For the Love of You

by Donna Hill

“I’d prefer to handle it myself.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Don’t, okay? It’s not like that.”

  “Hey, my man. It’s your party. All I ask is to keep the fireworks to a minimum.”

  Craig slapped Anthony’s back. “No worries.” He caught a glimpse of Milan out of the corner of his eye. He hoped that sentiment would remain true. “Got a call from Alyse.”

  “You knew that was going to happen.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Yeah. Meeting her later tonight at the hotel bar.”

  “Public place. Good move,” he teased.

  “Very funny.”

  “Well, you know how Alyse can be.”

  “That I do,” he conceded good-naturedly. He pushed out a breath. “Soon as Hamilton gets here, we can get started.”

  “In the meantime, let’s go over a few things for the shooting schedule and the staffing.”

  “Sure.”

  “So what about your pops?” Anthony hedged once they were seated at the round table away from the team.

  Craig looked up from the notes on the iPad. “What about him?”

  “Guess that answers my question.”

  “I hope so.”

  * * *

  Jewel finished packing up the bakery boxes filled with cupcakes for her client’s daughter’s sixteenth-birthday party. She tied each box with her signature lavender bow and tucked a business card in each one. She had to admit that over the past few months the requests for her baking services had increased considerably. As it currently stood, she had the space in her kitchen and the time on her hands to efficiently complete her orders. But she wasn’t too sure how long that efficiency would last at this rate. The extra income wasn’t enough for her to sit back and relax, but it did help. Maybe Minerva was right and this was her next career move, which shifted her thoughts back to her lunch and conversation with Craig. It was exhilarating and simultaneously disheartening to listen to his unwavering passion for his work. She’d had that once. And had anyone asked her five years earlier if she ever saw anything different in her life, she would have responded with a flat-out no.

  The past five years had been hard, harder than she often admitted even in the quiet of her own mind. There were those days when she missed the travel, the work, the accolades, the excitement of creating something from nothing, allowing her imagination to become a physical reality.

  There were times when she’d questioned her decision to leave that life behind her, to throw in the towel, so to speak. Yet, even after all this time, her fall from grace still stung.

  It was a New York showing. The promotion leading up to her gallery opening had been in every art magazine, newspaper and blog and on the lips of every reputable critic in the business. The buzz in the art world was near deafening in anticipation of Jewel Fontaine’s new work. Rumor had it that she had taken a departure from her traditional oil painting and classic sculptures to something more avant-garde and edgy. It was a risk. But the artistic visionary in her guided her in a new direction.

  She’d always been anxious on opening nights, but this night was different. She was actually scared. Her personal assistant, Mai Ling, had spent the better part of the day convincing her that the fans and the critics would love it.

  “You’re a brilliant artist, Jewel,” Mai said. “You’ve carved a solid reputation for excellence, and one show is not going to change that. The work is phenomenal, and anyone with a grain of sense will see it. So stop worrying. It’s going to be fine.” She gave Jewel a reassuring hug. “I put your outfit on the bed. The car will be here to pick us up at six. You have an interview with Art Digest and the reviewer from the Times. Then it’s on to the after-party.”

  Jewel pushed out a breath. She didn’t know what she would do without Mai. Efficient wasn’t a word that did her justice. “Great. And you have the car to pick up my father from the airport?”

  “Of course. I don’t want you to worry about anything beyond looking beautiful and talking about your work.”

  “I’ll try. Is Simon coming?” she asked with an edge of doubt in her voice.

  Mai’s lashes fanned her eyes. “He didn’t RSVP,” she said softly. “But you know Simon. He never was one to follow protocol.”

  Jewel knew that Mai was attempting to ease her angst, but the truth was her on-again, off-again relationship with Simon Devareau had been switched to the off mode for weeks. Simon was a writer and arranger for some of the biggest names in the music industry, and his time and talent were always in demand. He was a temperamental musical genius who could go for weeks, sometimes months without seeing or talking to her when he was in the throes of composing new work.

  They’d met on the beaches of Rio two years earlier and had hit if off almost instantly. She was magnetically drawn to his brooding good looks and his passion for his work. They shared many things in common, the arts being one and mind-blowing sex the other. They spent endless hours discussing their work, sharing ideas, sparking others. But Simon always maintained an invisible wall, one that she was never able to penetrate. She wanted more. He knew it, and the wall grew thicker and higher. Their times apart became longer, the silences louder. Jewel wanted it to work. She believed that there was room in their lives for each other and the work. Simon didn’t say it in so many words, but his actions spoke volumes—his work took priority. Period. And the harder she tried to make him cross the line, the harder he pulled away. She knew it was a mistake to hope that he would be there for her big night, but she couldn’t stamp out her need to want him with her.

  “I’m going to head over to the Guggenheim and make sure that there are no last-minute glitches, then I’ll meet you back here no later than five so that I can get ready.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. Call me if there are any problems.”

  Mai gave her an are you kidding me look, shook her head and walked out.

