by Fifi Flowers
So true, I had to agree with her. It was, certainly, a million times better than the last gallery in its place. The decor before was too out of place…too elegant for the art district. It was too sleek with gray to black painted walls, velvet benches and lots of gold everywhere—track lighting, crystal chandeliers, shiny golden door handles, and even fancy gold fixtures in the bathroom. Gaudy and pretentious. The new look was fresh and clean with stark white walls. I loved the old exposed brick wall that must’ve been plastered over with drywall and dark paint. “Wow!” I said, looking up at a funky galvanized piping system which provided the track lighting for the artwork. Playful and fun!
The artwork on the walls was turned around but there were fantastic twisted metal sculptures all around on risers of different heights. They had a tropical jungle-like quality—vines, leaves, flowers—in mesmerizingly bright colors. Each piece looked like random pieces of scrapped metal stretched and welded together.
“Daphne, you have to taste this!” Aubree was excitedly shoving a pretty silver-dollar sized scallop toward my lips.
Biting into a seared scallop decorated with a delicious spicy avocado puree, my thoughts ran to the food that had been served on my last visit. It was a caviar and champagne fest delivered by tuxedo clad servers—deviled quail eggs topped with caviar, pate in endive topped with caviar and a few other things topped with fancy fish eggs. Not necessarily bad but it didn’t fit in with the art scene vibe of downtown. Fast forward to that evening’s event, there wasn’t caviar to be seen on any of the trays being passed around by young women in little basic black dresses and young men wearing black pants and white dress shirts, no ties. Another item not present, champagne. Instead, fruity tropical drinks were offered with a variety of scrumptious bites that were appealing to look at in bright shades of color…and yummy.
In fact, it seemed there was a rainforest theme going on with the food, drinks, and sculptures. It had me even more curious as to what was waiting for us behind the canvases that seemed to be dangling closely to the walls on some kind of wire cabling system attached to the high open ceiling.
A dip in the volume of the background music and a flickering of lights—like in a theatre setting to signal curtain time—captured everyone’s attention. Anticipation could be felt as a hushed silence fell over the gallery crowd. Servers stepped back, leaving the guests’ eyes to search the room for the next revelation. No one seemed to know which direction to face as I watched everyone and performed my own same head roll from side to side.
Then to my surprise, a very familiar voice began to speak over the PA system, welcoming his guests to his gallery… his gallery…
Caldwell’s? “C.Well” C as in Cald plus Well? “What?!” I wanted to shout as I scanned the room. Where was he? I was so lost and bewildered that I nearly missed the art reveal.
However, once the paintings were easily flipped thanks to the electronic cabling, I was floored by the spectacular colors bursting from every canvas. In an instant, my heart raced for a completely different reason. Anybody that knew anything about art gasped knowing that we were all being treated to a pop up showing of Renaldo Rossellini paintings. His style and subjects were distinguishable with their loud color and floral sexuality. I have often labeled him as a cross between Gauguin, Rousseau and O’Keefe with his own naughty uniqueness. There seemed to be orgies, sexual acts…nakedness within a jungle of vines, flowers and other fauna…pure fantasy on every canvas.
I had completely forgotten about Caldwell as my eyes danced around to each piece and I had even drowned out all voices around me until I ran into a hard body and heard, “What are you doing here?” Snapped out of my daze, I looked up into two equally confused eyes.
“This is your place?” I asked and then regretted my next words. “You owned it before…the dark pretentious abyss?”
“Oh my God! I can’t believe you are talking to Daphne Chastain.” I heard some guy say to Caldwell who looked at him with a questioning look and he added, “Remember the infamous art critic… D. Chastain ring any bells to you?”
Caldwell turned his full attention to me. “You’re the one and only D. Chastain?”
“Umm, yeah.” I answered, feeling like things were about to go south.
“I thought you were an old man. Dickhead Chastain.”
