A Wind Blew Through Me Pt 06

Author's Note: Thank you all again for taking the time to read my work and for the feedback I've received. This is the last section I had already written, so future updates will be slower. This story means a lot to me and I am excited to finish it. I hope you continue to enjoy-

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Chapter 19 - Royce

I took a deep breath as I opened the door to the cafe, anticipation building around the man I was to meet. It was a relatively plain establishment, sporting a handful of couches and armchairs interspersed with more traditional tables and chairs. The coffee bar was modest; only a single aproned employee stood at the ready looking up at me as I entered.

Before I had a chance to take the rest of the place in, I noticed a man approaching me slowly. He had been occupying a place on the couch to the right of the entrance when I first came in, but the longer my eyes lingered on him, the stranger he became.

He was aged, I would guess mid-seventies, with bright white hair styled meticulously. On his face he wore a pair of pink-tinged half-moon glasses which were perched midway up his large nose. His eyes were a striking blue, which drew my eyes down to the blue and silver paisley blazer he wore with unexpected confidence. I didn't get the chance to continue taking him in before he had closed the distance between us and was offering his hand in greeting.

"Greg, I presume?" He asked in perfect Queen's English with his left eyebrow raised high and his head tilted slightly back.

I shook his hand with a nod and answered, "I suppose that makes you the mysterious Royce?"

"The Mysterious Sir Royce, if you please." He answered with impenetrable seriousness.

"Naturally." I responded with a nod. The corner of his lip tilted up into the trace of a smile with my response.

"Shall we?" He motioned toward the coffee bar and waited for me to make a move. I walked up to the counter and ordered a cappuccino before looking back at Royce.

He cleared his throat importantly and told the barista, "If you would be so kind as to make me a London Fog with 1%. Steep the tea for precisely 4 minutes and use a light touch on the sugar."

By the time he finished, the barista wasn't sure whether to laugh or get out a notepad. She eventually nodded at him and looked back at me, smiling for a moment before punching our drinks into the register and telling me the price.

I handed her the first of my $100 bills and she busied herself making the change. I looked back to find Sir Royce had already resumed his seat on the couch. The barista handed me the change. I thanked her with a smile and walked over to take a seat across from Royce.

When I had taken my seat, Royce leaned in toward me and started, "Michael warned me you might be a tough case, but I didn't imagine..." he trailed off as he ran his eyes slowly over me from head to toe.

I looked back at him confused, "A tough case for what? What is it exactly that you do?"

"Ha!" I jumped a little with his exclamation. "Why, I'm a stylist, dear boy. What else would I be?"

A stylist. This was going to be an interesting morning. I'm not sure I thought stylists were a real thing before I walked into this place, aside from maybe a hair stylist.

He continued unperturbed by my silence, "As I was saying, I didn't imagine I would find you so utterly devoid of style."

That sung a little bit, but I suppose I couldn't argue with him. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and I hadn't had a haircut in probably 6 weeks.

"I suppose this makes you a bit of a blank slate. Could be interesting. But my job is not to give you style, but to help you find style of your own. You're going to have to do some of the work, I hope you know."

He finally paused long enough for me to respond. "Listen, Sir Royce, I don't know what Michael told you, but I really just wanted to find a couple of nice suits or somethi-"

He cut me off impatiently with a wave of his hand, "What you wanted is of no consequence. Michael knows a lack of style when he sees it, and he took enough pity on you to help you avoid making more a fool of yourself than you already have."

I could think of no response to that. Thankfully, the barista offered some relief in that moment in the form of our drinks. She placed them on the table before us with a smile. I picked up my cappuccino and did my best to remember that adorable face Katherine always makes when she sips her coffee.

Royce softened his tone as he tried his own drink and continued, "You might want the wrong things, but at least you recognize there is some room for improvement. We all must start somewhere."

I looked back at him, not sure how to feel about all of this. "Of course there's room for improvement. That's what I was trying to do. It's just- until about 5 minutes ago, I wasn't aware that stylist was an actual profession that human beings practiced."

