by Gun Brooke
“I’m ready.” I rose and pulled on my coat. Then I started walking, making sure Hayden was right behind me, but I still reached the door before she did. I had placed my hand on the handle and turned to wait for her to put on her jacket, when I saw she had stopped at the table where the elderly couple still sat. Hayden took out her sketchpad and browsed through it. She tugged at one of the pages and dislodged it from the pad. Handing it to the woman, she nodded and said something I was too far away to hear. I walked up to them, concerned at what might happen.
“Oh, look, darling. This nice girl drew a portrait of me.” The old lady patted the man’s hand and showed him the sketch. “That’s an amazing likeness…and done with such sensitivity. Are you sure you want to give it away—for free?” She eyed Hayden, probably seasoned enough to realize some starving artists would do anything to sell a picture or a painting at times.
“Yes.”
“Then, thank you very much. What’s your name, my dear?”
“Hayden Rowe.”
“Hayden. An unusually beautiful name. Would you sign it for us, please?”
Hayden tilted her head for a moment but then nodded. “Yes.” She produced one of her pencils, but I stepped in.
“Hold on. I have something better,” I said and opened my messenger bag. I gave Hayden a thin marker. “Here. Make it permanent.”
She regarded the pen with obvious suspicion. After signing the portrait, she attempted to give the marker back, but I motioned for her to keep it. “I just know it’ll come in handy a lot in the future.” I smiled at the couple. “And I would take care of the sketch, if I were you.”
“I will. Thank you again.” The woman looked a little confused.
“Here’s my card, ma’am,” I said and handed her a business card. “I own some galleries. If I can persuade her, Hayden might show her paintings in them one day. You’re welcome to stay in touch.”
“Greer Landon.” Her expression pensive, the woman tapped the card with an immaculate pink nail. “I thought I recognized you. I believe we’re neighbors. I’m Penelope Moore and this is my husband Edward.”
“What a coincidence.” I nodded at the old man, who gave me an uncertain smile back. Now when she mentioned it, I had a faint vision of a woman in a pastel-colored gardening outfit. Less elegant, but with the same clear blue gaze under straight, pale eyebrows. “Are you in the house closest to the park?”
“We are.” Mrs. Moore looked relaxed. “If it’s ever convenient, please call on us anytime. We’re usually at home. Today was…a special occasion.”
“Thank you.” Hayden’s prompt answer surprised me. “I want to paint you. Oils. Twenty-by-thirty canvas. It should be a garden setting in the sun. Perhaps it’ll be too cold for you at this time of year?”
I swear my jaw came as close to dropping as it ever had. I looked back and forth between Hayden and Penelope Moore, not sure what would come of this.
“What do you mean, ‘too cold,’ dear?” Mrs. Moore asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re old and potentially fragile. You might get pneumonia,” Hayden said.
Seeing the risk of Mrs. Moore being irreparably offended at being called old and frail, I was about to intervene. Hayden might not understand such a reaction.
“That’s…considerate of you.” Mrs. Moore smiled and ran gentle fingertips along the edges of the sketch. “At my age it can be a concern. Would it be possible for you to paint in our conservatory on a sunny day? The light there should be just as good as in the garden.”
Tilting her head in the way I’ve come to recognize as Hayden giving something serious thought, she then nodded. “Yes.”
“Delightful. Here’s my card.” Mrs. Moore gave us one each from her purse, and I glanced at mine. Classy in off-white and black, printed on thick, expensive card stock, it said “Penelope Moore, Author,” followed by an email address and phone number. “Ms. Greer knows where I live, and as I said, just stop by anytime.”
“I will.” Hayden shoved her hand toward Mrs. Moore, who took it. Hayden didn’t give the brittle-looking hand her usual steady one up-and-down shake, but held it lightly for a moment. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome, dear.” Mrs. Moore placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Eddie and I look forward to seeing you again.”
