Susanna peered over the cubicle wall, giving Blaine the feeling that his teacher  was hovering over his shoulder during a final exam. 

"Yes?"

"What are your plans this weekend? Continuing the postcard tour of L.A. for your man?"

Blaine shrugged. He'd been down since his last postcard to Kurt, conflicted over his developing connection to his new city and his feelings for the man who was going out of his way to avoid it. 

"Then you should join me in Laguna Saturday," she said. "I have tickets to the Pageant of the Masters. Why don't you come along? It may be just what you need."

Blaine had no idea what she was talking about, and gave her a furrowed brow of utter confusion. Masters? Master Class? Masters of the universe?

"Think of it this way. There's an orchestra, and makeup, and costumes and art," Susanna said. "Trust me. It's an institution -- and an excuse to drink margaritas in on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. C'mon, Blaine. Let's find you something to write about."

His grimace became a modest grin. He nodded, and finally agreed. What the hell. It was a chance to get out of the city completely and head down the coast for a while with the closest of his new circle of friends.

In his scant weeks at NSO, Blaine had quickly grown close to Susanna. She was becoming the big sister he'd never had. Much bigger. At 5'8", before heels, she towered over him in her Jimmy Choo's.

His job had him working closely with her, but they had also shared short lunch breaks and spent time bonding over stories about his brother and of her teenage son, who seemed to share an affinity for soccer, bad action flicks and leggy blondes.

Blaine was grateful for having made a friend he felt he could talk to at the office. Cooper had been fairly scarce lately, and Blaine found himself nudging closer and closer to the edge of loneliness.

For her part, Susanna had taken Blaine under her protective wing, helping him navigate office politics as well as Los Angeles traffic. She liked him, trusted him and was one of the few people in the office who didn't call him "kid."

He's a young guy, but he's an old soul, Susanna thought to herself. 

And even though she had never seen him perform, she was certain that Blaine Anderson would leave his mark on this world, perhaps sooner than later.

We've got to keep this guy in the NSO family. 

****

Susanna's Audi S5 roadster careened down on the 405 at the "leisurely pace" of 85 mph on their way to Orange County. She insisted on driving with the roof down, or "going topless," as she liked to say, to Blaine's mild discomfort. The experience resulted in white knuckles and wildly unleashed curls.

"I haven't seen this side of you before," Blaine said, clutching the armrest. "And I've got to say ... I'm a little scared."

Susanna just laughed it off. "It's a Saturday afternoon and the freeways are open -- you've got to get it while you got it!" she shouted over the wind noise. She ought to join a Le Mans team, he thought to himself.

About an hour later, they were hurtling down Laguna Canyon Road, past art galleries and holistic veterinary clinics, toward the beach volleyball courts and fire pits on the soft sand of Laguna Beach.

When she could go no further, Susanna turned a quick right-and-left into the cliffside valet line at Las Brisas, a vivid white and blue coastal landmark known for enormous seafood platters, boozy  margaritas and, most critically, an unparalleled oceanfront view of the Orange County coastline.

They secured patio seats, ordered a Frutas de la Mer platter and Cadillac margaritas, then mas margaritas.

"Someone's going to have to drive home, you know." 

"No worries, Blaine. There's always a driver on call for the office. Or there's the Surf and Sand if we're completely dysfunctional," pointing out the cliffside hotel a few blocks down PCH. "I promise not to try to take advantage of you," she added with a wink, laughing.

Blaine sighed, and chuckled uncomfortably.

Then she shifted gears as abruptly as she had navigating the winding canyon road. 

"So, tell me about the boyfriend. You haven't talked about him much."

She really only knew the sketchy details: A boyfriend a continent away with a promising future in fashion. Sharp wit. Spectacular hair. She wanted to know more: How they met, how they ended up in New York, where they would go from here.

Blaine had had just enough tequila to want to tell her.

He told her about his first moments after coming out, of a dance, a beating, a private refuge. About how an inept but beautiful spy for a rival high school show choir turned up at his school one day, and how his life changed for the better, hopefully forever. 

How he fell in love, for what he was certain was the one and only time, and transferred from the relative safety of a prestigious prep school to a backwater public school in order to follow his heart.

How he was left alone a year later, when he encouraged his boyfriend to chase his dream, and then set about the process of gaining acceptance into a New York music program like a military campaign in order to be reunited.

