The Artist's Paradise

by Pamela S Wetterman

  Chapter 29

  Doctor King placed her notepad on her lap with pen raised. She asked, “Your wife has been gone for several weeks. How are you doing?”

  How had he been doing? Not well, but better than he’d expected. He and Mister Tubbs had bonded as never before. He found that leaving work at a decent time had not diminished his performance. Overall, he’d surprised himself. “On a scale of one to ten, I’m a six.”

  “Tell me more about that?”

  “My dear wife won’t talk to me. She won’t return my phone calls. So, I’m working on detaching, with love. A friend of mine, actually my administrative assistant, told me all about that detaching stuff. Some days it works. I focus on what I have control over and stop trying to control other people.”

  “Yes, detachment is a good concept. Detaching in love forces each of us to determine what part of another person’s actions we can control. What do you have control over?”

  Jonathan stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. He stared at his brown loafers. Finally, he said, “Not a damn thing, really. Control is a figment, a non-reality.”

  She smiled. “I believe we all have control over only one thing, ourselves. What do you think?”

  “I think right now, I don’t even control myself. The last time I spoke to Angie, I lost my temper, and she hung up. Now I have no contact. That isn’t what I wanted. Why did I lose it?”

  Doctor King remained silent.

  Jonathan shifted in the chair. He fought the urge to elaborate, but eventually continued. “I guess my temper comes out when I experience fear. How can I trust Angie with another man? She changed after she met him. I don’t want to lose her, and yet I keep pushing her farther and farther away.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  He pushed his hands into the shape of a steeple. “I guess if she plans on leaving me, I’d rather be the one to call it quits first. After all, my ego can’t take a hit like that. My mom died when I was twenty. My dad died two years later of a broken heart. I’ve lost enough.”

  “That must have been very difficult for you. Are you an only child?”

  He stared at an invisible spot on the carpet. He never found that question easily answered. “My older sister died of leukemia when she was four years old. I don’t remember her, but her presence haunted my entire childhood.”

  Doctor King made some notes on her notepad. “How so?”

  “Her pictures were all over the brownstone. Even her room remained intact for years. On her birthday, we watched home videos of her short life. Her memory touched every part of our lives.”

  “That must have been difficult for you. How did you cope?”

  He sighed. “I guess my way to find a spot in my mom’s life was to be an overachiever. My grades were perfect. I went out for football, basketball, and baseball. I dated only the head cheerleader. But, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fill the hole in my mom’s heart.”

  “Did you ever think that your mom loved you for who you were, but just didn’t know how to heal from the loss of your sister?”

  “My dad used to tell me that he and Mom loved me. Ever since Julie died, he’d lost part of Mom’s heart, too. I think that’s why he died shortly after she passed away—he had no reason to live.” Jonathan sighed, “They both abandoned me.”

  She swiveled out of her chair and headed toward the sitting area. “Come, let’s sit over here. It’s more comfortable.” She slipped into the floral chair on the other side of the room.

  He balked for a moment, then crossed the room and took a seat facing her.

  “You’ve experienced a great deal of loss in your life, much more than many people do. The fact that you shared your childhood with the ghost of a perfect child must have been difficult. Then you lost both of your parents early in your adult life. Now you fear you are losing your wife. Can you see how the life experiences begin to connect like mile markers on a map?”

  A shudder shot through him. His determination to hold himself together soon failed. His shoulders shook as he sobbed.

  Doctor King sat in silence. She picked up the tissue box on the table, handed it to him, and waited.

  About fifteen minutes later, Jonathan leaned forward and cleared his throat. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

  “Go On.”

  Why would he have to tell her? It wasn’t her business, not really. It had nothing to do with his marriage counseling. Well, maybe a little. “I’ve been lonely and angry since Angie left for Knoxville.”

  “Yes?”

  She was not going to make this easy. “Last weekend when I talked to Angie, she hung up on me.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “I met a woman and took her out to dinner.” There he’d said it.

  “Are you interested in spending more time with this woman?”

  “I don’t know. She’s beautiful, sexy, and very open to a relationship—no strings attached.”

  Doctor King shifted on the couch. She bent forward and tapped a pencil against her tablet. “When you first came here, you wanted to see how you could repair your marriage, or dissolve it if it was no longer viable. Is that correct?”

  He clasped his hands together and let out a slow breath. “Yes, but so much has happened since I first came here. Angie isn’t even in communication with me. I am not stupid. She is involved with that man and won’t come back.”

  “What if you’re wrong? Will you chance ending your marriage before you know if she is telling you the truth? You know her character. Does she normally lie?”

  “Damn. I’m so confused. I deserve to be happy. She’s making me crazy.”

  “Do yourself a favor. Go home. Complete that inventory of her strengths and weaknesses. When you come back next week, let’s discuss your options. What you choose to do is your own decision to make.” She paused and pointed her finger toward him. “But be armed with facts and not emotions before you jump in with both feet. If this new woman is right for you, she will wait. If not, what have you lost by ending it early?”

  He dropped his head and nodded. “Okay, Doc. I’ll give this one more week, but no longer.”

