by Linda Seed
He looked at her wearily. “It’s not as easy as just throwing paint on a canvas, you know.”
“I do know that. Yes,” she reassured him.
Gen took a mental inventory of what she was dealing with. She’d spent thousands of dollars of her own money and the McCabes’ money to bring an artist to Cambria who appeared to be a drunk in the middle of an epic personal crisis. Unless he was always like this, which she supposed was possible.
“My muse …” he began, then trailed off, looking vaguely into the distance.
Gen resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She had a tendency to immediately dismiss any creative person who uttered the word muse, but that wouldn’t do this time. She’d hitched her wagon to this guy, and there would be no unhitching it now. If he didn’t produce while he was here—or if he did produce, and what he came up with was crap—then her investment would be for nothing. As much as she hated the idea of babysitting an egotistical, puffed-up, maladjusted whiner with a drinking problem, she didn’t see where she had much choice.
“Gordon, is there anything I can do? Anything that might help you to …” She inwardly winced. “… to awaken the muse?”
He rubbed at his forehead again. The fogginess with which he spoke suggested that he was either drunk or was battling a hangover of disastrous proportions.
“Well, I …” He trailed off again.
“Please. Just tell me,” she prompted.
“It would be so much better if I didn’t have to worry about the day-to-day things, like cooking, and …” He waved a hand to encompass the destruction that had fallen upon the defenseless little house.
“And cleaning,” she finished for him, groaning inside.
“Yes. And the barn. The light is simply dreadful.”
“The light,” she said.
“It’s gray.”
“The light in the barn is gray,” she repeated, just to be sure she had it straight.
“This is an impossible situation,” he said in a tone that suggested poverty, war, famine, and possibly pestilence.
“We’ll work it out,” Gen said. “We’ll make this work. Don’t worry.”
Out on the front porch of the guest house—where Kendrick couldn’t hear—Gen pulled out her cell phone. First, she called Alex. It was almost time to close the gallery for the evening, and she told him to go ahead and do it without her. Then, she called Edward Dietrich, the Chicago-based art dealer who’d produced Kendrick’s most recent gallery show, and explained the situation.
“Is he always like this, or is he having some kind of breakdown?” she asked, hearing the desperation in her own voice.
She heard a chuckle on the other end of the line. “Sounds like typical Gordon Kendrick to me.”
Gen let out a puff of air in exasperation. “I talked to you months ago about bringing him out here. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask,” Dietrich said.
“Well … Well, what am I supposed to do now? He’s drinking, he’s trashed the house where I’m putting him up, he’s not painting …”
“You’ve got to hold his hand,” Dietrich said.
“What?”
“Think of him as a toddler on a playground. If you take your eye off of him for a second, he’s going to fall off the jungle gym.”
“I … I … Oh, Jesus.”
“Indeed. Good luck, Genevieve.” She heard him laughing lightly as he hung up.
She stared at the phone for a moment before replacing it in the pocket of her sleek black trousers. She took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, and went back into the cottage to begin cleaning up.
Chapter Twelve
Gen had to reassess her situation in light of this new information. She considered reassigning Alex to babysitting duty, but figured it would be only a short time before Alex decked the guy. After all, Gen wanted to, and she was the more patient of the two of them.
She considered hiring someone else—a housekeeper and personal assistant for Kendrick—but she’d spent so much bringing him out here, renting the house, hiring limousines, and buying $250 sheets that she didn’t have the budget for it.
And even if she could afford it, she had too much riding on this. He had to work. He had to produce artwork that was, if not a breakthrough, then at least up to the standard he’d set so far. If he didn’t, she couldn’t repay the McCabes with a painting, as she’d promised them in their contract. She couldn’t present a gallery show of Kendrick’s work at the end of his residency. She wouldn’t have the artwork that had been promised to her in the contract Kendrick had signed. And most importantly, the horse she’d bet on to win or at least place would never get out of the starting gate.
Gen grumbled to herself and wondered what the hell she’d gotten herself into as she washed dishes, wiped counters, and swept floors in the little cottage. At least the size of the place meant it wouldn’t take her long to put things in order. She put a load of dirty laundry into the stacked washer and dryer unit that was tucked away in a closet off the bedroom. As she added detergent and started the load, she thought with distaste about men’s dirty underwear. Here she was washing Gordon Kendrick’s boxers. She’d never washed the underwear of a man she was having sex with, let alone one she wasn’t. It seemed a shame that she was putting in the effort of maintaining a man without the benefit of regular orgasms.
When the cottage was in a respectable state, she ordered Kendrick into the shower. He protested, but then shuffled off into the little bathroom. He really was like a toddler. Once he was in there, she went into the kitchen and picked up the partial bottle of Jack Daniels. Funny, he couldn’t manage to get his own yogurt or his own sheets, but he had no problem procuring alcohol. Priorities, she thought.
She sighed heavily and considered pouring out the whiskey. He’d gotten this bottle somehow; he’d get another. If she dumped it, that might slow down his drinking. On the other hand, if he was busy finding a way into town to buy more, then that was time he wouldn’t be painting.
