Chapter 3
Paige shoved the GOLDEN AGE REALTY sign in the yard in the early dawn light and took a step back to admire the curb appeal of the large Victorian home behind it. Not bad. Not bad at all. Her cell phone rang. She fished the phone out of her purse, glanced at the display, and flipped it open.
“Paige Knight here. Hello, Mr. Patterson.”
Mr. Patterson was one of Paige’s more finicky, eccentric, and talkative clients. He wanted a renovated American Bungalow in the downtown arts district, which wasn’t much of a problem. American Bungalows crowded the arts district. The problem was Mr. Patterson’s expectations of his neighbors. He didn’t seem to want any.
“Hey, hello, Paige. I’d like to meet with you.”
“Have you found something you’re interested in?”
“I’d like you to see a property, but I really want to talk about it in person,” Mr. Patterson said. “Can you meet me right away?”
“Sure, I can meet you.”
“Good. Red Rooster Coffee. Twenty minutes.”
Paige hung up. Well, damn. She’d e-mailed him pictures for days, taken him to see at least fifty, and the attempts at staying patient with him while he talked nonstop had nearly driven her mad. Now he’d found his own house. She shook her head. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about this neighbor’s lawn being too long or that neighbor’s house being too ratty and blowing another sale. If he’d picked the spot, he had to be happy with the neighbors. Didn’t he?
He’d sounded rushed, too, excited, had hardly even spoken to her. Not like him at all. Maybe he was anxious to make an offer. She glanced at her watch and hurried to her car. Called her office and told them she was meeting with a client. She wanted that commission. She’d figured out how to make her dream happen. She’d sell her little ass off and put some cash back and once she had a nice fat nest egg, Eddie wouldn’t be able to tell her no. She’d ease out of real estate and back into painting. And a purchase by Mr. Patterson would be the perfect place to start.
Twenty minutes later, Paige sat in her car shuffling through every American Bungalow listing within two miles when her phone rang again. This time it was Eddie. She bit her lip. She didn’t want to answer the phone—she wasn’t quite ready to talk to him again—but she knew if she didn’t answer it would only make things worse.
“Hello?”
“I’m glad you picked up,” Eddie said. “I was afraid you might let it go to voicemail.”
Paige knew something was wrong by the tone of his voice. She sat down the property listings. “Is everything okay?”
“I know you’re probably still angry, but I wanted to call and warn you.”
The urgency in Eddie’s voice frightened her a little. Something had happened. She took a deep breath and forced herself to ask. “What is it?”
“They just ran a story on the news. There’s a man downtown carjacking women, robbing them, shooting them in the face. He’s a complete psychopath. It made me worry about you, honey.”
The thought of an armed man roaming the streets looking for his next victim made her cringe. And she was downtown or at the least very close to downtown.
“Downtown? Were they any more specific about what part of downtown?”
“No. The police are all over the area looking for him. Where are you?”
“I’m sitting in a parking lot near the arts district, at Red Rooster Coffee. I’m waiting for a client.”
“A client? I thought you were going to put up a few signs and head for the office. Which client?”
“Edward Patterson. You haven’t met him yet. Did the news say what the man looked like?”
The idea of someone actually coming after her sent her pulse pounding and her eyes searching the streets.
“A long black overcoat and suit pants, average build, dark hair slicked back.”
It was an odd description for a maniac. He sounded like a businessman who’d lost it. A bank VP gone American Psycho.
“Maybe you should go back to the office and stay there until the police have caught him.”
“You really think I should be worried about this guy?”
There was a short pause. “Yes. I do.”
He was really worried. Paige hit the door lock button and scanned the parking lot for dressy men with slicked back dark hair and an overcoat. There weren’t any, but there weren’t any familiar faces either.
“Okay,” Paige said. “I’ll go back to the office after I show Mr. Patterson this property.”
“You think that’s a smart thing to do with a maniac out there?”
“You remember me telling you about Mr. Patterson don’t you? He’s the biker bar and tattoo parlor type looking for the bungalow. He wears torn T-shirts and carries a chain wallet. He has tattoos all over his arms. If this man shows up, Mr. Patterson will scare him to death. Besides, I think he’s finally ready to make an offer, and I’ve worked my tail off for this.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
Again, Paige heard the worry in Eddie’s voice, and she did her best to shake it off. She wanted this sale, wanted a nice fat start for her nest egg.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Eddie said. “You’re probably right, but be careful.”
