Page 34 of Small City Heart
Neither did Charlie. That was the last thing he wanted.
“I don’t think that’s his intention. If he wants to be here, I’ll fight tooth and nail to be with him. If he wants to be in Chicago or some other big city, I’ll fight to be his townie friend who he visits once a year. I like your son. I want to be in his life, but I don’t plan to upend it either. I simply want to show him that he’s wanted, and that thiscouldbe a place for him.”
Maybe Patrick would return thatwanting. Maybe he’d fill the hole in Charlie’s chest that had been there for as long as he could remember, the one he’d always tried to fill with flimsy, superficial attention.
“I knew you were a good boy,” Veronica said, and he paused their dance to hug her. “Oh, stop. You’re going to make an old lady cry, and then everyone will gossip. I’ve had enough gossip to last me a lifetime.”
“Thank you, Veronica. For everything.”
She patted him on the cheek, and he pulled her into another dance.
Thirty minutes later, Charlie hadn’t managed to catch Patrick alone yet, and it was time for the auction. He wasn’t exactly prepared for this, but he hoped his charm would help him through it. It hadn’t failed him yet.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. His charm failed him all the fucking time.
He walked up the steps to the top of the stage and stopped in front of the microphone.
Maybe he wasn’t charming at all?Shit.
“Excuse me. Hello. Hi. It’s time for our annual live auction, so if you’re interested in participating, please gather around the stage. This is also a good time to grab a bite to eat because the dancing will resume soon,” he said, nerves sneaking into his voice.
The crowd around the stage surged and flowed as people moved around, some leaving the area, others finding their places for the auction. A few volunteers passed out fans with numbers on them to everyone. Thank goodness Charlie didn’t have to do the auctioning. He was basically the emcee for the event, and he had cards with information about each individual item.
“Before we get started, how about a bit of info about what we’re raising money for?” he said, trying to smile. He caught sight of Veronica and Patrick at the edge of the crowd, and his stomach fluttered. “All proceeds from the auction will go to the Small City Youth Center Fund, which helps finance the after-school and summer programs at the youth center.” He took a deep breath, ready to blow through a list of the center’s benefits, but then he saw Patrick tip his head back and laugh at something Veronica had said.
Charlie cleared his throat. “Um, the youth center organizes and plans great programs for Small City kids and teens, and I could wax poetic about the work the center does for ages.” He glanced down at the card in his hand and decided to go off-script. “But let me say this—the center is a place for our youth to go and be themselves, to find themselves. It’s a safe place where they’re welcome regardless of what they look like, who their parents are, their sexuality or race or religion or gender identity. Words can’t explain the immeasurable good this place does for our community, but I can tell you that I wish we’d had a place like this here when I was growing up. I hope the proceeds from tonight’s auction help the youth center continue their amazing work.” Silence followed that statement. He pasted on a fake smile. “Now, without further ado, we have our first item: a family day pass to Groker’s Pumpkin Patch.”
Embarrassment was pushing at Charlie’s chest, so he resolutely read the description of each item as the auctioneer flew through the bids. It wasn’t until they were five items in that Charlie risked a glance at Patrick, who lifted his hand to his heart when Charlie’s gaze landed on him. Excitement bubbled through Charlie like fizzy soda. He was so into the man.
In no time at all, Charlie had made it to the last three items: a charity quilt made by a long-arm quilter who’d graduated a few years ahead of him, a handmade metal sign in the shape of Kansas, and Patrick’s photography print of a prescribed burn.
The metal Kansas sign, created by a local blacksmith, went for about a thousand dollars, which was amazing considering Kansas was shaped like a slightly wonky rectangle. The quilt went for more. And at last, they were at Patrick’s photo.
The print was large, and the vivid flames seemed to leap off the paper. The photograph was of the fire line at dusk, the sun right on the horizon. The sky bloomed pink and purple, and the flames were stark yellow and orange. On one side of the image, the grass was black and charred and on the other it was golden.
Charlie glanced at the card in his hand. Arnold Mikhailov had written it out for him this morning in spiky, hurried handwriting. He read the words out loud. “‘This limited edition print is calledAflame. It was taken by Patrick Pearl, regionally renowned photographer and Small City alum, and donated on behalf of Patrick Pearl and the Chase Gallery. It is printed on Hahnemühle 100% Cotton Photo Rag paper and was taken during the controlled burn season of 2014 at a ranch near Elmdale.’”
He stared at the photo for a second and took a deep breath. “I own five of Patrick’s photographs. He’s going to be shocked by that.” The crowd chuckled and people turned toward Patrick. “Needless to say, I’m pretty fond of his art. I’m pretty fond of Patrick all around, actually. When I see the Flint Hills through his eyes, through the lens of his camera, it’shomebut brighter. And better. He sees beauty and light and potential where I would normally just see the hills I love, or a plain old patch burn, or a rundown farm. I don’t think a person could create art like this”—he gestured to the print—“unless the Flint Hills ran in their veins. Unless it was a home to them. Unless it was embedded in their heart. This is a spectacular piece from a spectacular man. I feel lucky to know Patrick, and we are thankful for his donation today.”
He took a bracing breath and stared out at the silent crowd. Fuck, that had been a little much, hadn’t it? The uncomfortable hush continued until someone gave a loud catcalling whistle. He glanced at the crowd to see the noise had come from Suzy. It broke the tension, and Charlie laughed uncomfortably. “We’ll start the bidding at seven hundred dollars.”
He handed the mic over to the auctioneer, and the auction was off like a shot. The price rose so quickly, and the auctioneer’s words were so fast, Charlie thought he must be mistaken. Before he knew what was happening, bidding on the print was close to three thousand dollars.
Static was ringing in Charlie’s ears when the auctioneer shouted, “Sold!” The microphone was handed back to the lead singer of the band who had been entertaining the crowd all night, and Charlie stumbled off the stage.
“Now, let’s get back in the groove with something soft and sweet,” said the singer. “Grab your honey. This one’s slow.”
The crowd moved in an overwhelming rush as dancers displaced the auction participants. Charlie tried to peer over everyone’s heads, but there was too much movement. He felt a frantic pull in his gut, like if he didn’t find Patrick immediately, everything would dissolve to dust.
Someone grabbed his arm, and he twisted around, aggravated about being slowed down. It was Suzy and Rachel, dancing close, and Suzy had ahold of his sleeve.
“He’s over there,” she said with a nod of her head.
And sure enough, there was Patrick on the edge of the dance floor, surrounded by admirers fawning over him. Charlie marched toward him.
“Patrick,” he said. Then he lost his breath as Patrick turned to him. The crowd melted away.
Or maybe Veronica herded the crowd away, saying, “Come on, off we go. Let’s go find the booze and leave these two chickens to it.”