Once we’d said good-bye and left the restaurant, we stood silently on the sidewalk. Hayden was lost in thought and so was I, trying to figure out what had just happened. Hayden had zoomed in on Penelope Moore, and clearly she was not afraid of approaching a potential subject. As a matter of fact, now she seemed shell-shocked, or at least a bit shaken. I had the feeling she was planning her portrait, and it appeared I was right when Hayden turned to me and actually grabbed my upper arm.
“When can we visit Mrs. Moore?”
My arm tingled beneath her touch against the coat sleeve. Taking a chance I patted her hand. “You heard the lady. You’re welcome anytime.” Her skin, soft and warm, made me want to hold onto her hand for real. I didn’t push but kept my hand in a whisper-light pat against hers.
“I—I can’t go alone. You have to come too.” Now something close to panic stirred in the depths of Hayden’s eyes.
“All right, all right.” Who was I kidding? The opportunity to spend more time with Hayden and watch her work was golden. I must have grinned like an idiot, but I couldn’t stop myself. Not only did she want me there, but for whatever reason, she also accepted my touch, however brief. Reluctantly I let go of her hand. “I’ll walk you back to the school.” I hated to hurry her along, but my schedule was pretty tight, as India had been forced to shuffle appointments around to fit in the master classes. Gazing at Hayden, I hated to see the light go out of her eyes. “Today’s Thursday,” I said quickly. “Why don’t I come and get you this weekend whenever you’re not visiting your grandmother? I can show you my home and we can drop in for a quick visit with the Moores.”
“Yes. And yes.” Hayden relaxed visibly. “Pick me up on Sunday. I always spend Saturdays with Nana.”
“Great. One p.m. okay?”
“Yes.”
We walked back to the school in silence. The sidewalks weren’t crowded at all; the sun flooded everything in sight. While walking next to Hayden, I knew that, for me, spring was definitely here.
Chapter Eight
My Friday quickly went downhill. I’d spent Thursday evening in such a good mood after the master class at Rowe’s Art School and the lunch with Hayden. As a backlash to this high, nightmares woke me up every hour during the night. They weren’t the type of dreams you can retell afterward; rather they were filled with imageless dark emotions of dread and fear. I tend to have such dreams when I’m stressing, which made me reflect. Was I worked up about Hayden and her situation, even if my spending time with her was rewarding?
As soon as I stepped into the gallery and made my way to the office area, India met me, hands on hips.
“You’ve got to string that man up. Toes first. Over an open fire.” She tugged at her hair and pivoted, stalking back to her desk.
“Don’t tell me. Andreas Holmer.” I put my messenger bag down on the floor next to her visitor’s chair where I sat with a thud. “This might just be his third strike.”
“I wish!” India glared at me. “You were so sure you’d gotten through to him, but he keeps blowing me off and demanding to talk to you. He really doesn’t get what position I hold here, does he?”
“Clearly not. What happened this time?” I pressed beneath my tightening jaw with both thumbs. Tension always hit me right there and made me clench my teeth.
“His showing is in two weeks, and we needed to ship the last two pieces to the Chicago gallery like yesterday. He hasn’t even started painting either of them yet.” India rapped her fingertips, boasting turquoise nails, against her desk.
“What?” I sat up straight, lowering my hands. “Please tell me you’re joking.” I, of course, realized she wasn’t. Her furious expression was all too re
al.
“As I said, he needs a serious talking-to. Or stringing up. Preferably both.”
Andreas Holmer was one of my most gifted painters, very edgy and with a style all his own. He mixed genres and media in ways that made him difficult to categorize. Almost as a balancing act, his persona was as cliché-filled as you could possibly dream up. Perhaps Andreas thought his brilliance as a painter compensated for his temper tantrums, blatant disregard for the business side of his work, and general bad manners.
India had been on the receiving end of this disruptive behavior on more than one occasion, and now I saw that she’d had it. If her furious expression wasn’t evidence enough, the faint tremors in her hands, combined with the Extra Strength Tylenol bottle sitting in plain view, were. Like mine, India’s stress manifested itself in her facial muscles, and hers led to headaches while mine to shoulder pain.