“I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Eddie hung up.
A hammering knock on the driver’s glass startled Paige, and she jumped in her seat.
Mr. Patterson stood at the door of her car in holey jeans, a leather jacket, and a torn black AC/DC T-shirt. He slid dark sunglasses off and motioned for her to roll down her window.
Paige took a breath and switched into real estate agent mode. Then she lowered the window.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Mr. Patterson said. “Sorry if I startled you.”
His voice sounded so exceptional, full of the quiet confidence that comes from good looks and money, but it also had an old, smooth warmth like a heavy quilt on a frosty morning. When Paige heard Mr. Patterson’s voice, especially in person, she felt as if Harry Connick Jr. was crooning to her. She imagined more than a few women had fallen prey to that voice. Not to mention those dark curly locks and deep eyes. But not her. She had a good man, even if she was a little pissed off at him. What she needed was a good sale.
“Not a problem,” Paige said. “This business is all about short notice.”
“The place is right down the street. Want to take my car?”
“Sounds good.”
Paige got out of her car and followed Mr. Patterson to a black Mercedes coupe parked a few spots behind her VW. She wasn’t exactly clear on what Mr. Patterson did for a living, but whatever he did, he made good money. Every time they met, he arrived in a different car, an expensive one.
Mr. Patterson fired up the Mercedes and drove them even deeper into the art district. He drove very slowly. Slower than anyone she’d ever met. Like a man afraid a pebble might pop up at any moment and put a scratch on his car. He probably drove around puddles, too.
She couldn’t complain though. His grandma driving gave her time to marvel at the art studios and galleries with their stucco buildings and clay tile roofs. She’d always dreamed of spending her life working in her own studio. These people were living her dream. Soon she’d join them. At least, that was the plan.
They parked in front of a gallery, and Mr. Patterson helped her out of the car. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said the place was right down the street.
Paige immediately noticed the building to the south had a commercial property sign hanging in the window. Mr. Patterson hadn’t found a house yet after all. Not that it mattered to her. She’d be just as happy to pen a commercial offer for him.
“I hadn’t realized you were interested in commercial properties,” she said.
He stepped up on the sidewalk and
walked to the building north of the property for sale.
“I’m not,” he said. “I own this place. This is my new gallery.”
BACK DOOR STUDIO & GALLERY was stenciled on the glass door.
“I’m confused,” Paige said. “I thought you wanted to look at a property.”
Mr. Patterson stuck a key in the door and pushed it open. “Not exactly. What I said was I wanted you to look at a property.”
Paige didn’t let her disappointment show. Obviously, she wasn’t going to be penning any offers for Mr. Patterson. Maybe he wanted to put his “new” gallery up on the market, but that didn’t seem likely. He probably wanted a market evaluation, which made her feel more than a little used. People often called her to come look at a property and tell them how much it was worth. They weren’t interested in selling. They were interested in a free market appraisal.
For a commissioned real estate agent like Paige the whole thing typically turned into a considerable waste of time. Still, Paige saw it as part of her job, and Mr. Patterson as one of her clients so she told herself to smile and help him the best she could.
“Are you thinking about putting it up on the market or do you only want to determine the sell value?” she asked.
Mr. Patterson ambled into the gallery, and she followed him. The place looked nearly ready to open. The flat, untextured walls had been painted a nice neutral gray so as not to detract from the art. The floors were concrete. Several walls with wheels for adjusting room space and hanging art stood in the room. Ready to hang acrylic paintings on canvas lined one wall and some penciled works on wood lined another.
“Do you remember when we had lunch at Mickey Mantle’s Grill?” Mr. Patterson asked.
“Sure.”
“You talked about your art degree, said that you paint.”
