He shuddered as if unable to understand how any artist worth his salt could be so inconsiderate of his largesse to them in helping them sell paintings as to jeopardize everything by falling in love. “I won’t pull your pictures yet because you are talented and in time you may get over this infatuation. I certainly hope so.”
His statement was followed by a huge indrawn breath that every worker in the room could hear and then he ignored me in favor of telling his current assistant what she was doing wrong. Donaldo goes through at least one assistant a month, that being the length of time they can take his harangues before quitting.
I just stood there and stared at the lineup of the three portraits, wondering if Donaldo was right and deciding, eventually, that of course he wasn’t because, though Jase was a nice guy and a very competent Center manager, and there was something special about him in spite of what Donaldo believed and that something showed in portraits, in spite of all those things my feelings for him didn’t rise to the level of love. Or even lust. Or anything more emotional than like.
Did they?
I jumped as Jase appeared at my elbow, whispering because Donaldo was close enough to hear otherwise. “How can you work with him?” He shook his head in wonderment at why I suffered through Donaldo’s eccentricities. “He might as well have a horse whip.”
“He’s the only person who would look at my work when I started.” Jase examined Donaldo and shook his head in disbelief. “He showed my pictures when no one else would and he has considerable clout in the Minneapolis art scene.” Jase gave another shake of his head as we slipped away before Donaldo could corner us and say he’d heard every unflattering word. “He gives exhibits that are well attended and I sell lots of pictures and that money enables me to be an independent artist who doesn’t need a day job.”
“Huh!” The single word said what Jase thought of Donaldo and then he thought long and hard and silently until he blurted out with, “What if you make our arrangement at the Center permanent? If I promise you time to paint in the summer when things get busy? If I pay you a small salary? So maybe you can cut your ties to this guy.”
I twisted to look at Jase because his offer was so unexpected. “With free room and board and your paintings hanging in the great room so people buy them, then even if you don’t sell as many pictures, you should sell enough to keep your independence and if you still want to connect with someone in the art world I bet there are other gallery owners in Minneapolis who will be happy to show your work now that you’ve proved your pictures sell.”
He stopped for breath and looked away as he continued. “The thing is, I’m getting used to having you at the Center. We work well together and business has been picking up enough lately that I’ve known for a while that I’ll need help.” He would have moved from one foot to the other if he’d been able, I could see it in his body language. “Well? I’m offering you a permanent job. Are you interested?” And then, “Say something. Answer me. Please.”
I didn’t expect to agree, especially not after hearing Donaldo say I was in love with Jase. Not that I was, but if it could in some incomprehensible way become true in the far distant future, then I should be running from Jase as fast as possible right now. Because more than one good artist has stopped painting when love called.
But as that thought went through my mind, a second thought countered it. If I wasn’t in love with Jase – which I wasn’t – then being with him day and night and working side by side with him would be the perfect way to prove to myself and to the world, Donaldo being the most important part of that world, that I was not in love. Not. Not. Not.
“Sure I’ll work for you.” I looked away just in case my expression told Jase what Donaldo had said. “I’ll be happy to become a part of the Center as long as I still have time to paint.” I raised my chin in what I hoped was a truculent manner. “And I’ll hold you to that.”
Jase put out a hand. “Agreed.” And just like that I got a new job and he smiled in a way that said he’d been worried about my answer. “Now let’s enjoy this show and not tell that agent of yours what we’ve decided until it’s over and he’s sold as many of your pictures as possible.” He looked at the portraits and added, “Not likely to sell those.” He shuddered. “People aren’t your thing.”
In that he was wrong because the portraits were the first pictures to sell and they sold for more than the asking price when they became the objects of a bidding war between several art lovers who saw in them the same thing that I’d seen in Jase and they wanted that in their lives as much as I did. On their walls.
They fought each other and haggled over price until I was astonished at the final prices and when I calculated my cut of that price, I couldn’t believe it. Neither could Jase, who couldn’t imagine why anyone would want a picture of him in their living room.
CHAPTER 19
Back at the Center, Jase went straight to the bedroom that was now a studio and rummaged among my half-finished pictures. “We have a group coming from New York next week. You aren’t taking your pictures out of that idiot’s gallery until all sales from this show are final so maybe you can finish one or two of the ones you’re working on here and get them hung before guests arrive. Let’s them on the wall ASAP.” He held up one that was almost done. “What do you think? Can this be finished in a week?”
I gulped at the speed with which my life was changing. “I think so. Yes, if I have even a little time each day to work on it.” I flicked my glance to a couple more in similar stages of completion. “And those, also.” I pointed. “If three isn’t too many.”
“This place has lots of wall space and they can be hung anywhere. Halls. Alcoves. Lots of places. Lots of pictures, as many as you can paint. We’ll make them a part of the décor.” I was awed. Jase was on a crusade and selling my pictures was the goal. No wonder gossip about the Center always mentioned how successful it was. The man was a force of nature.
