Mitchell's Presence Read Free Page A

to Mitchell along with the bill and waited for Mitchell to return so he could give a generous tip and sign. Relief flooded Arthur when Rune announced that he would need to leave to make a meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Arthur stood, shook Rune’s hand, promised a follow-up call the next day, and sank back into the booth, suddenly feeling sweat break out over his upper lip. He was entering a reminder to call Rune into his Blackberry when the black leather folder was placed in front of him. He closed his eyes and looked up, not opening his eyes again until he heard his own voice.
    “Mitchell, I’m sorry.” Arthur saw Mitchell smiling and became even more worried.
    “About what?” Mitchell squinted at him as if the older man were crazy.
    “Not saying ‘hi’ or even using your name.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “You’re- you don’t—” Arthur stammered as he got to his feet. “You’re not angry?”
    “Of course not, Arthur, this is my job.”
    “But the bookstore….”
    “Okay.” Mitchell laughed, teeth gleaming, eyes dancing. “One of my jobs.”
    “Are you sure you still want to go out later, I mean, if you’re working two jobs….”
    “Well,” Mitchell said with a wink, “just how late were you planning on keeping me out?”
    “Not,” Arthur felt his chest tighten and his pants become a little more snug, “not too long.”
    “Then I’m sure.” William scooped up the black folder, handed Arthur his card, and extended his hand. “I’ll see you at ten, Mr. Richardson.”
    It took Arthur a couple of minutes to realize they hadn’t exchanged last names, and that Mitchell knew his from his credit card. “Uh, wait, I don’t know your—”
    “MacDonald.” Mitchell was walking backwards, smiling.  He turned gracefully just seconds before he would have hit the corner of the bar.
    He’s obviously worked here long enough to know every inch of this place, backwards and forwards, literally.
     
    *  *  *
    Arthur arrived early to the bookstore, having decided to leave his car at his condo and take the subway downtown to meet Mitchell. He was mindlessly thumbing his way through Architectural Digest when he felt someone standing beside him.
    “She didn’t like it?” Mitchell was smiling at him, eyes playful and teasing. When Arthur frowned, he added, “Chelsea, she didn’t like her gifts and prefers—” Mitchell lifted the cover of the magazine to see the title, “— Architectural Digest ?”
    “Oh, no,” Arthur said as he finally caught on, “the exchange is not for another two weeks.”
    “So.” Mitchell held up his coat and pulled his arms through the sleeves, wrapping the scarf around his neck twice. “Ready when you are, Mr. Richardson.”
    “I’m ready, Mr. MacDonald.” Arthur led Mitchell to the door and held it open. “So, have any favorite places?”
    “How about Chino’s just down the street?”
    Arthur bowed and motioned for Mitchell to lead the way. As they walked—foot traffic almost non-existent at this time of the night—Arthur was struck by how comfortable and warm it felt to be walking with Mitchell. Mitchell was in just as good a mood as he’d been this afternoon in the restaurant, but moreso even, more flirtatious, more boisterous. Mitchell kept pointing out which storefronts had already mounted their Christmas decorations, which decorations he liked, not mentioning the ones that he, or so it seemed to Arthur, found unsuitable or too garish. When Arthur would comment on those, Mitchell would just shrug and say that he was a lower-maintenance kind of guy.
    Arthur was learning a lot from their little walk; Mitchell did not like flash and show, did not walk against traffic signals, and offered spare change to each and every vagrant that they passed. If Mitchell was walking by, the empty hands thrust out in front of him did not remain empty for long. When Arthur asked him about this, Mitchell just shrugged and said that it didn’t mean as much to