  * * *

  When the limo pulled up in front of the Guggenheim Museum, it was a scene right out of Oscar night. The red carpet led from the street up to the front entrance to the museum. Reporters and photographers lined the roped-off entrance, and the instant Jewel stepped from the limo behind Mai, the flash of lights from cameras and cell phones and the shouting of her name rose in a cacophony of light and sound. The reception was overwhelming, and Jewel’s stress level skyrocketed. She did her best to keep her smile in place as she walked the carpet, stopping every several feet to take a picture or answer a quick question. Finally they made it inside.

  The Ronald O. Perelman Rotunda designed by the iconic Frank Lloyd Wright could hold fourteen hundred people for a reception and three hundred for a sit-down dinner. Even Jewel gasped at the opulence of the space that was strategically lined with her latest work, set off by the polished glass and chrome of the event space and marble floors. Circular linen-topped tables with white votive candles as centerpieces were arranged to the side of the space to accommodate the after-party dinner reception.

  “Oh. My. God,” Jewel said in a gush of awe.

  Mai squeezed Jewel’s bare arm. “It’s going to be a fabulous night,” she whispered in assurance. “Now let’s mingle.” Mai took Jewel’s arm and guided her around the extraordinary space.

  If only Mai’s prediction had been true. It was apparent within the first hour that the buzz among the patrons and the press was anything but complimentary.

  “Terrible.”

  “Not her style.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Definitely not what I expected.”

  “Disappointing.”

  Jewel tried hard to ignore the demoralizing commentary. But the sit-down dinner where she was surrounded by self-declared connoisseurs of art who worked hard at maintaining polite conversation that pointedly didn’t include the exhibit, was the longest night of her life, with the only highlight
being that Simon did arrive and was by her side during the interminable meal.

  There were points when she wanted to run out and break down and cry, but she knew she had to keep up the front of confidence.

  The silence was so heavy on the ride back to her hotel that it made her head pound. Simon offered to spend the night, and for the first time since they’d been a couple she turned him down. She needed to be alone and didn’t want him to be around when she read the reviews in the morning. The fact that her father was a witness to her embarrassment was enough.

  * * *

  She sat opposite Mai the following morning looking at one review after another that eviscerated her work. Every outlet from the venerable New York Times to New York magazine, Art and Culture, Contemporary Art Review and every blog and newspaper in between were, uncharacteristically, in agreement—the exhibit was an epic failure. Even the international press had a field day at her expense. One critic went so far as to intimate that Jewel Fontaine’s star had finally fallen.

  “Jewel... I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  Jewel lifted the coffee mug to her lips and took a sip. “There’s nothing to say. It’s all here,” she said, pushing the papers aside. She glanced off into the distance.

  “You know how critics are. They wouldn’t be critics if they didn’t have something to disparage. It will pass. All of the great artists were blasted by detractors that didn’t understand what the artist was trying to convey.”

  “Not like this.” She huffed. “Some of these reviews are almost personal.”

  “But you can’t take it personally.”

  “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, Mai. You’re wasting your time.” Jewel pushed away from the table and stood. “I’m going to get dressed, pack my bags, meet my father and go back home.”

  “The flight is at one.”

  “Hmm. Thanks.”

  The trip back home with her father was the second and ultimate blow.

  For the prior six months Jewel had been traveling, studying and immersing herself in the production for her show at the Guggenheim. She kept in contact with her father by phone. They spoke at least once per week. The small lapses in the conversation, the long pauses between one idea and the next, and often the disassociation with whatever it was that they were discussing she tossed off as her father, much like herself, being preoccupied. When she saw him for the first time in six months, he physically looked the same, but there was often a vacancy in his eyes and a faraway tone in his voice. This she attributed to the travel, exhaustion and the excitement of the evening. The plane ride, however, was the most devastating experience of her life.

  One moment her father seemed perfectly fine. Then he began referring to Jewel by her mother’s name—Estelle—and by degrees he became more and more agitated and seemingly disoriented, not understanding why he was on a plane or where he was going. Jewel was terrified, and his agitation grew to a point where the flight attendants had to intervene. Fortunately they were only twenty minutes out of Louisiana and Jewel was able to calm him without him being restrained. By the time they landed, he seemed to be himself again, but exhausted, as if the lapse had been as much physical as mental.

  The diagnosis was what every child fears for their parent—early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. Whatever idea Jewel might have had about returning to New York or going back to Europe came to a grinding halt. Her father couldn’t be left alone, especially in that enormous house. The doctors prescribed the latest in medication that was touted to slow the disease but not stop it. For a while the medication seemed to work, and then it didn’t. They tried combination after combination, with the same result—“You should put him a facility where he can be cared for.” For Jewel that was not an option.

  Augustus Fontaine was her dad. The man who had been her rock for the better part of her life. Now it was her turn to be there for him.

  For a while she tried to paint, to sculpt, but her father needed her more and more. Maybe it was some macabre blessing in disguise, she often thought. After the debacle of her showing at the Guggenheim, no one was beating down her door. She’d lost her mojo, and there seemed to be nowhere in her day or in her life for her to reclaim it. Instead, she turned all of her time and attention to caring for her father, until it became too much for her to handle alone. She hired Minerva.