We had whatever dinner was posted on the menu for that day on the wall above the table. I’d already figured that Jase was slyly training me every second of every day and preparing meals in the proper order was part of that training, as were the seemingly random comments about how interesting it was to talk with guests so I should make the effort and what diverse people I was likely to meet and wasn’t it nice that my horizons would become broadened after conversing with them? Which I surely would do. Converse with them.
All in all, I was impressed with the skill with which he managed his business as well as managing to integrate me into that business. Still, in private moments I was glad I was an artist and didn’t have to worry about integrating anyone or about business of any kind though, as I reminded myself, since I was now part of that business, ignoring people was in my past. Learning to interact with them was my future. No more hermit lifestyle for me.
What had I got myself into?
When the group from New York arrived, I momentarily stopped breathing at the sheer number of people who’d be filling the guest suites upstairs. Under Jase’s supervision, I’d changed all the linens and cleaned already clean rooms and left lavender sachets on pillows on top of evergreen sprigs that I’d clipped from nearby trees because, though he insisted he could do it himself, the crutches would have slowed him down considerably. I’d offered to do it alone and noticed that he didn’t argue too hard.
I also filled huge vases in the main room with more evergreens. By the time those new guests who chose not to use the elevator trooped upstairs to their rooms, the entire place smelled of the outdoors in winter.
I wondered what it would smell like in the summer and realized I’d find out when the seasons changed. Flowers perhaps? Was there a flower garden for just such a purpose? I like gardening so I hoped so. In any case I’d find out in good time because I’d be here. I was a permanent employee as well as the first and only resident artist.
While waiting in line to check in, several guests had perused my paintings along with the other wall decorations, l
eaning close to check the prices. I’d held my breath and wondered if, when they left, one or more of my paintings would go with them. I could only hope.
A tallish, very thin woman with straight, cropped hair so black it had to be a dye job, called for someone named Paul to look at my picture of a very old evergreen that was leaning and ready to fall but was still standing, still alive, still fighting for its space in the forest. A slightly shorter, equally thin man with just as dark hair and a dark complexion who could be any of several nationalities, joined her and examined the picture critically.
I held my breath because something about his stance said he knew about art and I only breathed again when he nodded slightly and indicated the brush strokes that had showed the age of the evergreen and its struggle to stay alive while surrounded by younger, eager trees. He half smiled and the way he backed a bit said smiles were a rarity with him.
Then the lady pointed to the price tag and asked something. He leaned closer to see the price better and nodded. Yes, the picture was worth it. Then someone called them and they returned to the desk to complete their registrations.
When everyone was registered, I forgot the world of art in order to listen to Jase’s quick lecture on what would happen during their stay because I’d be intimately involved in everything that happened outside. When he indicated sign-up sheets on a nearby table where those who were interested could sign up for various activities, I watched who signed up for what and how many names ended up on those sheets. I’d be leading those people through what Jase carefully called a slow tour through a winter wonderland and was exactly that as long as problems didn’t arise.
The thin lady examined the potential activities with the same intensity she’d used on my pictures, though I suspected she didn’t have a clue what the listed activities involved. As in what was a snowmobile anyway, and why would anyone ski across country when there were perfectly good slopes in Aspen and who over the age of ten played in the snow?
Something in the back of my mind tickled me as surely as if Jase had kicked me under the table and I strolled over to talk to her. “Any questions?”
She rolled her eyes and asked pretty much what I’d expected and I found myself talking her into a short cross country ski trip, which I realized would suit both of us, her because she didn’t even know what she’d be doing and me because short was better than long. If things went wrong, we could simply walk back to the Center truck that would be parked at the entrance to the trail.
She called out to the dark-haired art expert. “Paul. Want to come with us? It might be fun.”
Paul came over and signed his name in that script that some artists develop that was recognizable as a signature but completely unreadable as a word and I knew without a doubt that she’d asked his opinion because he, like me, was a professional artist. I was proved right when he asked, “Who painted the pictures for sale everywhere?”
“Me.”
His eyebrows rose. “You? Why show them here? Why not in a gallery?” The question was a challenge and I answered calmly that much of my work was in a gallery in Minneapolis but some were here because I lived and worked here.
He asked what gallery and when I told him, those thin black eyebrows rose a second time because the Donaldo Gallery was known even in New York, but all he said was, “Good for you,” followed by, “Nice renditions of trees.”
The next day I led both of them on a cross country ski trip along with two others who’d decided a short ski trip was an easy north woods experience. When we returned to the Center for hot chocolate and sandwiches that had been covered and kept fresh for when we came back famished, they all stated that it had been more fun than they’d expected and that the forest was beautiful and I relaxed and only then did I realize how stressed I’d been.
Paul sipped his hot chocolate in a way that said childish treats were beneath him so why was he enjoying it and then he chowed down on several sandwiches with another surprised expression that said he seldom ate so much at a meal but he was hungry after the exertion and so he was going to fill his belly. That expression that he failed to subdue completely also said that he was enjoying himself in spite of reservations about this unusual excursion to the middle of the country.
