On The Dotted Line

by Kim Carmichael

  “I think that’s probably better.” Jade sighed. “We should still make some plans about what to do with your financial situation.”

  “Next week.” She didn’t want to look at the check again, let alone cash it.

  “No problem. When you’re ready.” Jade grabbed her hand. “Of course we could also have Slate beat the crap out of Randolph and then hide the body in some clay.”

  “Do I get to throw the monstrosity in the kiln?” Argyle cleared his throat. “Unbelievable.”

  “Now, now.” Nan held her hands out.

  Jade straightened up as if caught chewing gum in class.

  Willow held her breath waiting for Nan’s words about negative energy.

  Nan took her time looking at all of them. “Tell Slate he has to get in line behind Vincent. He wanted to hire someone to do it.”

  At the unexpected remark, they all went into a round of laughter. The giggles took over her body, cleansing her, each jolt shaking off a bit of the dark cloud that seemed to hover around her.

  “Actually, now that I look at the flame, I see an anvil I would like to drop on Randolph’s head.” Jade pointed.

  They continued to chuckle.

  “Has he been by the gallery?” The question simply happened, and she gasped when she realized she said the words aloud.

  The laughter stopped.

  “It’s okay. Actually, he knew you first. I was just curious.” She turned her attention back to the candle and saw nothing. A big void surrounded her.

  “The order we met you doesn’t matter. We’re your friends no matter what.” Jade squeezed her hand. “We haven’t seen him. Slate and Argyle, are going to his office for a meeting about the co-op.”

  Argyle looked down at his lap, for the first time since she’d known him, the man had no words.

  “It’s okay.” More than once, actually more than a 100 times or a 1000 times, she wondered if Randolph went to the gallery and if he looked her way. “You know, I think the flame needs some time. I’m going to get the snacks and tea I made.” She let go of her friend’s hand, and walked to the back.

  Before retrieving the tray, she stood on her tiptoes and peeked out the window toward the Gallery where Randolph always parked his car.

  “Chiquita, I’m worried about you.” Nan joined her.

  She turned away. “Don’t be, thanks to him I can serve food here, and I’m insured.”

  “When you don’t finish something, the energy stays out there, and then it can inhibit your other goals.”

  “What are you saying?” She leaned on the small counter.

  “Maybe you need to talk to him, at least face him.” Nan came up next to her.

  “He couldn’t face me. I can’t face him.” She inhaled. Rather than staying to make him say the words directly to her, she walked out on him, on them. Maybe that’s what her psyche wanted. “Deep down I knew it wouldn’t last.”

  “Your fear is keeping you from closure. You have left the door open a crack, a small amount so only a thin strip of light shines through, and you don’t want him to slam the door in your face.” Nan rubbed her back. “I see you look for him.”

  “We should go back out there. I don’t want to be a horrible hostess.” One thing she learned was how to plan a get together. A new found skill.

  “Do you want me to stay here with you?” Nan took the tray of vegetables, fruit and finger sandwiches.

  “No, I want you to be with Vincent. This is my time to be alone, and I think I need it.” She faced the woman who sacrificed everything for her. “I made a special tea for today.” I’m calling it feminini-tea. I’m celebrating being a woman out on her own.”

  “Chiquita...”

  “I’ll be right there.” She tried to give Nan the hint to give her a moment.

  Perceptive as always, Nan left.

  She tended to the tea, but before returning to her guests, she stretched over the counter to gaze out the window once more. Her heart seized at the sight of an all too familiar luxury sedan in its rightful spot. For several seconds she stared outside, then backed away. No way would she hold out hope for the door to be opened, no way would she face him only to have the door slammed.

  With her heartbeat still speeding, she lifted the pitcher of iced tea. Maybe she should have named it emp-tea instead.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Even though I’ve been here before, I still find it hard to believe you are heir to all this.” Slate spread his arms out and turned around the conference room of Van Ayers First Capital Trust.

  Randolph put his hand over his eyes. Part of him prayed the meeting about the co-op sped by, while the other part hoped it never ended. He didn’t know if he wanted to wallow in work or spend his time sitting and staring at nothing in the hotel suite he rented with his mother. Either way, the gnawing hole in his chest wouldn’t ache any less. Willow walked out. She really walked out. No tears, no fanfare, no fighting for the man she said she loved. Nothing.

  “So you will run this one day?” Slate asked.

  However, he did tell her to leave. He basically kicked her out of the only home she ever knew. “This is a disaster.”

  “No, it looks like an interior designer did it, you’re good.” Slate hit him on the arm. “You need more art.”

  He groaned. Everything about his life was designed, down to the paper that lined his bathroom drawers. Then Willow entered his life and added her flair to things, something unexpected, her hairbrush in his drawer, her hand cream on his desk in his home office, her book in the library. She left many things, including her book. He had it in his suitcase.

  “Randy!” Slate snapped his fingers.

  “Please don’t call me Randy.” No one called him Randy except Stephanie, and if there were any lawsuits he could file against the woman, he would drag her to court. Not that it mattered. Stephanie merely facilitated the inevitable. A couple in love should be able to survive the revelations, but he was the first one to throw in the white flag, and Willow never argued. He slid his hand down his face and opened his eyes. “Why don’t you sit down?

