by H. M. Ward
Page 4
Jack nodded, and steepled his fingers. Head tilted, he said, “I’m serious. How would you sell it, Ab?”
Gus watched the exchange, smart enough not to interfere. The room was charged with emotion from the moment Jack entered. I had no idea what Jack was thinking. His posture said he didn’t care, not anymore, but his eyes said something entirely different. That blue gaze was dark, the tiny specs of light extinguished by God-knew-what. Gus leaned back in his chair, his pointer fingers resting against his chin. He tapped it periodically as his eyes shifted between us.
I stared at Jack for a moment, waiting for an answer to come to me, but it didn’t. I didn’t know how to do sales. Thoughts spilled into my head, things I could have tried to make into a reasonable attempt to sound like I knew what I was talking about, but I didn’t know. My stomach sank. Whatever was between us at one point was now one-sided because Jack sat there cooly gazing at me. Once upon a time, he would have realized how much I was squirming inside and put me out of my misery. But not now. Twisting my hands, I confessed, “I’m not sure. ” My voice was quiet as I looked past Jack to the sea. The steady sound of waves crashing on the beach was nostalgic.
Jack saw my eyes look past him at the water on the other side of the window. He knew how much I loved the beach. “When was the last time you were home?” he asked.
My gaze drifted back to his face, avoiding his eyes. Pushing a stray hair out of my face, I said, “Haven’t been. I left and didn’t plan on coming back. But things changed, and, well, I got here last night. Today I’m sitting in front of you asking for a job that I need, and want, but can’t possibly get. ” What was I saying? I cringed inside. There was this bravado in my voice mixed with something else I couldn’t identify. I had blurted out what I honestly thought with no expectations from Jack.
His voice was deep, surprised, “A job you want? You really want to do sales?” Risking another glance at his deep blue eyes I noticed the trail of dark stubble on his cheeks. He was beautiful. My stomach twisted as he looked at me. I nodded. I wanted this job. It would fix everything. The expression on Jack’s face led me to believe he might give it to me, but I was wrong. Looking away, he said, “The right answer is that you sell an expensive painting the same way you would sell any other work. . . ” His hands rubbed his face, “How can I give you this position when there are others that are way more qualified? I’m sorry Abby, but this won’t work out. ”
My teeth had taken hold of my bottom lip. I should have known as much. Begging Jack for a job was bad enough. He had a way of making me melt and do stupid things that I wouldn’t have normally done. That was the way he was back then—and it only seemed to have intensified with age.
Humiliated, I stood, “Thank you for your consideration. I’ll show myself out. ” As I swung my purse over my shoulder, I walked to the door. I was so screwed. My mind warped into hyper-drive as panic shot through my brain yipping like a freaked-out Chihuahua. I was going to die, eaten by the walrus. The noise of a chair moving behind me caught my ear, but I figured it was just Jack leaving. I didn’t expect him to lunge in front of me, stopping me in my tracks.
“Where are you going?” he laughed, throwing his body in front of me so I couldn’t walk through the door. His silky dark hair fell in his eyes. The smile melted that cold expression he was giving me before. My heart lurched at the sight of it. It took me a minute to realize he wanted me to stop. I’m kind of thick sometimes. Hands up in the universal sign for stop went right over my head, so he threw himself in front of me. “Abby, I said you couldn’t have that job. You’d suck at it. ” I frowned without meaning to. He smiled in response, his eyes bright and wistful, “I have something better, and it suits you perfectly. Follow me. ”
Taken aback, I blinked. What did he say? He had another job? Turning, I quickly followed him from the room. Mind reeling, I wondered what job he thought I could do, and wondered exactly how irritated he was with me. Irritated wasn’t the right word, but I half expected him to hand me a toilet brush. It wasn’t until Gus yelled after him that I thought he might have another real job.
Gus called out, running his fingers through his perfect hair, “Jack, we need to discuss this. ”
“Later, Gus. It’s my call this time. You picked the last one!” Before Jack finished talking he was out the door. I practically ran to keep up. We walked around the exterior of the building. The wind blew gently, taking my long hair and whipping it into my eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jack turned back to me, “That’s the main building where everyone else works, but over here—this is where the magic happens,” he grinned at me. We’d reached a building that was attached on the side, concealed by sand dunes and tall grass. The long sleek lines of the upper section of the building blended into the sister structure next to it. When Jack threw open the doors, I walked through and entered his studio. My lips parted as I stared. It was huge. No, huge was an understatement. The room looked like an airplane hangar, minus the planes. Camera equipment was suspended from the ceiling, canvases bigger than my house lined the walls, and more canvas was on the floor, thickly coated in paint. Next to it was a board with photographs of a woman pinned to it. I stared harder, trying to see, but I was too far away.