When he was full, he gave such a large sigh of contentment that his eyes went large with surprise that he was capable of such a bourgeoisie expression. And then, shaking his head slightly, he turned to me. And leaned close enough that no one else could hear. And said, “I like your pictures.” And waited for me to respond.
It was one of those awful moments when I was supposed to talk like an artist and goodness knows I’m not good at that so I stared at him for a moment before gulping and saying, “Thanks.”
His eyes rolled again and I knew I’d blown it so there was now no possibility of anyone buying any of my pictures until he reached out and took my arm, gently drawing me from my chair. “Come. Tell me about those interesting forest pictures.” Mesmerized by his look and the realization that he hadn’t laughed at my ignorant words and left the room, I followed.
An hour later, I knew beyond doubt that if no one bought my pictures this time, someone would eventually because, according to Paul, they were good. Not great, I already knew that, but good enough to hang in anyone’s house. Then he left to join a group before the roaring fire for a cutthroat game of cards.
As I watched him seat himself between a portly middle-aged man and a younger blonde woman, the thin woman with the dyed black hair passed behind him and trailed her hand lightly across his shoulders the way people sometimes do when they are claiming that person as a possession. The hair on the back of my neck rose. Were they a couple? Were they involved or was it just art? Had I made a faux pas when I spoke with Paul?
I wished I was intuitive about such things. But I’m not.
I turned to head back to the kitchen to clean up the mess from our sandwich lunch and found Jase leaning against the door, arms folded, staring at me and then at Paul. His eyebrows rose and he fought to keep from laughing as he moved aside so I could join him and finish cleaning what I discovered was an almost immaculate kitchen.
We sat down to coffee that reminded me of my father because it was from the grounds at the cabin and was even better than the hot chocolate we’d had moments earlier as he told me that I just might become a wealthy artist thanks to his decision to hang my pictures in the Center. His decision and his alone and he was taking all the credit for my future success. His eyebrows lifted in a superior expression and it was all I could do not to laugh.
But alone at last I hoped he was right while wishing he’d been bothered by Paul’s attention to me, even though it wasn’t romantic. At some level, I found myself wishing Jase had acted like a jealous lover instead of a businessman.
Why’d I care how he felt? There was no reason, none, for me to care whether Paul was interested in me or not because I wasn’t in love with Jase. Donaldo was wrong about that. I wasn’t in love or anything close. Definitely not. Surely the only reason for thinking such odd thoughts was because Donaldo had put the possibility into my mind, darn him anyway.
No other reason at all. None.
CHAPTER 20
The group from New York snowmobiled and skied and made snow angels and s’mores in a campfire after enjoying a picnic in the snow and then they packed up their things and returned to New York. After they left, I packed two painting carefully and took them to town and shipped them to New York where they would hang in the entry to the thin woman’s penthouse apartment.
She hadn’t said she lived in a penthouse, it was Paul who’d made sure I understood how wealthy she was and how important to the New York art scene. “Your little forest pictures will be seen by more than one gallery owner.”
He’d then leaned towards me in the way I’d realized he’d chosen to do with me and me alone and I had no idea what it meant because I’d already figured out that he was different from anyone I’d known before and that I couldn’t read him. Not
at all. When he was done describing his wealthy friend, he’d added, “Who knows what will happen?”
He’d delicately backed up a couple of feet and looked me up and down and rolled his eyes a few times and said, “Too bad you don’t do art-speak.”
“What?”
Another eye roll. “You know. Art-speak. The language of all rich artists, me included.”
“Are you talking about the things my agent wants me to say when people ask about my pictures?”
He’d laid a finger on my nose and smiled. Actually smiled. “Yes. Precisely. Art-speak. Your agent has your best interests at heart, as well as his own.” He whirled away and trotted after the group that was headed upstairs to give their rooms one last look before leaving. “Take my advice, little Laurie. Learn art-speak.”
As they left Jase stood in the doorway and waved goodbye to these guests as any good host would do. As Paul made an effort to say a special good-bye to me, including another mention of art-speak, Jase noticed and almost but not quite frowned and I wished it had developed into a real frown because that might mean that he was jealous.
Again, why did I care? Because I was in love with him? Of course not but as the rental cars disappeared around that first curve in the driveway I sternly forced any thoughts of Jase to the back of my mind and told them to stay there because I was sick and tired of staying awake nights trying to figure out whether Donaldo was right about me being in love with my boss. Partner. Friend. Whatever he was.
We returned to the main room and began straightening it up. Then we headed for the kitchen and checked the leftovers in the freezer that would become our next few meals, hopefully disguised with additional ingredients so as to seem different which was a real possibility because Jase was a genius at creating a million completely different meals from the same ingredients.
The Snow Queen Page 12