  “This place always reminds me of being sent to the principal’s office. It’s creepy.” Slate took his seat. “Men in suits always think they can take command of everyone’s future.”

  He had been waiting for Slate to address the elephant in the room, and that was what he was, a creepy elephant without a mate. They said elephants could die of a broken heart and he understood. The pain was overwhelming. “Remember, I’m the one who is going to make your vision happen.” He needed to save face somewhere.

  “Yeah, well you are the king of contracts.” Slate strummed his fingers on the table. “So get your act together.”

  “I’m sure my crown doesn’t fit anymore.” He didn’t want a crown, he wanted her. In the end she would be better without him.

  “Jade wanted me to tell you that she saw your car in the alley and then saw you drive away. She said if you wanted to be part of her next exhibit as the wilting wimpy banker, she has a spot for you.”

  Unsure if wimp was an upgrade from creepy elephant, he nodded at the truth. Yes, he was a wimp. The kind of guy who drove down the alley behind the gallery, not to get art, but to get a glimpse of Willow. He also drove by the marina and anywhere else that he thought she might be at or reminded him of her. Maybe he needed to add stalker to his list of attributes. Creepy, wimpy elephant stalker, though an elephant would make a terrible stalker.

  “Is she all right?” he asked, not sure if he wanted the answer.

  “She’s better than you.” Slate leaned back. “Never seen you look worse.”

  Willow went with the flow, their situation merely a ripple in her pond where everything was Zen-like. He had no doubt Slate’s words were the gospel. Sleep was but a faint memory to be replaced by sort of passing out in front of a desk at the hotel suite with his mother trying to tuck him in. Creepy, wimpy, elephant stalker with insomnia only his missing mate would cure. He couldn’t even create any
art, the one thing he used to turn to when times got rough. His muse left with her. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.”

  Too exhausted for comebacks, he welcomed the light knock at the door. “Well, let’s see if we can hammer this out today.” He needed to put on his game face. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Argyle entered wearing a set of black wings made from currencies of the world and holding a globe.

  Randolph wished he had as much guts to display his artwork. Yes, wimp fit him to a tee. “Nice entrance.”

  After the requisite hand shaking between everyone, he guided the man to the table.

  “I made these wings to illustrate that while money may not make the world go around, it certainly allows you to soar when you need it most.” Argyle turned the chair and sat to not destroy his wings then put his globe aside.

  “Well, yes money helps, especially in an endeavor such as this, but we need to clarify some points.” Randolph passed out the preliminary documents.

  Before they even read a paragraph, the door opened and his mother entered. “Randolph, I heard your friends were here and I wanted to come in and say hello.”

  Slate and Argyle both turned.

  “Mother, that is very kind, but what’re you doing here?” He grabbed the edge of the table.

  “I thought you may want refreshments for your meeting and our hotel makes the most magnificent cookies, so I bought some for you.” She waved and came forward with a pink pastry box.

  At the moment he would rather have Willow’s quinoa concoction. In fact, he was sure his health had deteriorated since he wasn’t eating her food. “Again thank you.”

  “You do your thing.” At the foot of the table, she fiddled with the string on the box. “I’ve always wanted to see Randolph work. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I would say it would be both an honor and a privilege to have you observe what could be one of the greatest artistic endeavors of this decade.” Argyle motioned toward the chair.

  Randolph gave it to his mother for not exactly asking him to get her invitation to the meeting. She would have made a brilliant negotiator.

  “Why don’t we get started?” Randolph watched his mother and the battle of the string on the box.

  She continued her battle, but smiled in his direction. “Ignore me.”

  “That’s nearly impossible.” Argyle stood, and with a lot of flourish held up what appeared to be a bejeweled fingernail and cut the string.

  “Oh.” His mother giggled. “Thank you…” She let her voice draw out, waiting for an introduction.

  “Argyle Brink.” He nodded and sat back down. “At your service, if you need anyone or if you need to fly.”

  “Thank you again kind sir, I’m Lilly.” She reached into the box and offered him an oversized monstrosity of a cookie.

  “I think I would rather have a flower, but this will have to do.” Argyle put the cookie to the side.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind if I stay?” She walked around the table doling out her cookies but kept her eyes on Argyle.

  “I would only mind if you left.” Argyle pulled out her chair, got her comfortable and returned to his seat. “Well, let’s do this.”

  “Please.” The only positive point of having his mother here was she provided an amazing distraction to Argyle and he could catch the artist off guard. There he was again, no wonder Willow walked away without looking back, he would use his own mother to win. “Why don’t we get to the subject of collateral?”

  Argyle took a breath. “I am bringing my name to this endeavor. My collateral is my art, my trade, my knowledge. We will make this into an artistic co-op where the creative types can commune together as a collective mind.”

  Slate nodded. “You know Argyle gets a lot of media attention, so artists will flock to us.”

  “I am talking about true collateral.” Randolph leaned back in his chair.

  “I just gave you several examples.” Argyle spread his arms, or in his case, his wings.

  “Here’s what the deal looks like using some property for collateral.” Randolph shook his head and distributed more papers.