She remembered mentioning it, but she wasn’t sure where he was going with these questions. It seemed odd that with all his talking he hadn’t mentioned opening an art gallery, even when they’d been discussing her art degree. She’d never seen him as the artistic type. (Not that she walked around trying to pin the art type label on people.) She just didn’t think “art” when she looked at Mr. Patterson. She thought Harley Davidson. Not to mention she didn’t remember seeing him at any exhibitions, and she went to nearly all of them. But then again people with money had the ability to jump into things impulsively. Owning a bookstore sounds nice. I’ll take the one on the corner and all that. Perhaps he’d just gotten into the art scene.
“You see, I have a problem,” Mr. Patterson said. “I want to open this place in about a month, but I can’t find anyone to run it. I’ve interviewed hundreds of potentials. Haven’t liked any of them. Either they aren’t passionate enough about art or they’re too young or they don’t click with me or something else about them isn’t right.”
Could this really be going the direction she thought it was? Was he going to ask to see her art, offer her an opportunity to show it in his gallery? It sure seemed like it.
“Well, I was thinking about how helpful and patient you’ve been with me while I’ve been looking for a home. I know I can be a pain in the ass. You’re responsible. You’re passionate about art, you made it clear that day at Mickey Mantle’s, and you’re intelligent. So, I thought you might have an interest in running the gallery for me.”
Paige didn’t know what to say.
“There’s a small area in the back of the gallery with a mud room,” Mr. Patterson said. “That’s the artist’s studio. It would be yours to use how you like. There’s a small office, bathroom, and kitchenette across the hall. All of this space out here is for the gallery. You’d have to be willing to take on the full responsibility of finding and displaying the works of other artists as well as your own. Occasionally, I’ll run across someone’s stuff that I want to promote, and you’ll have to make room for them, but other than that, it would be your show.”
Paige turned around the room, taking it all in as an artist instead of a real estate agent. It was hard for her to switch gears, but even so, she saw the place was more than she had dreamed for. Could this be real? Did things really happen this way? She’d heard of chance successes before. A writer meets someone and mentions a book idea and the person turns out to be some high-powered agent or editor who offers him a three-book contract. A manager at a small store hustles his butt off for a customer who turns out to be a CEO who offers him a six-figure VP position. But those things didn’t happen to real people, and they certainly didn’t happen to her.
“There is a catch,” Mr. Patterson said.
Here it comes. I have to agree to become his sex slave or sell my soul to the devil.
“It doesn’t pay a whole lot. I mean, I don’t want to make any assumptions about your salary, but the position only pays about $2,000 a month. I don’t expect to make much money off the gallery. My income comes from elsewhere, but I’m only willing to lose so much. You can sell your own works in the gallery to augment your income. And I need to see a sample of your work before I’ll officially offer you the position, assuming you’re interested. There is a standard when it comes to the quality of an in studio artist’s work. I assume you have a portfolio I can see?”
That was the real kicker. She hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in a long time, much less done any actual work. She had a portfolio, but it mostly contained works she’d done in college. What if it didn’t meet his standard? What if he didn’t like it?
“Paige? Are you interested?”
She roamed around the room. Pictured her art hanging from the walls. The salary was a considerable cut in pay from what she made selling real estate. What would Eddie think? He wouldn’t be very happy about the reduction in her salary. They’d have to give up things. They might have to move into a smaller house.
“Paige? Are you interested?”
It was the chance of a lifetime. She’d be painting. Someone would be paying her a steady income to do what she loved. How could she say no? She had to try.
“Yes, Mr. Patterson. I’m interested.”
Mr. Patterson smiled. “Good. Let’s start with you calling me Edward. Mr. Patterson makes me feel like an old man.”
“Okay, Edward.”
“Your portfolio?”
“It’s at my home.”
“We should go take a look then.”
“Now?”
That surprised her. She’d figured on having time to at least flip through her portfolio maybe even whip together a few new pieces before showing it to him.
“I’m sorry, Paige, but I have to be on a flight to New York in about three hours. I’ll be there for at least a couple of weeks, and I’d like to get this settled by the end of the day if we can. There’s a lot of work to do before the gallery opens. Is that a problem?”
“No. Not at all.”
The only real problem was Eddie. After that morning’s fight about the direction her career was taking her and the costs of giving up real estate to return to painting, she was afraid that Eddie might find Edward’s offer a bit too coincidental.
A Perfect Canvas Page 3