How he had scripted his life to fit into his boyfriend's narrative, and how he kept telling himself that it didn't matter. Until the day when it did, when he accepted the job at NSO, and took a step that put his own ambitions before those of the people he loved ... and how very conflicted it had left him.

"Tell me your best Kurt story," she said, sipping the frothy cocktail.

Blaine leaned back, supporting his head with his linked hands, stared into space momentarily and grinned. "Mmmm ... So many, but ... gotta be the museum."

"MOMA? The Guggenheim?"

"No," he said, laughing. "The Museum of Fine Neckwear and Foldable Clothes."

"Something tells me that's not one my concierge would normally recommend," Susanna said.

"Give it time," Blaine said, smiling broadly. He took a solid swig from his drink and then told her the story.

"We sublet my brother's apartment in New York, and it's fine for one person with a small wardrobe. But Kurt's hardly average when it comes to clothes. And when I moved in, it was just impossible. The ties alone ..." 

Laughing to himself, he recalled how on moving day, he was greeted with enthusiasm, then anxiety, as Kurt realized that the closet space was clearly not designed for two stylish young men with two very complete and very different wardrobes.

"This closet is the size of a refrigerator," Kurt complained. 

"Maybe we could set up a storage bar? I don't need to use the closet, Kurt. Besides, I mostly wear jeans and sweaters."

"And where are we going to put those?" Kurt went on a rampage determining where and how to merge their wardrobes, only to change his mind again and again. 

"And your ties? Where are we going to hang the ties?"

Blaine remembered doing his best to stifle the laughter bubbling up from his gut, pressing his lips together tightly and looking off to a corner of the room. 

"What if I made them into wall art?" he said, intending it as a joke. "It could be like a museum collection of fine neckwear." Kurt's eyebrows shot up, and his blue eyes pierced straight through Blaine.

He immediately started doing laps around the tiny apartment, taking mental measurements as he went along.

"I was joking, Kurt. I can store some things. It's no big deal."

"No! You are not putting this collection in storage, Blaine Anderson. And you may have solved our little dilemma."

Before Blaine could say "home improvement," Kurt was headed to the Home Depot in the Flatiron District, a man on a mission. And Blaine learned long ago not to interrupt Kurt when he had his sights set on a goal.

"We could just buy some of those collapsable cubes," Blaine said, immediately regretting the suggestion as Kurt shot him The Look. "Or not." 

He had dutifully followed Kurt around the store with a flatbed trolley as his boyfriend selected lumber, stain, sanding blocks and other supplies. Kurt rented a miter saw on his way out of the store. "Oh god, not power tools," he mumbled out of Kurt's ear shot in the checkout line.

Once back at the apartment with supplies unpacked, Kurt had shooed Blaine away, urging him to hit the practice room on campus, or see a movie, or go for a long walk. He had been deemed dead weight.

"He was typical Kurt. Determined, difficult. When Kurt really gets it in his head to do something, it's best just to get out of his way."

Susanna laughed, shaking her head. "How'd it turn out?"

"Gorgeous. Streamlined. Utilitarian. Bauhaus. It's become something like a seasonal rotation of color in the bedroom, with the past season's colors shifted to the back. I just leave Kurt in charge. I'd ruin it."

"OK, now how about a bad Kurt story?"

Blaine went silent.

He squinted behind his RayBans, and turned to stared at the ocean.

"He won't come see me."

****

They walked two blocks up the canyon road to the amphitheater, arriving in time to grab a bottle of wine, listen to a jazz quintet and stroll through the booths of painters, sculptors, glass blowers and other artists in the open-air festival outside the theater.

At the far end of the fair, near the entrance to the amphitheater, they found the booth of a local jewelry maker. Her work featured swooping, modern hearts, some decorated with pearls or diamonds. Nearly all were centered with rough cut gem stones.

In the center of the display, a brooch caught Blaine's eye: A floating black heart of shimmering drusy quartz, surrounded by white gold, and tipped near the center with a solitary diamond.

"A black heart, eh?" Susanna said. 

"An unconventional heart," Blaine said. "But solid, and precious."

Blaine stared at it until the artist offered to pull it from the display. He held it gently, like he was cradling a baby bird.

"It's beautiful."