Snapping my head back…offended, I repeated the name, “Dickhead?!” I was sure I had captured some attention—turning a few nearby heads.
“Yes, some fucking arrogant, pompous ass that had no gumption for a real art environment…something different… Fuck! I almost had to shut down my gallery because of you.”
I was fuming listening to the words of a man I obviously knew nothing about. “Me pompous?! Your last place was phony and out of place… You’re a liar! You’ve been sneaking off to come here? What else don’t I know about you?”
“Me a liar?! You didn’t tell me you were a fucking annoying art critic.” Caldwell’s voice was raised in a tone I had never heard before. It was filled with hatred.
“Annoying?! What the fuck?! I’m not a critic…I just write…I just… Oh my God!” I couldn’t finish my sentence but instead rushed a few short steps away from him, held my stomach and puked in a trash can or maybe it was a plastic planter. I wasn’t sure. I just hoped that it wasn’t an art sculpture or a piece of art.
Fortunately, Aubree had caught wind of our argument and came to my assistance when I began to heave. She was quick to clean me up and get me the hell out of there before I embarrassed myself anymore. The only saving grace was the spectacular artwork since people were just as mesmerized as I had been standing in the mist of pure brilliance.
I was sure that no one realized that they had witnessed the end of my love life.
Chapter Eleven
Caldwell
What the fuck just happened? My world came to a halting stop. The worst part was that I couldn’t address those issues since I had a crowd in need of my undivided attention. I had a real business to run and a client that was counting on me to represent him. He had given me the honor of showing his brilliant art and transitioning him into the public eye, eventually. No one even knew…realized or recognized the artist in the midst of his awestruck audience. Briefly, Renaldo Rossellini had, in fact, stood in front of the canvases flipping, mere inches away from Daphne. It was a blessing that he had slipped out before my outburst and Daphne puking in an empty planter destined to be on my outside patio.
The woman I had fallen in love with nearly ruined me. Never ever did I associate Daphne with the Dickhead. The articles she had talked to me about were nothing like the one I had experienced firsthand. And yet, I had invited him…her to the event—wanting D. Chastain to see the new look of the gallery—anticipating…hoping for praise. Finding out that she was behind the vicious words boiled my blood; pissing me off all over again. I didn’t even bother to help her. Instead, I retreated to the outside bar for fresh air and to calm my fucking nerves.
A couple of tropical cocktails later along with schmoozing with my other guests, I walked back inside and Daphne, of course, was nowhere to be found.
Not able to leave or even contact her—not that I was ready to—I helped cleaned up stuff after the last guests departed. Then I had a brief meeting with my business manager and loved his report. The night had been a total success with our headliner’s pop-up show. And the introduction of Ford James, the metal sculptor, to the masses had surely brightened his future. Being linked with Renaldo Rossellini was an amazing deal for Ford and for me and my gallery. I hoped that the critics would see it as a good partnership…one in particular I hoped would treat the evening’s event favorably.
On automatic, I drove in the direction of what had been feeling a whole lot like home. Not that I thought I’d be welcome through the front door, but I couldn’t stop myself from cruising past Daphne’s house where I found two unfamiliar cars taking up space in the driveway. There was no room for me. Not that my car had ever been parked anywhere near h
er place, only my father’s truck. My anonymous car was a plus when stalking by…making sure that she was home safely. The foreign vehicles I imagined belonging to her sister and, more than likely, her friend Madison. They were probably talking shit about me—some just…and some not.
Putting my car in gear and pulling away from the curb, I went home for the first night in months. Not really my home—I was homeless—but to my brother’s house and nearly got attacked with a baseball bat. Even Ashton knew I didn’t belong there.
“Hey! It’s me!” I shouted, stopping the raised aluminum barrel from coming in contact with my body and cracking my skull.