  #

  As Angie entered the professor’s kitchen, she inhaled the sweet fragrance of roses. A bright red spray adorned a crystal vase centered on a white lace tablecloth, red roses embroidered on the cloth. The place settings and red goblets filled with orange juice completed the Martha Stewart look. The professor toiled over a sizzling skillet. She leaned around him for a quick peek. Her stomach growled. “My favorite—bacon.”

  “Breakfast is almost ready. Do you want an English muffin or wheat toast?”

  “An English muffin sounds perfect.”

  “Please sit. I’ll serve you,” he said and waved her toward the table.

  She settled on the soft-cushioned seat as the professor placed a plate in front of her filled with two pieces of bacon, scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit. Off to the side, he placed a small bread plate crowned with an English muffin and cream cheese. Then he poured them both a cup of green tea and sat across from her.

  Angie ate as if she were having her first meal in days, while the professor barely touched his breakfast. His focus remained on Angie as he sat in silence.

  “This is delicious,” she said. “Aren’t you eating?”

  He picked up his fork and tasted the eggs. “I get such pleasure watching you enjoy my cooking,” he said, sipping his tea. “Do you cook at home much?”

  “Actually, I cook every evening. My specialties come from Rachel Ray recipes. I’m quite good.”

  “Well, you’ll have to cook for us some evening.”

  “I’d love to.”

  He folded his red-cloth napkin and placed it next to his plate. “Right now, we should discuss your exhibit from yesterday. Shall we go into the sitting room where we can be comfortable?”

  She followed him, her stomach in knots. He had devastated her yesterday. Today, his cri
tique might be even worse. He directed her to an armchair nestled at an angle near the window. With her back erect, she lowered herself into the naughty chair.

  He dropped onto the sofa. “Angie, it’s difficult to offer you negative feedback on your performance. However, the only way anyone improves is by understanding their weaknesses.”

  She swallowed air and remained silent. Oh, God, was he going to end their sessions? Was he sending her home in disgrace?

  He cleared his throat. “I gave you a simple assignment yesterday. I even allowed more time than necessary. Your work, so lifeless, failed. It grieves me to ask, are you committed to this study?”

  How could he question her dedication? “Professor, your study is the most important thing I’ve done for myself in over eight years. I’m determined to learn everything you can teach me.”

  “Then, what’s wrong? Have you been distracted by phone calls during class? You know that is not allowed.”

  “No, never,” she replied, holding back a panic attack. “I haven’t spoken to my husband or Vicki for almost three weeks. Only once did I take a call during the day. Since then, I haven’t broken any of your rules.”

  “Then, what is it? I am so disappointed. Are you really trying to learn, or are you just a rich little housewife with time on her hands?”

  Rich little housewife? How dare he think that? “I’m sorry about yesterday. My effort was disgraceful. I know you’re donating your summer to me. I’ll improve. I’ll do anything you ask.”

  Silence. His jaw turned to stone. His gaze dropped to the floor as if ashamed of her. When he looked up, he said, “I accept your apology. But—there are others you should apologize to. You understand by being here someone else with as much or more talent was passed over. You owe it to other artists to be dedicated and achieve.”

  “I understand the sacrifice you and others are making. Tell me what to do. I’ll do it. I promise.”

  “All right. But we may have to increase your class time. Less freedom in the evenings, more time together studying.”

  “Anything you say.”

  The professor’s stern face softened. She held her breath.

  “You’re getting one final chance. I won’t waste my time on second- best.”

  Her head throbbed. One last chance? “Thank you.”

  “Now, we’ll discuss your failed exhibit from yesterday. You may ask questions. Then you’ll repeat the assignment. Understood?”

  She nodded.

  He spent the next hour discussing her amateurish errors. He described issues with her basic technics—lifting and dragging color, her failure to prepare a sketch, and even incompetent use of her brushes. Had she fallen back to Art 101? He had rushed her with his instructions, but she knew the basics. What had happened to her? Nothing he had found fault with had ever been an issue before.

  His words stung as she continued to listen.

  “Finally, you must do better with Lightfastness. You failed to consider the variations in shading. You barely passed the exhibit with a C-. You must do better than that, or you’re wasting my time.”

  Wasting his time?

  “Didn’t you read the articles about Paula?” He asked. She understood what it took to become the best. Go back and read her quotes again. She worked like my slave, no personal life, no outside interests. She knew the sacrifice that had to be made. I must see the same dedication from you.”

  #

  Back in the cottage, safe and away from the professor, Angie slumped onto the sofa in front of the fireplace. Had she fooled herself into believing a dream that could never be?

  Now what? Run home a failure? The professor wanted more from her. He demanded 100 percent of her time and focus. Her dreams were shaken, and her marriage in trouble. What would she have when the summer ended? She feared failure, but she feared inaction more. She had remained passive for the last eight years and what had it gotten her. No, she had to work harder and learn from this unpredictable man.