In the end, she decided he was an adult—though he didn’t behave like one—and it wasn’t her job to monitor his Jack Daniels intake. Still, she stuck the bottle into the back of the cupboard behind the bran flakes and the herbal tea. No reason to make it easy.
Gen made a pot of strong coffee and had it ready when Kendrick came out of the shower wearing a pair of sweatpants and the same T-shirt he’d put on when she’d arrived. His wet hair, now freed of the man bun, was mussed and hung limply to his shoulders.
He slumped down on the sofa, and Gen placed a mug of coffee on the table in front of him. She’d considered asking him about his cream and sugar preference, then decided that he could damn well drink it black.
When he’d had a bit of the coffee, Gen sat on the edge of the sofa, crossed her legs carefully, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Mr. Kendrick …” she began.
“Gordon,” he corrected.
“Of course. Gordon. It seems to me that you’re …” She searched for a tactful way to say it. “…You’re getting off on the wrong foot here in Cambria. Let’s talk about what we can do to get things back on track.”
He looked at her miserably, and for a moment she really did feel sorry for him. While she mostly thought of the suffering artist archetype as self-indulgent bullshit, she supposed there might be something to it for some people. Maybe Gordon Kendrick really was a tormented genius.
She really hoped the genius part was in there somewhere.
“Well …” he began.
She leaned forward expectantly.
“I’m simply going to need a skylight in the barn.”
The following day, Ryan perched his hands on his hips and tipped his head back, looking up at the roof of the barn. Gen stood off to the side, looking out of place in the sleeveless black sheath dress and high heels she’d worn when she’d come here straight from the gallery. She also looked embarrassed.
Kendrick—who’d obviously been drinking, Ryan could smell
it on him—was going on about the gray color of the light and the angle at which it came in through the barn’s few windows.
“Can’t you just open the doors?” Ryan asked, not unreasonably. The barn doors were huge, and it seemed to him they’d let in enough light to perform surgery, let alone splatter a little paint on a canvas.
Kendrick was shaking his head sadly. “I need light from above. Light coming from the side just won’t create the same effect.”
“Huh,” Ryan said. “What if I add some track lighting right over your work space? Would that do it?”
Kendrick winced. “It has to be natural light. Artificial light …” The expression on his face indicated his lack of regard for all manufactured sources of illumination. “I need to create the illusion that I’m painting outdoors.”
Ryan looked out the barn doors, which were standing wide open. “Move your set-up twenty feet to the left, and you are painting outdoors.”
“There’s a breeze,” Kendrick said.
“A breeze.”
“Yes. Part of what I do involves literally throwing pigment at the canvas. With a breeze …” He shook his head to indicate the hopelessness of such a situation.
“So, a skylight,” Ryan said.
“Please,” Kendrick answered.
Ryan rubbed at the stubble on his chin.
“Of course, I’ll pay for the work,” Gen offered. Something in the tone of her voice suggested it was money she couldn’t afford to spend.
He considered his options. Installing a skylight in the barn would be much easier than installing one in a house. The barn was a simple structure, and it didn’t have a ceiling; he’d only have to cut through the roof and then redo the shingles around the skylight. He figured he could get it done in one day, once he had the supplies he needed. On the other hand, it was an asinine request. Why the hell did the barn need a skylight? With the myriad other options Kendrick had for lighting, ranging from artificial to the abundance of sunlight gushing through the doors, it seemed ridiculous that the one source of light he didn’t have was the only one he wanted. Ryan got the uncomfortable feeling that he and Gen were being asked to jump through hoops just to see if they’d do it. Kind of like circus dogs.
“Ryan? Could I talk to you privately for a moment?” Gen looked at him pleadingly. “Please?”
He nodded and stepped outside, where they stood under the shade of an old oak tree, out of Kendrick’s earshot.
“A skylight?” he said, perching his hands on his hips and peering down at her with skepticism.
“Look,” she said. “I know this is stupid. This is really, really stupid. But he’s not painting. He won’t paint.” She looked over her shoulder toward where Kendrick stood inside the barn, bathed in the miserable grey light he was so worked up about.
“I don’t see how that’s your problem,” Ryan said, squinting at her.
“But it is,” she insisted. “It really is. I spent a lot of money to bring him out here, Ryan. And if he doesn’t paint, I can’t … I can’t give the McCabes the painting I promised them. And I can’t have a gallery show at the end of the residency. And I won’t get the art that I was promised as part of the contract. And then I won’t make any money, or build any prestige, and if I don’t have money or prestige, I can’t move back to New York. So, if a skylight is the thing that’s going to make him get off his ass and throw some paint on a canvas—which, I’ve got to tell you, doesn’t sound like the hardest job in the world to me—then I have to stand here and ask you to put in a skylight even though it’s such an idiotic thing to ask for that I can’t even believe I’m asking.” She paused and took a breath.
Ryan looked down at her and couldn’t help grinning. Her pale cheeks were flushed with emotion, and her wild red hair—worn loose today—was in a glorious cascade over her shoulders. He had a lot to do. Spring was a busy time on the ranch, and he couldn’t afford to waste a day sawing a hole in the roof of the goddamned barn so this pain-in-the-ass painter, whom he would never see again after the guy left here in a few months, could have the illusion of painting outdoors. Especially when the real outdoors was available in abundance.