He immediately asked, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Sighing, I slumped my shoulders pathetically and started walking toward the kitchen, and launched right in with my story as he followed me. Opening the fridge, I grabbed for a couple of beers, used a church-key to pop them open, and handed one to Ashton. Taking a big swig, I moved around to a bar stool and planted my ass to finish divulging my misery. I didn’t like that my own brother seemed to be taking Daphne’s side.
“You know that this could’ve all been avoided. There was no need for a public outburst between the two of you. You haven’t been truthful with her about the fact that you own an art gallery and that you only have minimal knowledge and skills with building stuff—”
I cut him off, “—hey! I learned the same things from Dad as you did. I spent years working for him too.” Sure he had improved and honed far more skills than I had, but I knew the basics. “You’d be amazed what I’ve done over there…at Dickhead Chastain’s house.” I was still a little bitter.
Ashton shook his head at me. “So she slammed something in your gallery. You have some weird shit at times, can’t blame her for telling her true feelings. That old gallery was fucked up in so many ways.” He was stating some truths.
“Not that simple. She attacked me personally saying that I was selling what sells, playing it safe instead of taking in street art, student art… How the fuck did she even get that info?” I questioned myself about that last part as it was always a part that I had wondered. I had asked my ex-partner if he had spoken to the critic but he just brushed me off. Shaking my head, I ran my fingers through my hair, and hung my head.
“Well, I think you need to move past the little things and look at the big picture. You two have done the nasty and she puked on you.” Of course his statement was accompanied with him chuckling.
“Don’t remind me. First you and then her…” I sipped more from my beer bottle.
“Yep, you might be a daddy. Mine was a virus, but her inflated tits that you have been speaking about…” I narrowed my eyes at him. “What?! Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t even seen her since you keep her hidden from me… But, truthfully, it might be a sign of something entirely different.”
It was a definite possibility I thought to myself, recalling one night that I had forgotten all about a trusty condom. The night of the bizarre hail and rainstorm had been wild for a multitude of reasons. Never had I ever played a more interesting drunken game of Truth or Dare that led straight to sex. There was no holding back as it often was between us. Besides that time when we were totally inebriated, we had always used protection.
If Daphne was pregnant, that had to be when it had happened.
“Looks like there’s a possibility with that look on your face.” I heard Ashton say, bringing me back to the present. Instead of reliving those moments that had me wishing that I was with Daphne, I started thinking that I didn’t really know her.
“D. Chastain…Daphne nearly ruined me. I still have the article. I carried it around with me all of the time.” To prove it, I pulled my wallet out of the back pocket of my pants, opened it, produced it and unfolded it:
N-Lite or Elite?
Snubbing the DTLA art community, setting themselves apart with high-end art and patrons, it appears that they should rename the gallery Elite. There is nothing N-lightening about the showroom or the owners. If you’re not willing to drop a cool million, you won’t be welcomed in the doors. That’s right! You will need to make an appointment. Not open to the general public. My prediction is they won’t be open for long, period!
“The dickhead didn’t even bother to write about the art show. How could that be written by my Daphne?” I questioned, shaking my head and crushing the article into a ball with my hand.
“Maybe you need to look at things differently. You should be thanking her. She didn’t ruin you. She saved you from becoming a total art snob asshole like your ex-partner.” Ashton retorted while going to the fridge and replacing our empty bottles with new cold ones.
Part of me knew he was so right. When I first got caught up in the whirlwind that resulted in opening a gallery of my own I was thrilled. The thrill was quickly gone when I was constantly reminded that my ex-partner was the one with the money. His declared entitlement led to my vision slipping away and him turning the space into something he saw in an old movie that had been set in Beverly Hills. I should’ve been happy that it blew up in his face…mine too, but it had always been all about him. Scrambling to not lose the building was all I could think of when he stomped out, taking his money in an attempt to save his reputation.
“I had to sell my house to buy him out.” Thankfully it sold quickly.