Then he turned it over and saw the price: $900. "Beautiful, for someone with a bigger budget."

Susanna cocked her head, studying Blaine's expression.

"Not on a student budget. Besides, there's other jewelry that comes first," he said, turning the heart in his hand, then giving it up, handing the brooch back to the jewelry-maker.

Susanna arched an eyebrow with exaggerated curiosity.

"That's always been the plan," Blaine said. "College, then married by 30."

"You make it sound like you're not sure whether it's still the plan," she said. 

Blaine huffed, gave no true response, then gazed back in the jewelers' case.

Tucked in the back of the display case was another pin. Another heart. One without diamonds or gemstones. Simple silver, a heart with an oxidized outline of a puzzle etched in its surface. Toward the center, the cut-out shape of a puzzle piece.

"My missing puzzle piece," Blaine half-spoke, half-sung under his breath. He looked at it for a moment. 

"Let's go find our seats."

****

"I'm  not quite sure what to expect here," Blaine said as they took their seats.

"If I tried to explain it, I'd screw it up and make it sound cheesy. So I'm just going to keep my mouth shut for now," said Susanna, nestling into her seat, drink in hand. "But take a look at the program."

The high gloss booklet almost looked more like a Sotheby's catalogue than an arts festival program. Deep inside, beyond the ads for Tiffany & Co. and Omega watches, was a series of illustrations from children's books, fine art depicting scenes from Shakespeare and J.M. Barrie and vintage magazine covers.

Further along were pages and pages listing community volunteers: Models, makeup artists, musicians, painters, designers and sculptors who donated their time and effort to the program.

Beyond that, more photos, this time of people in extravagant costumes and painted wigs, looking like exaggerated versions of the characters in some of the art works depicted in the front section of the program.

The orchestra cued up, and Blaine could see the first set pieces assembling on stage. The models positioned themselves as the narrator described the work -- illustrations from the original editions of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Their seats were close enough to see the models before the lights came up, and all Blaine could think was "clown make-up".

What have I gotten myself into? he thought.

"I know what you're thinking," Susanna said, as if reading his mind. "Wait for it."

The narration completed, the lights were raised, and suddenly the stage went from oversized set pieces and exaggerated makeup to the books, come to oversized life. The volunteers models, posing as "Alice," remained utterly motionless for the minute or two that the lights were up on the artwork come-to-life. 

It was colorful, beautiful and like nothing he had ever seen before.

The theme centered on fairy tales, largely the recreation of art from children's books, but also works of fine art, sculpture, posters and even stained glass. All involved models as still as stone for the duration of the "reveal". Each time the lights shifted, it went from strangely over-the-top to breathtaking recreation.

"OK. That's pretty incredible," he whispered.

"See? It looks like it's going to be a little different this year. Fewer classicists, more theme. It normally ends with The Last Supper. They're kind of famous for it. But it looks like they're doing Dali's Last Sacrament of the Last Supper instead. There's a twist."

Sure enough, instead of the series of Vermeer, Homer and Rockwell that the Pageant was famous for, the stage lit up with art of Peter Pan, A Midsummers Night Dream and, much to Blaine's delight, covers from the 1920s science fiction periodicals, "Amazing Stories".

****

The evening fog rolled in by intermission, and Susanna wrapped her hands around her upper arms for warmth. Blaine, still the prep school gentleman, offered her the lightweight bomber jacket he'd brought along, just in case.

"I should have brought a sweater," she said. "I think I'll go grab some coffee. Want some?"

He'd pass. He had some quick work to do, but he decided to keep it short and sweet. He might elaborate later -- it was a terrific show -- but he worried that he'd laid it on a little thick in his earlier notes, and thought it might have alienate Kurt. This week, he'd keep it brief.

With Susanna on a mission for a hot drink and the amphitheater lights up, Blaine balanced the postcard he's bought at the festival shop on his lap and prepared his week's missive.

Kurt,

Fairies, Alice & Peter Pan, all come to life. I've never seen anything quite like it. I'll send you the program.

B

****

The postcard arrived on Wednesday, and the change in tone and structure slapped at Kurt.

No "text me and I'll tell you more". No "I wish you could see this for yourself." 

No "love".

Kurt waited for the program, and told himself that he would never again complain about Blaine's affinity for letter writing.