“You don’t have to talk to him again. I’ll tell him what the deal is here and either he shapes up or he’s out. You know me. I always have a backup plan.”
“I do. Thank you.” Rolling her shoulders and doing a dog-shaking-water sort of move to relax, India tucked the Tylenol into her top drawer. “Just for your information, I taped the last phone call with him. I told him so, and he still called me horrible things and went off the deep end.”
“Glad you told me. Hang on to that tape. We might need it.” I didn’t look forward to tackling Andreas, but it was part of my job.
Fifteen minutes later I was circling my desk like a shark, and a quick glance at my reflection in the window revealed I’d actually bared my teeth like one. Andreas was ranting away over the speakerphone, spewing his bile, mainly about India, criticizing everyone but himself, pretty much. Glad I’d closed my door, I rounded on him. I’d had enough.
“Shut up,” I said calmly.
“And she is totally incapable of underst—what?”
“Your turn to be quiet and listen.” Again, I pressed the pads of my thumbs against my jaw for a few moments. “You are not honoring your contract with me when it comes to the Chicago showing. Had this been the first time, I might’ve overlooked it. In fact, I have, twice before. This is your third and last chance, Andreas.”
“I’m an artist! I cannot be expected to perform on a schedule.” Andreas sounded as appalled as if I’d asked him to paint tourists at Disney World.
Somehow the whiny sound of his voice made me think of Frederick Gatti. Shaking the notion, as Andreas was no talentless con man at all, I shushed him again. “You may not be able to work like this,” I said, conceding to his point. “However, that’s how my chain of galleries operates. I need to partner with artists who know how to keep a realistic deadline. Remember, I asked you when you would be able to complete the twelve pieces. You set the date. Now you’re two paintings short, and I’m facing three options here.”
“What—what do you mean?” Clearly a lot calmer, Andreas came across as very young.
“Either you show only ten paintings but share the limelight with another painter, or you deliver the paintings in no less than four days, or we cancel completely and don’t renew your contract.”
The silence from his end was telling. I’d been stern with him before, but I’d never issued an ultimatum like this.
“Andreas?”
“Um, I’m, eh, I’m here. I’m thinking. I mean, I…it’s impossible. I can’t…I know I can’t manage two pieces in four days. It’s a ridiculous assumption.”
I realized what he meant but couldn’t resist deliberately misunderstanding him. “You’re calling my decision-making process ridiculous, Andreas?”
“No! No, no. Ha-ha.” Coughing, he then swallowed loudly. “Do you have anyone suitable lined up that might be okay? I mean, someone who kind of fits?” He was smart enough not to say anything like “someone good enough.”
I thought fast, and my sudden inspiration, which didn’t surprise me as much as it should have, made me sit down abruptly in my chair. “I do. A new talent who matches yours very well, but whose style is very different from yours. You won’t get mixed up.”
“Ah. Have I heard of him?”
I snickered soundlessly. “Her. And no. You haven’t.”
“Really? Hmm. Where can I find her website?”
“Don’t think she has one.” Or at least that was my assumption. Perhaps she did? I shook my head. No, we would’ve found it when India Googled her.
“Old-school, huh?”
His words made me laugh as I thought of where Hayden currently lived. “You have no idea.”
“Okay, then. We’re good?” Andreas was starting to sound like his old cocky self.
“For now, yes. Depending on how your showing goes and what mutually satisfying agreement we can reach afterward. That’s when we’ll know if further collaboration is doable. If not, we’re done.”
“All right. I get it. I’ll talk to Peter. He’s been on my case too.”
Not sure if Andreas expected me to feel bad for him since his agent and I were ganging up on him to finally man up and be an adult, I merely hummed.
“While we’re on the topic of being on your case, there’s one more thing.” I paused, and when I continued, I used the tone I knew induced chills in the recipient. “If you’re ever disrespectful to India again, or anyone else on my staff, I’ll nullify your contract. And before you say anything, have your agent explain the fine print to you. Are we clear on this?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I didn’t care for his flippant tone. “Are we clear?” I asked again, this time with a barely audible voice.