“If I remember correctly, you bought that house as an investment so that you could later sell it to purchase your dream home.” He raised an eyebrow at me and I just looked at him without saying a word. “Besides that…you had money from Dad—”
I cut him off, again. “—I wasn’t about to give that prick our family money.”
The truth was that I never planned to take that inheritance money. I wanted to make my own money just as my father had done years ago. I had taken a loan from him for a down payment when I bought my house, but promptly paid him back as soon as I could. He had left my mother, Ashton and me a large sum of insurance money. Ashton had used a good portion of his sum to buy the family business outright. He had insisted that he wanted it to be his completely and I understood that. I always thought that I would let it go to my children—college, weddings, house down payments, things to make their lives easy as my parents had done for their children.
My children…my child…did I have one on the way?
Chapter Twelve
Daphne
Talk about embarrassing. I had never been so happy to be walking down the streets of downtown LA to a back alley where I had parked my car. I didn’t even jumble with my keys since I was so determined to get the hell out of the area and to the safety of my house. I don’t even remember the route I took from the time I put the car in drive. I just maneuvered through the side streets until I was pulling into my driveway and pushing the garage door opener button.
Puking in public and then slinking out of the gallery as soon as I could stand up straight with my sister rambling all the while. “Not the best food to barf. You should’ve been eating cupcakes. Nothing wrong with tasting sweet goodness a second time around.” Listening to Aubree’s own experiences along with her observations took my mind off what had happened before my vomiting nightmare, briefly.
Caldwell… Shit! Why hadn’t he told me that he had a gallery along with working as a cabinetmaker? There was nothing wrong with being ambitious. It was better than sneaking off to be with another woman and then slipping back to me later. My mind was wandering to different reasons why the gallery was a secret…
“Could you be pregnant?” Aubree was still talking about my projectile release. “Maybe the smell or…did you burp? Nerves…but no, it was sudden…probably the—”
“—I could be pregnant. Stormy night and alcohol.” I could see it playing out in my head. “I sort of attacked him or he attacked me… There was no time to stop or think of anything but fucking each other’s brains out…”
That confession…revelation seemed to move our conversation away from grossness and on to a whole new s
ubject. But of course, Aubree did feel the need to recap the entire story when my friend Madison arrived. I just hung my head, moaned, and, occasionally, laughed a little bit. Although, it was my sister’s delivery that caused me to see things outside the box…as if the events of the evening had happened to someone else. Some of it I was not able to overlook.
“He called you what?!” Madison half laughed and half growled.
“Dickhead,” I answered before Aubree gave that answer too. I hadn’t realized she was paying attention to everything taking place before her hand was wrapped around my hair as I emptied my gut. Of course, Aubree and Madison both busted up repeating “dickhead” and apologized at the same time.
“Not funny. He didn’t even come after me. Didn’t make sure I was alright. No rescue. No knight in shining armor.” I sighed. “His catering people rushed over with water.”
I was relieved that someone didn’t come over and ask me to leave. Although, Aubree had been quick to get me out of there without drawing any more attention. She even texted Madison:
Support needed! 911!
Bring supplies to Daph’s
Pregnancy test kits too!
Madison arrived not long after Aubree and I had arrived at my house sporting a bag containing two bottles of pink liquid along with three boxes of knocked-up-or-not kits as she called them.
“Test time! Need to know if you will be drowning your pain with fizzy pink lemonade or pink champagne.”
Grabbing the three boxes, I headed toward my bathroom followed by two nosey girls. It was obvious that I was to have no privacy. And when I say “no privacy,” I meant that they stood watching me unwrap each stick and line them up to be used. They both folded their arms and stared at me as if I was going to cheat on a test.
“Run some water, please. You two are giving me stage-fright.”
Giggling, joking, and teasing ensued as I set each watered stick back on the counter for the big wait. Somehow, I couldn’t imagine either of them laughing if it were them perched on the toilet and peeing. Done with my task, quietness fell over the room as we stood shoulder to shoulder, and things got real:
