept and looked around, trying to figure out what she needed. She hadn’t even really had a chance to think about what she was going to make for dinner, and standing in front of the neatly stacked rows of vegetables was making her stomach ache. It was getting later and she was sure that the longer she took, the angrier Patrick was going to be when she finally showed up.

Picking up a red bell pepper and turning it over, Danya wondered if he liked curry. She always supposed she could make a big pot of yellow curry and leave it in the refrigerator for him to heat up and put over noodles or rice later. Experience had taught her that a person could survive on a big enough helping of curry for just under a week and that it was best over sticky Japanese rice. Best of all, it had a fairly large margin of error so Patrick probably wouldn’t notice if it was a little rushed, or if she threw some things in that weren’t traditional curry ingredients.

There were a few things she was definitely going to need, though, and she was so absorbed in trying to remember what they were that she didn’t notice the person coming up behind her until they tapped her on the shoulder. Danya jumped sideways and bumped her hip hard enough against the wooden stand that the peppers were on to make it wobble precariously. She spun around with her arms outstretched to try and catch any falling produce. I’m sorry, she apologized automatically to the person behind her. It seemed to be becoming a habit today.

You should be, a familiar voice said coldly. Do you have any idea how long I waited for you?

Danya turned around slowly, the peppers forgotten. She knew that voice and that tone all too well. Patrick stood beside another table, this one piled with baskets of tomatoes, his arms folded across his chest and a shopping basket dangling from the crook of his arm. It was hard to keep herself from cringing as she forced a smile in his direction.

Patrick, hi, she managed. She suddenly felt like an employee that had called in sick only to run into their boss at the movies. What--what are you doing here?

I would think it would be obvious, he said, shifting his weight to the other foot so he could glare more effectively at her. Since no one bothered to bring me anything for dinner, I’ve been forced to come down here and do some shopping.

Didn’t you have any Chinese food left over from last night? Even as the words were coming from her mouth, Danya knew they were wrong. Patrick’s face remained impassive, his eyes narrowing only slightly at the mention of the previous night. I’m sorry, I---

"More importantly, what are you doing here? Since you’ve already found a way into my studio, have you decided to start stalking me at the grocery store now? He didn’t wait for an answer, though he saw she was trying to come up with one. Or is your next move going to be staking out the bathroom so there’s not a single square foot of space left on Earth where I can get away from you?"

That’s not fair, Danya said desperately, knowing perfectly well that it was. Becca had been worried about how she had managed to find Patrick in the first place, and with good reason, though she wasn’t about to let her know that. Maybe he hadn’t been quite as easygoing about it as she had thought. She searched her brain frantically, trying to think of something to say that would somehow fix the situation she had created, but Patrick wasn’t going to wait for her to come up with it. He took a step closer to her and leaned in slightly so only she could hear what he was about to say.

Because if it is, I prefer that my toilet paper have a minimum of three plies. And try to remember to wipe from front to back instead of the other way around, could you? With a smirk at the way her cheeks flushed, Patrick turned around and waved her off. I’d say that I was going to mail your things to you, but I really couldn’t care less if you get them or not.

Danya stood with her mouth open, watching him walk away with his basket. Disbelief had frozen her in place and although she willed her legs to move, to go after him and say something back, they refused to move. Something that felt suspiciously like a sob was brewing in her chest, but once the shock of his words wore off, it refined itself into a bolt of pure rage. At that moment, Danya no longer cared about her thesis, her book, or if she even got him to give back her prints. All she could think about was how sick she was of his arrogance and how badly she wanted to hurt him.

Later, she wouldn’t remember picking up the bell pepper, but it didn’t stop her from throwing it as hard as she could at the back of Patrick’s head. It missed its mark slightly, bouncing off his back instead, but it got his attention all the same.

What the hell do you think you’re doing? Patrick spun on his heel just in time for a second, larger pepper to bounce off his chest. Goddamn it, Biermann, he roared, What is wrong with you?

Why do you always have to be such a prick about things? She reached back and picked up another pepper. "About everything! Would it kill you to be nice to a person for just one fucking minute of your life?" This time, the projectile grazed the side of his head before bouncing off the wall behind him and she felt herself smiling. She didn’t care that throwing vegetables at him was hardly a mature way of handling her anger, it felt damn good.

Throwing produce at me isn’t going to make me want to let you do your little thesis thing any more than I do now, he replied, regaining the superior expression he wore most of the time. Although I do enjoy watching you act like a five year old in public.