He was smiling openly now, which was a strange look on his face. "That is obvious, my dear boy. I am pleased we can agree at least on that." He reset his face to its' more serious resting pose and continued, "I understand that at the center of the mystery of our unlikely meeting is a remarkably beautiful woman?"

He was looking at me now with great interest. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." I said slowly.

He let out an exasperated sigh. "Don't be a tease, boy. The story here is the only reason I agreed to meet you. Tell me: who is she? What is she like? What does she look like? What is it about this woman that makes jeans-and-t-shirt Greg wake up one morning and decide he needs to find himself some much-needed style?"

I looked at the excited glow in his eyes and considered how to respond. It seemed this sort of reaction was becoming my new normal. Everyone I met wanted to know more about Katherine and what in the world I was doing with her.

"Well, as you said already, she is remarkably beautiful. The first time I saw her, I walked out in front of a speeding car because I couldn't take my eyes off her. But she is more than that. She is very smart, and kinder and more generous than the world allows her to be. She is a beautiful person. And she is the strongest person I know."

I paused for a moment, reflecting on how wonderful she was made me miss her. "Let's see- what does she look like? Well, words won't do her justice, but I will try. She's probably 5' 4"- petite frame with an hourglass figure. Dark brown hair, pale skin, muscular like a runner but slight in form. Her face is radiant- large, bright amber eyes under a soft brow. Cute nose and chin, full lips and cheeks. When she smiles, you cannot look away. Her breasts are ample, and her ass and thighs leave nothing to be desired."

He was hanging on my words with a slight smile on his face. "As for the last question- for some reason I still do not comprehend, this peerless woman has opened her heart to me and lavished her attention, affection and generosity upon me without reservation. Did I mention she dresses to kill every day? I find myself standing next to her and feel embarrassed. I'll never be able to compete with her beauty, but I would feel a little better standing next to her if my clothes were at least in the same league as hers."

He looked back at me for a long time in silence, excitement dancing in those blue eyes. "This is indeed a fascinating problem." He said quietly. "How to make the devastatingly average you look like you belong with this once-in-a-generation beauty in her prime."

He considered the problem for a few moments before asking, "Tell me, does she favor solid colors or prints?"

"Solids." I shot back without hesitation.

"Of course." He mumbled to himself. "Is she shy about displaying any part of herself? Cleavage, legs, thighs, navel, back?"

"I've never seen her wear anything that left her navel uncovered, but I think that's just not her style..." I said after thinking about the odd question.

"Why don't you leave the thinking about style to me?" He shot back with an eyebrow raised. "If you had to guess, what color do you think she favors most?"

"Black." I answered quickly.

"Yes, I wager she is quite stunning in black." He mused.

"She is." I agreed.

"Well, that's a good place to start, Greg. I think I can help you. There's only so much one can do in an afternoon, but I will do all I can." He took the last sip of his London Fog and looked at me over the cup. "Shall we?"

I was about done with my cappuccino as well, so I swallowed the final sips and nodded to him in agreement.

Chapter 20 - A Foundation

His pace was surprisingly brisk for a man with perfect white hair, and I found myself breaking into a half-jog to catch up with him after we exited the Café. As I did, he began to explain, "First, we will need to get some essentials sorted out. Once we have those in place, we can start layering things on top: jackets, suits, tuxedos, what have you."

He looked over at me with a raised eyebrow. He looked like he wanted a response. "Okay..." I said, not exactly sure what he meant.

He nodded and continued, "She..." he drew the word out and paused, looking at me again. "...Perhaps you ought to just tell me her name?"

I thought about it for a second and couldn't think of a reason not to. "Amy." I said simply.

"Amy. Yes, well, going by what you've told me, Amy wisely favors solid colors in her attire, black being the simplest of them all, because simplicity in her garments allows more space for her inherent beauty to express itself."

He paused for a moment to let me process that. I had never really thought about it, but it felt true. Her clothes generally drew attention to her figure or her skin, not to themselves.

"You, on the other hand..." he began, not making much of an effort to conceal an edge of boredom, "...do not have quite so much to work with, natural or derived. So: prints, patterns, and loud colors; these are your allies."

I supposed that made sense as well, but I was more than a little nervous where he was going with this.

