“I’m fine. How are you?”
“How in the hell do you think I am. I’ve been calling you for days. What’s going on?”
She pulled the phone away from her ear. Ouch, he was mad. “I’m sorry. We’ve been so busy with lessons.” What to tell him? He would never understand dinners out or trips to Gatlinburg. “The professor has class rules, no phone calls during the day. The time goes by. I’m exhausted and falling into bed. Forgive me.”
“That sounds like a bunch of excuses. Too tired to call me?”
“Yes. I’m working long hard hours. After all, I’ve spent many nights with you not calling. You go to a hotel and fall into bed. It’s the same thing.”
“It’s not the same. I’m working. You’re not.”
She gasped. What nerve. “What do you think I’m doing here?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. What are you doing?”
Angie, short of breath, retorted, “You can just keep wondering. Goodbye.”
She threw the cell phone onto the table and walked away. Her anger rose inside like a “gust-nado.” He would not talk to her like that ever again.
Angie dressed and went for her morning run. The harder she ran, the angrier she grew. He had no right to expect her to have different rules from those he lived by. What kind of man had she married—self-centered, insensitive, egotistical? Yes, he had it all. Perhaps that helped him to greatness as an attorney, but it made him a failure as a husband.
She showered and dressed after her run. She wanted to talk to Vicki but the professor would arrive any minute. Rules had to be followed. No phone calls until after class.
#
The day with the professor was exceptionally interesting. He took class time to introduce her to the talents of Joseph Mallard William Turner. Although not related, the professor had long studied the techniques used by Turner, an English romantic painter from the nineteenth century. He placed a large coffee-table book in front of Angie. As he opened the book to a blue bookmark, she leaned forward for a closer view.
“My dear, this innovative use of color brought the attention of the art world to landscape painting. Turner became one of the greatest watercolor artists ever. He was called the painter of light. See how he captures the light and shadows that drew viewers into his work. His landscapes are said to have been the introduction to Romantic Impressionism.”
He closed the book and leaned back on the couch. “I expect you to take some time this evening reading the newspaper articles about Paula. She has captured the techniques of Turner. You must do the same.”
“Homework?”
“Time is short. Don’t question my orders, or you’ll miss your goal.”
“Of course. I’ll study about Paula tonight.” What a strange request. The professor seemed to be hung-up on that girl.
Her hard work finished for the day and dinner over, she informed the professor that she needed a quiet evening to study about Paula. He resisted, but eventually walked her to the cottage door and bid her a good night. Angie shivered as she unlocked the cottage door. The wind carried a late spring chill. A thunderstorm approached. She turned on the gas logs in her fireplace and jumped into her flannel pajamas. Sinking into the sofa, she wrapped up in an afghan. Relaxing in the warmth of the blazing fire, she slowly sipped a cup of spice tea. She inhaled the pungent aroma. If she were home, Mister Tubbs, a dedicated lapdog, would be settled in her arms—a fear of thunder clearly apparent. She missed him every day. Had he forgotten her?
Why did she and Jonathan continue to argue? They were not able to agree on much of anything. He rarely listened to her. He would insist she had never told him. Tightness turned into a knot right below her breastbone. What would her life be like without him? They had been together for almost ten years. In the beginning, he’d treated her as if she were a priceless and fragile crystal vase. By their third year of marriage, his time and focus diminished. As his attention waned, she tried harder to please. Nothing seemed to help. His career turned into an obsession.
Angie stood and paced around the living area. Then picked up her cell phone and called Vicki.
“Thank God. Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better. I’m so confused. What am I doing here?”
“What? You’re asking me now? I suggested you think it over before you left. You didn’t want to listen. Remember?”
Why did she play historian? Friends help and listen—not criticize.
“Honey, has that professor done something to you?”
“Yes, I mean no, it’s Jonathan. I called him this morning, and all he did was accuse me of lying. What’s wrong with him?”
“I wish you’d come home. End this crazy fantasy and take the next plane to Chicago. You can’t work on your marriage long distance.”
Angie bristled and brushed her bangs off her forehead. “I thought at least you would understand. This isn’t a fantasy. It’s my personal dream, my chance for a career in art. If you can’t understand, you can’t help me. Sorry I called.” Angie snapped the phone closed. Who needs her?
She circled the cottage interior several times. She needed a run, but it was too dark. Besides, she hated running in the rain. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, shaking off her irritation. The longer she stayed in Knoxville, the more she experienced personal distance from her life in Chicago. Maybe that life had never been what she thought. At least the professor understood her.
She landed on the sofa and scooped up the leather binder. The professor expected her to learn about Paula. No time like the present.
#
Jonathan rushed home from work. His pulse beat like a rap song. He had tried to speak to Angie that morning, but it was no use. She was chasing her dreams and he didn’t belong. She had made that perfectly clear. Fine, he had a life to live, too. If she wanted that professor, it freed him up to make new friends—friends like Lucinda.
His call to her last night had stirred up feelings he had long forgotten. Her voice purred into the phone, sending chills down his back. She expressed interest in anything subject he chose. Being a businesswoman, she understood the pressures under which he lived. She loved his humor and offered her own gallery of off-colored jokes. Although a mere twenty-five, she certainly was experienced—worldly. Women had changed since he’d stopped dating.
