Complete Me

“Thank you,” I say, and I can’t help but smile at his effusiveness. This is the kind of reaction I’d hoped to see from Damien. “He’s asleep, actually. It’s been an exhausting couple of weeks.”

The manager nods knowingly. “And what can I do for you?”

I had entered on autopilot, but now that I’m here, I realize that I’ve come with a purpose. “You can ship, right?”

“Of course,” he says, and he’s polite and well-trained enough not to scoff at my idiotic question.

“I want to look at those black-and-white prints,” I say, pointing toward the room where Damien and I had spent over an hour gazing at the brilliantly executed photos from a local Munich photographer.

I followed Damien to Germany so quickly that I forgot to bring my own camera, and even though this is hardly a trip that rates a flurry of souvenir snapshots, there have been moments when I regretted not having it. For years, a camera has been my security blanket. First, the Nikon that my sister Ashley gave me during my freshman year of high school. More recently, the digital Leica that Damien presented me in Santa Barbara, an amazing gift that reflected just how well the man understood me—and how much he wanted to please me.

Now, it is Damien I want to please. Though he isn’t comfortable behind the camera, he has excellent taste in the resultant images, and we had both been impressed by the astounding composition and ethereal lighting of this series of photographs.

I pause in front of one that shows the sun descending behind a mountain range. Bands of light seem to shoot out from the image, and though the shadows are deep, every nuance of the stony mountain face can still be discerned. It is beautiful and dark and romantic and edgy. It reminds me of Damien. Of the times that he has held me close and softly whispered that between us, the sun is never going down.

Now I want to give him this photo. I want to hang it in the bedroom of his Malibu house, a reminder of all that is between us. I want us both to know that even in the dark there will always be the light, and that no matter what, we will continue on forever. I want an image that says I love you.

“It is a beautiful print,” the manager says from behind me. “And a limited edition.”

“How much?”

He quotes me the price and I come genuinely close to having heart failure. But except for the Lamborghini rental, I have spent none of my million on frivolous things, and besides, this image isn’t frivolous. As I turn once again to look at the photograph, I realize that it feels strangely important, and I know that if I walk away I will regret it every time I look at the walls of the Malibu house and see that it is not there.

I shift again to smile at the manager, but end up looking out the window instead. A woman stands there, the brim of her hat pressed against the glass as if she is trying to peer into the gallery. There’s nothing intrinsically odd about that—after all, most people do look through gallery windows—but there is something about her that looks familiar. And there is something in her stance that suggests that it’s not the photographs she is looking at, but me.

I shiver, suddenly and unreasonably disturbed.

“Fräulein?”

“What? Oh, sorry.” I turn my attention to the manager, but my eyes dart back to the woman. She pulls away from the window and walks on. I exhale with relief, then mentally shake myself. I am being ridiculous. I aim a smile at my companion. “Yes,” I say firmly. “I’ll take it.”

The manager only nods his head in polite acquiescence, but I am struck by the thought that inside he is leaping with glee, and I can’t help my grin.

“The photographer will be in town this weekend. Would you like me to have him sign it to you and Mr. Stark?”

“That would be wonderful. Do you have a piece of paper?”

He does, of course, and while he inflicts serious damage on my credit card, I write out the shipping address and the notation that I’d like the artist to add.

“Have a good day, Fräulein,” he says as I leave. “And please tell Mr. Stark how happy I am for him.”

“I will,” I say, stepping back out onto the Maximilianstrasse. Less than an hour ago, this spectacular street had seemed gloomy. Now, everything seems a bit brighter. I continue my walk, this time paying more attention to the stores I’m passing. I pause in front of windows to look at purses and dresses and suits for Damien. Twice, I think I see the woman in the hat, but when I turn to look, I see no one. I frown, because I’m not prone to seeing phantom women, so I am certain that I am not imagining her.

I doubt very seriously that it is truly me that is of interest to her. Instead, I’m betting that she’s a reporter. And she knows that if she follows me long enough, eventually, she will find Damien. I consider marching up to her and telling her that I don’t appreciate the stalker vibe, but though I pay attention to the faces on the street and the reflections in the windows, I don’t see her again.

I wander the main avenue and side streets for almost three hours before I can’t take it any longer. I know that Damien needs to sleep, but I also need Damien. Selfish, yes, but I have held back for as long as I can.

I’ve almost reached the hotel when I remember a small boutique that Damien and I had noticed one evening as we were walking back from dinner, and I decide to squeeze in one more stop before returning. I wave to the valet as I pass in front of the Kempinski, then hurry across the street and down the two blocks to Marilyn’s Lounge, a high-end lingerie store. I don’t know if sexy lingerie will help wrest Damien from his funk, but I doubt it will hurt.

As I reach the store, I catch a quick glimpse of raven-black hair. Damien? I hesitate, then lift myself up on my toes, trying to see more clearly over the crush of people on the street, but I see no sign of him.

Still, Damien and the unidentified woman have become juxtaposed in my thoughts, and I can’t shake the strange sense of foreboding. I frown, feeling foolish, and push through the door and into Marilyn’s Lounge.

A willowy blonde with cat-like eyes approaches me right away, and when I tell her I’m looking for seductive sleepwear in which I don’t intend to actually sleep, she flashes a brilliantly white smile. “You have come to the right place, Ms. Fairchild.”

I manage not to react. By now, I really should be used to the celebrity factor.

She devotes her full attention to me, leaving her dark-haired companion to scurry between the half dozen other women who are eyeing these tiny bits of satin and lace. Some wear expressions of shocked interest. Others have the bland faces of veterans to the art of seduction. The youngest is looking only at white baby-doll nighties, and I immediately peg her as a bride.