"You will usually want to wear something with a lot going on. It will give you a je ne sais quoi to the viewer, who will already be inclined to spend most of their time looking at the woman next to you, thus rendering you in a more mysterious and less abrasive light."

With that, he was holding open a door, waiting for me to enter. The letters on the door read 'Jean-Pierre's Finery for Men'. I entered the shop hesitantly.

An odd-looking man behind the counter looked at me with alarm which morphed into puzzlement when Royce emerged from the door behind me.

"Ah!" Royce said, walking around me toward the man. "Jean-Pierre, this is Greg."

Jean-Pierre nodded at me reluctantly. I guess he needed more of an explanation before he was ready to take a chance at interacting with me.

Royce continued, "This morning Michael called me up and begged me to give Greg a consultation. He assured me that, while Greg may possess a vacuous lack of style, he finds himself in an improbable romance which may have been lifted into the world from the pages of Hans Christian Anderson."

Jean-Pierre gazed back at Royce incredulously. He finally found his voice and quipped sardonically, "Are you thinking more 'Beauty and the Beast' or a gender-inverted 'Cinderella'?"

Royce, unfazed, replied, "I suspect a bit of both. I do not believe our would-be prince here requires further explanation, but it is worth noting, if Michael is to be believed, that his Belle is a singular beauty."

Jean-Pierre squinted back at Royce for an uncomfortable moment. He was remarkably short and sported quite a large nose. He was the most flamboyantly dressed man I could recall meeting, and yet the air about him made the absurd garments he wore make unexpected sense.

The odd shopkeeper finally began walking around the counter to meet us. He said, "I've always known Michael to embellish a story here and there, but never to fabricate one entirely."

"Precisely." Royce agreed. "If Greg is to be believed, you or I will likely never meet a woman who is her equal." They both looked at me now, clearly expecting some sort of reaction. I cast my gaze between them with a vague irritation.

Royce continued, "The most important part is that Greg believes it. And to his credit, he has the self-awareness to recognize that next to this woman, he sticks out like a weed in a perfectly tended garden."

Jean-Pierre looked back at me, now appearing to consider something more than asking me to leave.

Royce cleared his throat, "So, I think we should start-"

"Yes, yes..." Jean-Pierre cut in, "Patterns, prints, loud colors. You're not as mysterious as you think you are, Royce. Come!"

He snapped his fingers and began walking briskly toward the back of the shop. He led us through a door in the back which led into a sort of parlor the likes of which I had never seen outside of movies. There was a raised octagonal platform surrounded on one side by a series of floor to ceiling mirrors at various angles and encircled on the other side by a set of rounded couches.

"Now," Jean-Pierre continued, "I am quite sure that Royce here brought you in here with the intent of acquiring 'the basics', but he has always been backwards in his thinking. Shirts, pants, shoes, ties, belts; these are foundations. Foundations are not basic, they require careful planning and perfect execution lest the whole structure topple over on itself. Fashion is no different."

He was standing next to the platform, looking at me pedantically. "Come here!" He ordered, and I walked over to him. He gestured to the platform with irritation, so I mounted it uncomfortably. It gave me the feeling of stepping up for a solo in a grade school play.

He stepped up with me, now extremely close. He whipped out a tape measurer and began taking a series of measurements. My hips, my legs, my waist, and my shoulders in rapid succession. He tapped my arm assertively and he measured that too after I raised it away from my body.

"I shall return!" He exclaimed when he had finished, hopping off the platform and disappearing somewhere in the bowels of the shop.

I looked over at Royce, who had taken a seat on one of the couches and was looking more than a little pleased with himself. He raised his eyebrows and said, "And here you were thinking I was the most pretentious person you were going to meet today."

We laughed together, recalling the frenetic man who just departed. It felt nice to have an ally in this bizarre situation I found myself in.

Royce pulled himself back to seriousness after a moment. "Now, Greg, I can lead you to many varieties of water. I can give you advice based on my experience. But in the end, you must choose from whence to drink. Do you understand?"

I looked back at him, mostly marveling at the profound strangeness of everything I had experienced over the last half hour. "I understand. Thank you, Royce."