  That had been a little more than two years ago. The disease had plateaued and remained at the same stage for quite some time. She supposed that was a good thing, and she’d fully accepted the turn that her life had taken. But the hard reality of her father’s care had done major damage to her bank account, and without the income from sales of her work, tours and speaking engagements, there was not much to replenish it with.

  And then came Craig Lawson.

  “Need any help with those?” Minerva walked into the kitchen and settled on the opposite side of the counter.

  “I’m almost done. Thanks. How’s Dad?”

  “Fine. He had a good day. And might I ask about yours?”

  Jewel tucked in a grin and busied herself with stacking the boxes. “Well...it was very nice.”

  “How nice?” she probed.

  Jewel pushed out a breath. “Nice enough that I might do it again...if he asks.”

  Minerva’s light brown eyes widened. She clapped her hands in delight. “Hallelujah, and let the choir say amen!”

  Jewel couldn’t help but laugh. “Gee whiz, Minerva, it’s not that bad.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. When was the last time you went out...with a man?” There was a long pause. “Exactly. And it don’t hurt that he’s drop-dead gorgeous and wealthy.”

  “That’s all very true, but you are getting way ahead of what is going on. He lives between London and California. He has the kind of life that I have been out of for quite some time. Even if there was something going on between us—which there isn’t—there would be no way to make it work,” she added dismissively, even as she replayed the way his mouth felt on hers, the way he tasted and the way she wanted more. “It’s just two adults in a business arrangement that somewhat enjoy each other’s company.”

  “Hmm,” Minerva murmured with a rise in her brow. “If you say so.” She started for the archway that led to the dining room. “I have to run into town to pick up a few things. I should be back in an hour or so. Do you need anything?”

  “No. I’m good. I’m going to sit with Dad for a while.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  Jewel plopped down on the stool and gazed off into the distance, trying to paint a portrait of what her life might look like with a man like Craig Lawson in it. But then she looked at the stack of bakery boxes and her eyes lifted to the floor above where her father slept. She pushed back from her seat and stood. This was her life.

  * * *

  Throughout the meeting with his team, Craig struggled with keeping focused on the items at hand. His thoughts continually shifted between topics of discussion and kissing Jewel Fontaine. He was pretty sure that was a bad move on his part. He had a long history of getting involved with people he worked with, Milan Chase being a prime example. He didn’t want his somewhat jaded history to repeat itself with Jewel, but the truth of the matter was that, as inappropriate as it might be, he wanted to see her again. He wanted to take her to his bed and strip her naked. He needed to see and feel for himself if her skin was as silken as it looked. Did that lovely scent that drifted around her find its way beneath those gauzy dresses she wore? What would it feel like to be sheathed inside her? The merry-go-round of his questions was endless. He was immensely happy when the meeting came to an end.

  “We can start preliminary shooting next week. Exteriors,” Diane was saying as Craig pushed back from the table.

  “Get the full schedule printed up and sent to everyone’s tablets,” Craig instructed her and Paul. �
�Norm, you can get some stills as well for the storyboards.”

  “No problem, boss,” Norm, the technical director, said.

  Craig checked his watch. He had time to shower and change before meeting up with his sister. He crossed over to Anthony before he headed to his room. “As soon as the revised contract is ready, let me know. I’ll drop it off and get it signed.”

  Anthony shot him a sidelong look. “Not a problem.”

  He walked over to the minibar and poured himself a short glass of bourbon. “I’m gonna get ready to meet up with Alyse. I need all the fortitude I can get.” He tossed the warm liquid down in one swallow, shut his eyes briefly against the burn then set the glass down. He clapped Anthony on the back. “Thanks for holding it down, man.”

  “We got this,” he said with a grin.

  Craig turned away and lifted his hand in salute.

  He changed into a black cotton shirt and black slacks, slid his phone, credit card and room key into his pocket, and headed down to the lobby to meet his sister.

  He was seated in one of the lounge chairs checking out the day’s headlines when Alyse pushed through the revolving door. She didn’t see him at first, and it gave Craig the opportunity to take in and appreciate the attractive and self-assured woman his little sister had become. His heart filled with warmth and good memories, which at the same time partnered with sadness that he could have allowed his rift with his father to keep him away from his sister. He stood just as she turned her head in his direction.

  Her arms stretched wide, and her dimpled smile beamed as she literally ran to him. Craig swept her up in a hug, pressing her face to his chest. She locked her arms around his waist and craned her neck to look up at him.

  “God, it’s so good to see you,” she said as tears formed in her eyes. She sniffed hard and stroked his strong jaw. “Those pictures are much better looking than you, though,” she teased, deadpan.

  Craig tossed his head back and laughed. It would be his little sister that had no problem giving him a reality check to remind him that he wasn’t all that special. He pressed his palm to his chest. “You wound me. No respect for your elders.” He grinned down at her. “It’s good to see you, too, sis,” he said with affection.