“Yes. Yes, we’re clear.”
“Good.”
After I disconnected the call, I walked out to India, who looked at me expectantly.
“First,” I said, “our bad boy knows what I expect of him now—and what happens if he talks to you like he did again. If it occurs, it won’t be pretty.”
“Wow.” India lit up but then looked concerned again. “Please tell me he’s got something up his sleeve.”
“No. He doesn’t.”
“So twelve paintings have become ten. Considering the size of his canvases, it’s a lot more than it sounds like.” India pushed her fingers into her hair.
I agreed. We had just expanded the square footage of our Chicago gallery, and the part of it that was meant for exhibitions would look strange if we didn’t fill it like planned.
“I made him choose, just to see what he’d do. Believe it or not, somewhere behind his image of entitled artist, there’s somewhat of a realist. The idea of canceling and losing his contract immediately sobered him, so to speak.” I grinned and sat down on the edge of her desk.
“So?” India rested her chin in her hand. “Do share your wisdom, please. I can use some of it so as not to strangle him when I see him next time.”
“He agreed to share the showing with another artist.”
“Really?” India gawked at me. “Mr. God’s-gift-to-the-art-world is ready to share?”
“He is.”
“With whom? Do we have anyone who can toss a few paintings in? They need to be new ones and—” India broke off and sighed. “And you’ve already picked someone. You’re always several steps ahead, which drives me nuts, or would, if I didn’t learn so darn much. So, who is it—oh, oh!” India caught on quickly, I could tell. “Hayden?”
“I’ll at least ask her. It might be a great way for her to experience what having a showing is all about without having to do it alone. This way, if the reception of her art is less enthusiastic than I hope, we’ll find out and can work with her on it and not burn any bridges to the critics.”
India mulled this idea over. I could envision her weighing the pros and cons. I was aware that none of my other artists, who were all established in their own right, were ready or willing to share a showing with Andreas Holmer. His reputation for being full of himself and hard to work with had spread, it seemed. I hoped to shake this less than desirable trait out of him, as his talent was un
deniable, but the outcome of such an attempt was, of course, still up in the air. Besides, I had the notion Hayden might just be the type who could fearlessly challenge someone like Andreas.
“Hello? Wakey, wakey. Greer?” India waved in front of my face. “Where did you go?”
“Sorry. I was considering how to bring this up with Hayden. I suppose the sooner the better. I’m picking her up on Sunday. That’ll do.”
“You’re seeing her already on Sunday?” India’s eyes began to sparkle, and she leaned toward me. “First lunch, which you’ve given me zero juicy details about, I might add. Then Sunday brunch or something?”
“Wrong. She’s not going to visit me. One of my neighbors invited her to her house. Penelope Moore.” I stood but pivoted at India’s gasp.
“Penelope Moore? That Penelope Moore. The author?”
“I believe she’s a writer, yes. You’ve clearly heard of her.” I took two steps back as India flung her hands in the air.
“Heard of her? I know you’ve got precious little time to read, but if there’s anything you should read, it’s her books. She’s an amazing fantasy author. Critics compare her to Tolkien and all the greats of the early fantasy era. J.K. Rowling has been compared to her.”
“She’s lived on my street for as long as I can remember.” I’d inherited my house from my grandfather after visiting him every week for most of my life. The last year of his life, I’d sold my condo and stayed with him. He had around-the-clock care, but I’d spent as much time with him as I could. I’d never been away from my business as much as I was during that time, but it was important to me. “All this time I had no idea who she was.”
“I’ve read all her Ylanthia novels. There are twelve of them, at least four hundred pages each. Love thick books.” India looked starstruck. “I need to take a stroll past her house next time I’m at your place. All casual like.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said and laughed. “I’ll introduce you when there’s a right time for it. On Sunday, we plan to drop in on Penelope and her husband, Hayden and I.” I told India what had taken place at the lunch restaurant.