He nodded back at me amiably just as Jean-Pierre bustled back into view with a large collection of strange apparel. As uncomfortable as I was, the feeling of freedom to find a new way to express myself, and the hope of finally shedding that lingering pall of self-consciousness was exhilarating. It was hard not to feel like a bride trying on gowns to an audience of eccentric old men, but in a certain way I felt more comfortable than I had in a long time; not comfortable standing on this ridiculous platform, but comfortable in the knowledge that, when I walked out of this building, I could take pride in my appearance.

Chapter 21 - The Diamond in the Rough

When it was all said and done, I had lost count of the clothes I bought. I had less than $1000 left from the money Katherine handed me this morning, and I was having a hard time not feeling guilty about it on the drive back to the Otahuna. It was excessive. It was indulgent. It was wonderful.

I was as excited to show her everything Royce helped me pick out as I was nervous to tell her how much I spent on it. Royce and I spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in a series of shops the likes of which I had never previously seen. Jean-Pierre was without a doubt the most colorful character we encountered along the way, but for all his prickles, I was most pleased with some of the clothes he found for me.

The outfit I found myself wearing on the way home was mostly Jean-Pierre's handiwork. My shirt was a silken button-up with a pink and purple geometric pattern. The pants appeared at first glance to be a simple pair of black slacks, but a closer look at the outer seam revealed a thin strip of color very similar to the pattern of the shirt. They both fit better than anything I had ever owned and made me feel comfortable while also being comfortable to wear. Royce insisted I purchase about 6 pairs of shoes, including the polished black leather boots I now wore. These were not comfortable, but I had to admit they looked very cool.

As we rounded the driveway to the Otahuna, I smiled to myself trying to guess Michael's reaction when I walked in the door. I felt a lot better coming back. A little like I belonged at such a beautiful place and a little less like a fish out of water.

The car came to a halt and I opened my own door for once, excited to find out what Michael had to say, and to see Katherine again. The trunk had been stuffed to the seams with my new wardrobe, but I knew Michael would take care of it for me.

I slipped my driver one of my last $100 bills and began to mount the stairs. The sun was beginning to set behind me, which cast the intricate building in a mix of orange and purple.

I was pleased to find Michael behind his desk as I opened the door. The shock on his face as he looked up at me was incredibly satisfying.

"My God!" He exclaimed as I walked up to him. "I have always known Royce to be a worker of miracles, but it would seem he found quite the diamond in the rough with you." He looked me over carefully, similar to how he appraised Amy when we first walked through his door. "You look fantastic, Greg. I am happy for you."

I smiled at him with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Michael. And thank you for convincing Royce to see me. That was both generous and thoughtful."

He smiled back at me warmly. "Think nothing of it." He said with a tinge of pride. He took a quick breath as if remembering something important and continued, "I am sure you are anxious to be reunited with the Lady Amy."

"Has she already returned?" I asked with a breathless excitement.

He almost laughed at me and replied, "Yes, perhaps 25 minutes ago."

I started to rush up the stairs before I remembered the car. I looked back at him and started, "Michael, could you-"

He cut in with a pleased smile, "Your days' acquisitions are already being conveyed to your room."

I looked back at him in wonder for a moment, nodded at him with a smile, and resumed my rush up the stairs. That man was really quite something.

I ran up the stairs as best I could in the stiff boots and winded my way around the halls of the second floor until I reached the stairs up to the room. I took a deep breath and mounted the stairs, my mind buzzing with excitement for our imminent reunion.

Chapter 22 - Reunion

I knocked on the door and held my breath. I heard light footsteps come to the door and a faint "Yes?" from the other side.

"It's me." I said simply, voice shaking and heart pounding in my chest. The deadbolt clicked and the knob turned as the door swung open. There she was.

I almost wanted to cry, the rush of emotion overwhelming me at seeing her again. A look of perfect shock spread over that beautiful face as she took me in from the doorway. She blinked slowly a couple of times before stepping back to let me in.

I walked straight into her and took her into my arms, letting the door close behind me. I hugged her firmly and breathed her in deeply. It took her a second or two to react from her surprise, but she eventually returned the hug and nestled her head into my chest.