  She rose from the sofa and tiptoed to the worktable to study her paint colors. Searching for the light and dark tubes of each primary color, she verified the quality of Lightfastness for each. Gathering up her pad of artist paper, a sketching pencil, and three varying sizes of brushes, she stepped outside and wandered into the back. Taking a seat by the birdbath, she gazed around the floral garden areas. The deep azure sky, gently accented with puffy white clouds and soft sunlight warmed her. The assortment of pink, purple, and white moss roses splashed the garden with a gentle pastel carpet. She sketched out the scene, capturing the skylines, the placement of clouds, and the evergreen trees in the background.

  Sketch completed, she spread out a blanket and settled onto the center to begin her work. She positioned her pad, paintbrushes, color palette, and a small cup of water. The sun touched her warmly as she sat in the garden. The birds sang. Two reddish- brown squirrels gathered nuts and jumped from limb to limb in the pecan-tree tops. The breeze kissed her canvas as she applied the Ultramarine Blue on a dry surface to begin the sky. Immersed in her project, she failed to notice a stranger approach.

  “Hello.”

  Angie dropped her brush and glanced up. A slender gray-haired woman appeared in the backyard next door. The woman watched her intently. Angie waved and returned her attention to her painting.

  The woman approached with a smile, holding a bouquet of deep purple irises.

  “Good morning. I’m your neighbor, Hanna Baker. I brought you some flowers from my garden.”

  “What a vibrant purple, it’s almost black. I’ve never seen such gorgeous irises.” Angie said. “Thank you for sharing your garden with me. I’m Angie Rhodes, a guest of Professor Turner.”

  The older woman smiled. “I’ve seen you around for the last few weeks. Are you his new girlfriend?

  Angie laughed. “Oh my no, I’m an art student taking a summer class.”

  “Of course, pardon me. I just assumed …” Hanna hooked her hair behind her ears. “James had a few others stay here during the summer months.”

  “Yes, I understand one of his students helped design and build the cottage.”

  “Well, it seemed to me he treated her more like a girlfriend. But it’s none of my business. My husband, Jack, tells me I’m a busy-body.”

  “Most men think we women are too curious for our own good,” Angie said.

  “I’m glad you understand.” Hanna leaned in for a closer look. “What are you painting?”

  “It’s a garden landscape, my class assignment for the day.”

  The neighbor woman handed Angie the flowers, smiled, and excused herself. As she waltzed back to her own yard, she looked over her shoulder and shouted, “Maybe we can have tea one morning.”

  “I’d love to. Let me know when.”

  “How about tomorrow, say around 10?”

  Oh no, that would break Rule #1. She saddened. She missed time with another woman—if only for just a few minutes. “Sure. Come over to the cottage tomorrow, but I can’t visit long. The professor has rules about distractions.”

  Angie, delighted to learn more about the professor’s former students, whistled as she continued with her exhibit. At last, another human to talk to. She realized how she had been so isolated.

  With her painting completed, Angie stood and stroll back toward the cottage. Her stomach growled. She had not seen or heard the professor all day. It was almost four o clock, and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She’d been accustomed to the professor providing all of her meals. There was nothing in the cottage to eat. She must develop more independence. She was a grown woman, not a silly child, waiting for someone to feed her.

  A sharp voice brought her back to reality. “Who was that interfering with your work?” Professor Turner stood in front of her, his hands on his hips. His irritation poured out with each tap of his foot.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Rule #1—no visitors during class time.”

  Angie strained to hold her tone level and emo
tions in check. “I haven’t had a single visitor. My entire focus is on learning.”

  “Don’t lie to me. Who gave you those flowers?” His words spit out like a jealous husband.

  “I met your neighbor lady, Hanna. She picked flowers in her garden and gave me the Irises. She left in less than five minutes.”

  “You know the rules. No visitors—none.”

  Angie glared at him, grabbed up her blanket, and stomped into the cottage. She slammed the door behind her. She wouldn’t be spoken to like that, not by anyone. Not even the professor.

  Chapter 30

  Two hours after the blow up with the professor, he’d not attempted to contact her. The emptiness in her stomach took priority over her hurt feelings. She Googled delivery options and finally settled on a local college favorite, pizza. The life-saving meal arrived within thirty minutes and after tipping the driver, she sunk into the sofa and devoured half of her medium meat lovers with extra cheese.

  With her hunger satisfied, she picked up her cell phone and called Vicki. No answer. She left a short message and placed her cell phone back on the coffee table.

  She needed to talk to her friend. Vicki always picked up. Maybe she was still upset from their last call. She knew she’d been short with Vicki. But the professor was so bent on his rules.

  What was wrong with him? He was such a gifted teacher. She was growing in her craft. But this other side of him was confusing, mixed up childhood or not.

  Angie gathered up her newest exhibit. She walked over to the north window and held her painting up in the evening moonlight. She knew it was good. She’d incorporated everything the professor had berated her on. He had been so critical. Yet, she knew having rushed the project had hindered her final product. No one ever said she had to be a speed painter. She’d already learned so much from him. It would be better for her if she rolled with his moods and learned as much as she could in the next few weeks.

  She’d developed expertise in avoiding conflict. She’d spent most of her teen years managing to stay clear of her parents and their issues. Until recently, she’d escaped arguing with Jonathan. She wouldn’t ruin her chance to become a true artist, just because of an occasional black mood and a few ridiculous rules.