For your information, those peppers were going to be part of the dinner I was planning on making you tonight. I gave up going to dinner with my friends so that I could try and make sure you had something to eat! Danya hadn’t realized it, but her voice had gotten progressively louder with every word so that people in other parts of the market had turned to see what was going on. Patrick seemed not to notice, returning his arms to the folded position across his chest.

I never asked you for that, he said coldly. His tone only made Danya angrier, but she clenched her fist to keep from picking anything else up.

You know, Becca was right about you. You’re just a self-centered, pompous asshole who thinks that everyone should bow down and kiss your feet because you made a couple of famous buildings. I can’t believe that I actually thought about trying to help you out, that I actually thought you might be capable of something like kindness! By this time Danya looked like she might be on the verge of tears but Patrick was unmoved.

I have no idea who Becca is, he said distastefully, as if just saying her name was more than he was prepared to do. But I have no use for the kind of people who think they can bribe their way into a free ride on my coattails, which means that I obviously have no use for you.

You son of a bitch! That was obviously the wrong thing for Patrick to say. Bypassing the bell peppers altogether this time, Danya grabbed an onion from the next table and pitched it at him as hard as she could. I have talent of my own, you know! No, wait, of course you don’t, because you haven’t even looked at my portfolio. You’re too busy trying to find ways to humiliate me so I’ll leave you alone to do whatever it is you do when I’m not around. Another onion flew at him and he ducked. I’m not hanging around you because I’m trying to get some free ride, as you so eloquently put it, I’m hanging around you because I need your help. Danya was past looking at what she was picking up and lobbed a sweet potato at him, which he blocked with the bottom of his basket. "And, God help me, maybe I actually thought I might like you, although I can’t imagine why!" She reached aside and picked up another potato, but before she could send it at him she stopped in mid-throw. For the first time since she’d met him, Patrick was laughing.

The other shoppers that had stopped to watch the scene were now whispering to one another as Patrick continued to laugh, hard enough for tears to appear at the corners of his eyes. Danya took a step back, wondering if maybe she had finally pushed him too far. He certainly looked like he had snapped.

A movement near the front of the store caught her attention and she glanced up to see a man in a green apron with Beeman’s Natural Market embroidered across the bib coming toward her with two younger men in tow. The younger ones were wearing the same kind of apron, but it was obvious they were only being brought along as backup. Patrick was finally regaining some of his composure and Danya looked nonchalantly around for the easiest route of escape.

Something the matter here? The older man, most likely the store’s manager, approached them cautiously with a glance at the vegetables that littered the floor. Still laughing a little, Patrick held up a hand to stifle him. Even when he was acting like a lunatic he still seemed to command some sort of respect, so they stood back.

You, he said to Danya, wiping at his eyes. I don’t know whether I should call the cops on you or take you out to dinner.

You hate going out to dinner, she replied scornfully, not knowing what else to say. This change of attitude was even more disconcerting than his earlier cruelty, so she kept a close eye on him when he took a step toward her.

What, do you write down everything I say? Patrick was still smiling, until the manager decided to try again to assert his authority. He opened his mouth to say something, but Patrick cut him off and pointed to the assortment of food on the floor. Are you going to pick those up or just wait until they rot?

S-sir, I’m going to, ah, I’m going to have to ask you to pay for those, the manager stammered uncertainly, his eyes darting from Patrick to Danya like he was afraid to let his gaze settle on either of them for too long.

Of course I’m going to pay for them, Patrick snapped at him. Just take them up front and we’ll be up there as soon as we finish our shopping. All Danya could think about was getting out of the market and away from the people staring at them, but Patrick had taken charge of the situation again. One of the stock boys, most likely the trainee, had been delegated the task of collecting the food from the floor and was crawling around under the tables with a paper sack while they talked.

Is there a reason we’re still here? Most of the

Reviews for Plans

[nwadel · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I didn't want this book to end! Sometimes unexpected love just happens if you let your heart lead the way instead of your brain. If you think about it to much, it won't happen. This is Danya's dilemma.The story is about Danya, a young college student attending SVA . She has her mind set on doing her thesis on the work of Dr. Patrick Dahlberg. An architect genius except there is a problem, Dahlberg is a reclusive egotistical jerk! But she has a plan and with a little perseverance it works. What she doesn't expect is to fall in love with him. This was my favorite part of the story! They only knew each other for a couple of months and then tragedy struck. Roll forward a few years. Danya is working in the kitchen at Shimamura, a school for gifted children. She meets a student name Nathan and finds out he thinks Patrick is like a god! Well, I'm not going to say any more you'll just have to read the book! The story doesn't slow down, the characters are very well written and I felt like I had known Danya for years. I highly recommend this book!Natalie :0)