He’d invited her out to dinner tonight. She agreed to meet him at the Tavern on Rush at 8. He had time to shower, shave, and change into something more casual. His heart raced.
“I’ll be out for a few hours tonight. You can watch Animal Planet until I get home. Don’t wait up for me.”
Mister Tubbs whined.
“Look, we men have to stick together. I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s just a dinner date with a new friend. This is between you and me, okay?” He handed his companion two doggie cookies and patted his backside. “See you later. Don’t wait up.”
#
Jonathan strutted into the bar area at the Tavern on Rush. Looking around, he didn’t see anyone he knew. Checking his watch, he had arrived fifteen minutes early. Good. He took a seat at the bar and ordered his brew. He sloshed down a third of the mug. What if she stood him up? After all, he was almost old enough to be her father.
With a mouth full of peanuts from the bar, he almost choked as a voice whispered in his ear.
“Hello, handsome.”
Turning around, he tried to hide his surprise. “Gina? I had no idea you and Wayne ever came here.” He wiped his brow and forced a smile.
“No, you’re right. This place is a bit uptown for Wayne. But we‘re meeting some old friends for dinner, and they made the reservations.”
Jonathan stood and gazed around the room. No sign of Lucinda, yet. “Where’s Wayne?”
He’s taking a smoke break. Still hasn’t broken that nasty habit. He’ll be right in. Are you alone?”
He paused. How to respond? Gina knew him too well. If he tried to make up an excuse, she’d know immediately. “No—not alone.
I’m having dinner with an old friend. She is in town on business.”
“Old friend? What’s her name? After all these years looking after you, I must know all of your friends.”
Jonathan stared at the front door. Lucinda would be here any minute. He needed an exit plan. “You don’t know her. She’s actually the daughter of one of my old fraternity pals.” He gulped. Lucinda had just strolled into the bar area. “Oh. There she is now. Got to run. You and Wayne enjoy the food, it’s great.”
She looked amazing. Her cheery-red knit dress folded around every curve. How had she gotten that designer dress on? Wow. Did all twenty-five year olds push the envelope the way she did? He raced to Lucinda, took her arm, and guided her out the front door.
“Well, hello, Jonathan. Are we leaving already?”
“It’s too noisy in there. Let’s find a quiet spot so we can get to know each other.”
Lucinda purred in agreement. “How about my place?”
“No, that’s too quiet.” He blushed.
“Okay. What about the Mexican restaurant around the corner?”
“Great. Let’s go. Do they carry beer?”
Lucinda’s green eyes lit up. “But of course. Would I suggest a spot that had no beer?”
Chapter 28
Rising early, the professor sipped sweet tea and nibbled on a blueberry muffin. He’d studied human motivation most of his life. The human soul required tender reassurance. If positive input failed to be consistent, humans tried harder to please.
He smiled. Angie was growing more confused each day—trying harder to satisfy his demands, and working longer hours on her watercolor painting. Soon he’d push her into a new level of artistry.
#
Angie jumped as the cottage door burst open. In strode the professor. She held her breath. Which professor was he today? There was only one way to find out. “Good Morning, you are up early.” Angie said. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Early, nonsense. We lost an entire evening, and that class will be made up now.”
She opened her mouth to protest, and then retreated
Displaying his athletic build in a tightly fit hunter-green polo shirt, she cautioned herself to remain distant. His Givenchy cologne, Gentleman, drowned her in a woodsy fragrance as his sexy dark-brown eyes stared at her. She wrapped herself with her arms, fighting off the butterflies of awe and fear running through her body. This was nonsense. The man who stepped into her cottage would be into only the tasks of the day.
She focused on his voice and memorized his instructions, as he briskly explained her assignment. Once his demands were delivered, he curtly left as quickly as he’d arrived. With a slam of the door, he was gone.
She rubbed her neck and sighed. What could she have possibly done to generate his irritation? They had made up for the eruption at the banquet. Did he regret purchasing that expensive watercolor painting for her? Or was he concerned that his time would be better utilized on a more gifted artist?
She moved to the paints. As she began working on her exhibit, she struggled with the assignment. She was determined to show the professor she could perform. But his explanation for the desired outcome was sparse and delivered rapidly. Worst of all, the timeline he dictated to complete the exhibit —unreasonable. The knot in her stomach brought the taste of bile into her throat. “Oh please, let me produce what he has requested.”
Ninety minutes later, the dreaded knock came at her door. Angie jumped. The door burst open and in strode the professor, his lips pursed, and deep lines etched in his forehead. His eyes moved directly to the exhibit. “Are you ready?”
Angie stepped back to allow the professor access to her painting. She dropped her trembling hands to her sides. Was he bi-polar? “Ready? No, not really.”
He advanced to the worktable and grabbed her exhibit. He glared at her work, his face without expression, and his mouth tightly closed. Angie held her breath as the professor moved closer to the window. Could the sunlight penetrate the watercolors and reveal the detail of each stroke? He turned to her and said, “You have missed your target today. This is not acceptable. After lunch, you will repeat the assignment. Understand?”