But looking at her, the way her eyes pleaded with him, the way her curls fluttered in the breeze, the way the dress she was wearing hugged her curvy little body, he didn’t quite see how he could say no.
He looked away from her, out to where a pale strip of ocean outlined the horizon, and sighed.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“Oh, God. Thank you!”
Before he knew what was happening, she leaped forward and threw her arms around his shoulders. He blinked, then laughed a little and hugged her back. “You’re welcome.”
He should have let go right away—he knew he should have. But the surprise of her, the solid warmth of her body pressed against his, stirred him up in a way he hadn’t expected. He held on and found himself closing his eyes and smelling the clean shampoo scent of her hair.
“Well.” She put her hands against his shoulders and pushed back from him. She was blushing in a way he found magical, enchanting. “I’d better …” She pointed wordlessly toward Kendrick, then turned and picked her way through the grass on her pointy high heels.
Watching her go was both a loss and a pleasure.
Chapter Thirteen
“A skylight?” Sandra demanded in disbelief.
“That’s what he wants,” Ryan confirmed. He’d gone back to the house at the end of the day to wash up for dinner, and had apprised his mother of the situation. Her shocked outrage didn’t surprise him; it nicely mirrored what he’d felt when he’d first heard.
“Well, that’s just stupid,” she announced with her usual diplomacy.
“I can’t argue with that.”
“He wants natural light, why can’t he just go outside, for Christ’s sake?”
“That’s what I asked him,” Ryan said.
“And what did he say?” Sandra was standing with her hands on her hips in her usual combat pose.
“There’s a breeze.”
“A breeze.”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, of all the …” After that, she grumbled some things that Ryan couldn’t quite make out.
Everyone was starting to gather around the big dinner table as Sandra brought out steaming serving bowls. Orin came in and found his seat, then Redmond lumbered in after him. Breanna and the boys were the last to find their seats before the bowls and platters started making their way clockwise around the table.
“What’s this about a skylight?” Orin asked, putting some pot roast on his plate.
“That pain-in-the-rear artist out there in the cottage wants a skylight in the old barn,” Sandra filled him in. “Because there’s a breeze.”
Orin screwed up his face into a mask of puzzlement. “Well, that’s just …”
“That’s what I said,” Sandra told him.
Breanna was putting food onto the boys’ plates, reasoning with them that yes, they did need to have some of the broccoli, and no, they couldn’t just eat rolls and butter. Having done that, she joined the conversation.
“Lighting is important to an artist,” she put in.
“It’s a barn,” Redmond observed. “It’s not supposed to be some fancy artist’s studio. He wants to use it that way, okay, but it’s still just a barn.”
“What’d that Gen Porter say when you told her no?” Orin asked, a forkful of mashed potatoes poised in front of him.
Ryan looked down at the food on his plate. He had the same mashed potatoes, broccoli, and roasted carrots as everyone else, but he had a pile of quinoa pilaf where the pot roast should have been. “Well … I told her I’d see what I could do.”
“You what ?” Sandra boomed.
He poked his fork at his food and shrugged. “It’s just a skylight. It’s one day’s work.”
“Can I help?” Lucas asked, his face alight.
“Me too!” Michael said.
&nbs
p; “That’s a pretty dangerous job, because you have to get on the roof,” Breanna told them. “You’d better let your uncle Ryan do it.”
“I could get on the roof,” Michael said. “I did it before.”
“What? When did you get on the roof?” Breanna demanded.
“With Grandpa Orin,” he said brightly.
Breanna gave her father a pointed look.
“Well …” Orin said.
“It may be one day’s work,” Sandra said, getting the conversation back on track, “but it’s one day’s work during calving season.”
“It’s not like we can’t afford to lose him for one day,” Redmond said, pointing his fork in Sandra’s direction. “The new hands we brought in for the calving are pretty much up to speed.”
“Whose side are you on?” Sandra demanded.
“Look. I’ll just put in the skylight, make the artist happy, and that’ll be that,” Ryan told her.
“Why are you so keen on making this artist happy?” she wanted to know.
“Well, I …” Ryan fidgeted and shrugged.
“I think it might be Gen Porter he wants to make happy,” Breanna supplied.
Ryan looked up, started to say something, then stopped and looked back down at his plate.
“Is that so?” Sandra asked. Ryan didn’t answer her.
“I can just tell her to forget the skylight,” Ryan said to his mother after a lengthy pause.
She cocked her head for a moment, considering.
“No. I figure we can spare you for a day. You just go ahead and put in a damned skylight.”
Breanna grinned, and Ryan went back to his quinoa.
Ryan told Jackson, Daniel, and Will about the pain-in-the-ass artist and the skylight that night at Ted’s, a bar off Main Street where they sometimes gathered after work to play pool or have a few beers and blow off the steam from their day. They were seated around a small, round table with a pitcher of beer between them, a pile of peanut shells growing in the middle of the table as they shelled and munched nuts.
“And the thing is, I don’t even know how to put in a skylight,” Ryan said. “I guess I could Google it.”