Jack moved around me, careful not to touch me as he passed, asking, “Do you know what I’m famous for, Abby? Do you know why people pay millions for my work?” I shook my head. There were no finished pieces in sight, and I hadn’t seen any on the way in. Jack beamed, his beauty amplified in this setting. He explained, “It’s part innovation and part seduction. People crave something that is sensual, that reveals the inner workings of the human mind, and I give them that. ” He grinned, “And the rest was luck. I was in the right place at the right time. ”
Looking around I said, “I don’t understand. Are these the finished paintings?” Maybe he was a minimalist selling blank canvases on stretchers with pretty frames.
“No,” he breathed, staring at me, watching my reaction carefully. I stood in front of a large bay of windows; the light spilling through behind me. His eyes lingered a beat too long before moving to a curtain that spanned across the back wall. “This is one of my finished works. ” Clasping the curtain in his hand, Jack slid it back. As he revealed more and more of the painting, I found myself walking toward it, eyes growing steadily wider, lips parting further and further.
It was evocative and alluring, sensual. It was a myriad of contradictions and promises—a moving story told in paint. There was an abstract quality to the work, but not so much that I couldn’t tell what it was. The painting was of a woman, her form captured in wide brush strokes of soft color. The curve of her figure, the expression on her face, and the long hair that drifted down her back made me stare at it. Sensual was the tame word to describe what he painted. It was raw emotion and full ecstasy, captured on canvas.
I couldn’t breathe. My face felt hot. I was certain my cheeks were burning. “Jack, this is. . . ” I searched for the right word, but couldn’t find one. Stepping closer, I shook my head whispering, “carnal, raw, evocative, and. . . sexy as hell. ” My eyes were locked on the painting, on this vision of beauty that he created. When did Jack learn to do this?
His hands were behind his back. Jack was smiling, watching me, standing next to me. “Cursing preacher?”
I shrugged, not looking away from the painting, “I never really had a tame tongue. ”
“I remember,” he said softly. “That mouth of yours used to get you in trouble. Frequently. ”
My eyes were wide when I turned and looked at him. The expression on his face only deepened my blush. He was genuinely amused, watching my eyes devour his painting like I couldn’t get enough. “Preacher girl, I think you like naughty art,” he laughed, a dimple showing as his smiled deepened.
Trying to defend myself, I said, “It’s not naughty. It’s. . . ” but he didn’t let me finish.
“
Then why are you beat-red?” He laughed, “It’s kind of cute. I haven’t had this much fun showing my work to anyone in a while. And I never thought I’d be showing it to a nun, and hear her say it’s not dirty. ”
The corners of my mouth twisted up into a smile as I turned my blushing face in his direction, “It’s not dirty!” I protested. “It’s beautiful. Shockingly sensual. I just didn’t think you could paint something like that. ”
“Why’s that?” he asked, the smile fading from his lips.
I shrugged, “I don’t know. I just. . . I’ve never seen anything like it before. There’s so much here. It has the timeless quality of an Old Master’s painting, but it has some of the qualities of Pollack’s work. It’s beautiful. ” His lips were parted, watching me as I spoke; taking in my every word like it was air. Jack and I were a thing that never happened. We went through high school and he was one of my best friends, but there was more between us. Shaking the thoughts from my mind, I asked, “How did you make this?”
He arched an eyebrow at me, and turned away. “It’s um, not what you’d expect. ”
I laughed, “What do you mean? You didn’t use a paint brush?” I was joking, but he shook his head.
“No, it’s not like that,” he stated, running his hand through his hair. Not looking at me, he stepped toward the painting, looking at it, recounting how it was made. “It’s more. . . unconventional, which is why I always have a female assistant at my studio. It maintains propriety, and that’s the difference between my art selling for millions and nothing. ” Jack was staring at the painting, his jaw tightening like something was bothering him.
“What do you mean?” I asked, turning to look at him. His hands were shoved into his pockets, as he gazed at his sneakers briefly, looking at me from under his brow. He still looked like the boy I knew, not the millionaire man that he was supposed to be. Oddly, Jack seemed to hide his wealth. Getting closer to him, I could see he was wearing the same brands he used to wear. Nothing appeared to change.