Angie’s gaze fixed on a spot on the floor. “Understand? No, I’ve failed the assignment, and have no idea what I’ve done wrong.” She burned from his piercing stare.
“A true artist knows what must be done. Your lunch is ready and placed on my back porch. Eat and return to your work. I’ll be back at 3:30. Don’t disappoint again.” The professor swept past her and slammed the door as he exited.
She slumped down on the sofa. What had she done wrong?
Thirty minutes later, Angie pulled herself upright and picked up the failed painting. She carried it to the window as the professor had done half an hour earlier. She saw nothing. What had he seen? How could she correct what she did not understand?
She struggled to recall the initial description of the assignment. She closed her eyes and concentrated, recalling the words he had thrown at her—lightfastness, dragging color, lifting and dropping color. What else had he said? Yes, of course, he’d told her to use the split color palette. What was that? How could she select the colors if she didn’t understand the terms? She flew to her cell and Googled the split color palette. Finally, she understood. He meant for her to use the warm and cool shades of the three primary colors of yellow, red, and blue. How simple. Had she missed anything more?
She checked the time. With no appetite, lunch would be sacrificed. She must begin the task immediately. Grabbing a fresh watercolor pad, she peeled off masking tape, and attached the paper to her Formica board. This would hold the painting in place as she worked. Then she sat down at her worktable and frantically pulled together the tubes of paint for a split color pallet. She must hurry, but she could make no mistakes. His words echoed in her head.
Do not disappoint.
A knock at the door came and Angie shook. Again, she wasn’t finished. He told her 3:30. It was only 3. Why was he tormenting her like this? She called out, “It’s open.”
She stood frozen in place.
The professor marched into the small cottage, his face expressionless and his walk slow and measured. “I expect better this time. How have you done?”
Angie caught her breath. What if she failed again? “I’ve done my best. I thought I had another thirty minutes.”
“You have whatever time I give you. Your time’s now up. After all, you are repeating the assignment, right?”
She swallowed a thought and said,” Yes, that’s right.”
He picked up her landscape exhibit and held it by the north light. He turned and glared at her. Then he looked back at the landscape painting. Finally, he spoke. “You have produced an average result. My disappointment in you is pronounced. Were you unable to understand the assignment or are you incapable of completing it?”
Angie gasped.
The professor stared at her, and then said, “Angie, I need to know, is it a lack of understanding or a lack of talent?”
She wanted to fire back at the professor, but knew that would be the wrong action to take. He’d made her fail. He hadn’t even tried to clarify what he wanted her to do. His comments were cruel and mean-spirited.
She slowly inhaled and then released the deep breath. “I have the talent. I must have misunderstood. Perhaps I should have asked more questions. It’s my fault.”
He replaced the painting on her workspace. He nodded and spoke, enunciating each word, crisp and slow. “Yes, ask more questions.” He pointed back to her painting, “Challenge me. You have the talent, but you need fire in your belly. I will bring you from average to perfection. You can’t do it without me. Do you understand?”
A tear slid down her cheek. No, she didn’t understand. But he’d said he wanted her to grow in her craft. Jonathan and Vicki no longer believed in her dream. The professor offered her hope. “What part of the assignment did I miss? How can I improve?”
His
dark-brown eyes sparkled and his lips turned up at the corners of his mouth. “Very good, Angie. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss your assignment. I’ll answer all your questions. But for now, let it go. We have dinner reservations for seven o’clock tonight. Wear a pretty outfit and be ready for elegance.”
Dinner? He just blasted her for being a disappointment and now he’s talking about a dinner out?
“Dress up again? I failed to pack a dine-out wardrobe for this class.”
“No problem. We’ll go shopping. I know just the boutique. Be ready in ten minutes.” He pivoted on his heels, and made a fast exit.
Relieved he was gone. She ran to the closet, grabbed a pair of sandals, and flew out the door.
#
An exhausted Angie returned from her evening with the professor. She entered the cottage and slipped out of her new dress. The vibrant cobalt blue designer-dress carried simple lines and the soft draping flattered her tall slender frame. She tried on several outfits, but the professor insisted on the blue one. After arguing with him over who would pay for the expensive dress, he convinced her that she deserved a dress of this caliber, and he deserved to pay for the vision of her in it. Enjoying the sight of her in it? She both adored him and feared him. Her emotions too difficult to rationalize.
Dinner, the flip side of her day with him, was delightful and touching. He entertained, amused, and charmed her. Angie enjoyed this side of him. But she cautiously wondered what caused him to be so stern earlier. Any time she did well, the following day he raged with disappointment. Why?
On the days he demeaned her work, she turned into a prison inmate searching for freedom, forced to do whatever it took to satisfy her guard. The days he praised her, she responded like a new puppy learning her tricks. Maybe she was the crazy one.
She would never disappoint him again. His genius showed in his work. His temperament must be part of being so talented. True artists had the tendency for emotional swings. She had to continually please him, not disappoint him. She planned to ask lots of questions the next day and deliver the exhibits he expected. He was the master. She was here to learn.
The Artist's Paradise Page 15