  Both men glanced at the paper and back to him, not even taking the time to read the words. A flash of the night in Vegas when Willow signed her contract went through his mind. He knew then she didn’t read it and yet he moved forward anyway. What kind of husband would allow his wife to do that?

  “I am looking into having some of my contacts do some filming at the co-op for television.” Argyle leaned forward.

  “Oh, that sounds exciting,” his mother whispered.

  “Everyone in Los Angeles has media contacts, and while valuable, they cannot be used as collateral,” Randolph countered. As usual, the groove found him, but without Willow it meant nothing.

  Argyle pursed his lips, turned to Randolph, his mother and back to Slate. “If we had collateral we wouldn’t need a loan.”

  “I have made a list of acceptable collateral. Slate said you’ll be using the upstairs of his building for the headquarters, but you’re asking for a loan for other expenses.” He picked up his pen and twirled it between his fingers.

  “As I explained, I bring myself to the deal. My connections and my art is my collateral.” With his feathers apparently ruffled, Argyle shifted in his seat.

  “Aside from these nebulous television people, who do you know?” He decided to play the game.

  Argyle pushed the paper aside. “Do you understand what an opportunity this is for Slate and his gallery?”

  “Just give me one name.” He continued his challenge.

  Argyle cleared his throat. “What if I told you I know the Mural Man?”

  His heart sped at the mention of, well, himself. “Excuse me?”

  “You know the man who does the random murals around Los Angeles. Another was just discovered in Long Beach.” The man lifted his chin.

  “He did a piece outside my daughter-in-law’s store.” His mother looked down.

  Randolph ground his teeth together and inhaled before asking the next question. “What’s his name?”

  “Is that considered enough collateral?” Argyle asked.

  He fought to keep his breath even. “What’s his name?”

  “Listen here, Mr. Van Ayers,” Argyle said his last name as if he were trying to spit it out. “I see whose name is on the wall. You have no idea what these artists go through. We need support. You’re nothing but a poser with your silver spoon and fancy works on your walls. I’m sure the most creative thing you’ve ever done is sign a check.”

  A poser, another word to add to his ever-growing description. Maybe he had been these things all along. Willow wanted him to create. For her he would claim his art. He stood and walked over to one of the traditional paintings on the wall, taking it off the hook. Without second-guessing his next action, he turned the painting around, revealing paintings and sketches he created in his signature style and hid behind the more acceptable pieces. He propped it up against the wall and went to the next one and did the same as he made his way around the room. “While it’s true I may have a silver spoon, I can assure you that I’m not a poser. The reason you don’t know the name of the Mural Man is because you don’t know him. I am that man.”

  “Randolph!” His mother shot up out of the chair.

  “I can’t believe it!” Slate stood.

  He and Argyle stared each other down.

  “Oh my God!” His mother put her hand to her forehead and swayed on her feet. “Oh God.”

  In a flash everyone, including himself, charged for his mother, but Argyle caught her.

  Her eyelids fluttered, but then she pressed her hand to her chest and looked at all of them. “I daresay that most women would love to be in my position.”

  “Are you all right, Mother?” He held out his hand.

  “Your art.” She looked around the room. ““It’s beautiful.”

  Everyone remained perfectly silent as she continued to gaze a
round the space.

  “I’m so glad you didn’t give it up.” She pulled him down and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry if your father and I forced you to hide it.”

  With his mouth open, but no words, Randolph shook his head. She was glad he didn’t give it up?

  “You are quite the woman, Lilly.” Argyle pulled her closer.

  In order to stop himself from yanking the man off his mother he crossed his arms.

  The door slammed open.

  “Lillian!” His father burst into the room flailing an envelope in his hand. “I heard you were here.”

  In his entire life he’d never seen his father in such a state of disarray. His suit was wrinkled, his hair a mess, he even had razor stubble and Randolph swore he had on two different shoes.

  “Van?” His mother lifted her head.

  Junior went to her and Argyle. “Get your hands off my wife.”

  In an amazing act of defiance, she wrapped her arms around Argyle’s neck. “No. You’re nothing but a hater of the arts. I have found a unique man who doesn’t want me to gain a fortune. He thinks I’m beautiful.”

  “You are very beautiful,” Argyle mumbled.

  “Thank you.” She patted his shoulder.

  Then in a more incredible move, his father got down on his knees in front of her. “Lillian, I think you’re beautiful. I’ve always thought you were the most magnificent woman I ever laid eyes on.” He took her hand and pressed it to his heart. “For these past days I’ve tried to figure out what to buy you for you to take me back and prove my love for you. But then I realized nothing I purchased would do the trick, but instead I had to give something up and in the process do right by my son.”

  “What do you mean?” Tears glossed her eyes.

  His father held the envelope out to him, but spoke to his mother. “I love you, and I love our son.” He looked up to Randolph. “I’ve made many mistakes, but as of this moment I’m turning the bank over to him. He’ll be one of the youngest men in the country with his position.”

  Randolph scanned the papers. His original contract had Junior heading the firm until he retired, but with the new one, the bank would be his once he placed his signature on the dotted line.