It had been a long time since he’d wanted something this badly—but he had a list of reservations. Could he still motivate students? Did he still have the enthusiasm he once had? After two weeks living on the streets and at the local shelters in Sarasota, he had spent enough time drowning in his sorrow. It was time to come up for air. He needed to get it together, make a living, and become respectable, so one day, if he was lucky enough, Alex would have him.
He wanted her back in his life when the time was right, but he needed something substantial to offer her. She might never want to see him again, but he was willing to take his chances. He tried to summon the image of Samantha, but it was Alex’s face he saw. Sam’s image had slowly faded, and Alex’s eyes were the ones permanently etched in his soul. Thinking of Sam made him sad, but his heart was full of hope because he’d fallen in love again.
“Mr. Anselmo, the dean will see you now,” said the receptionist.
“Thank you,” Nick said and slowly walked into the dean’s office.
“Well, well, I can’t believe I have Dominick Anselmo right here on my campus, and better yet, in my office,” the dean began, clasping his hand in a powerful greeting. “I’ve studied your art for years and never thought I’d have the opportunity to meet you. What brings you here to our college?”
“I sort of fell into this town, quite by accident, and was drawn to your school by its reputation. I need a job, and here I am,” Nick said. He had decided straightforward—to a point—was the way to go.
“Honest enough. Where have you been all these years? What have you been doing?”
“Landscapes, mostly,” he answered hesitantly.
“A bit of a departure for you, isn’t it?” asked the dean. “Don’t you specialize in portraiture now?”
“I’m always looking to try new things, expand my horizons, widen my scope.”
“Like the great outdoors, eh?”
“Exactly,” Nick said, coughing.
Nick was overanxious to start working and close the deal with this guy right then and there. He didn’t even know whether or not there was a position available when he blurted out, “When can I start?”
The dean laughed.
“Well, we don’t have a chairman’s position at the moment, and I’m sure that would be more appealing to you than just a teaching position, but if you can work with the seniors in the painting department for a semester, they’d greatly benefit from your expertise. Our current chairman is retiring next semester, and I can offer you that position at quite an increase in salary. I don’t want to lose this opportunity to hire you, so I hope that sounds agreeable to you. Are you free to start next week?” asked the dean with an encouraging smile.
“Yes, yes, I feel very free, I mean I am very free to start anytime, today, whenever you need me,” Nick replied excitedly.
“Great, let’s go meet the other professors. They’ll be delighted to have you aboard—shocked, surprised, and very glad. I plan to take all the credit for recruiting you, by the way.” The dean’s eyes sparkled. “At least play along with it for a little while and let me be the hero. Now, allow me to show you around the department and campus. We can stop by the human resources department and discuss the details of your salary and insurance package and get you started.”
Nick choked back the tears. He could hardly believe he had a job. A real job. A full-time job. Doing what he loved to do. In a beautiful place. From what he’d been able to observe, Sarasota was sparkling clean, a wonderland of soft, white sandy beaches on the Gulf of Mexico, wide streets, the intercoastal waterway, smart shops, and a world-class art museum. Sarasota offered a fresh start. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He couldn’t let the dean see him like this.
“I’m grateful,” was all he could manage.
“And we’re lucky to have you,” the dean replied, intentionally ignoring Nick’s emotional reaction.
Nick spent the rest of the afternoon talking with the shelter director. He needed a place to live, a transitional home. He needed furniture, he needed clothes. He needed art supplies. He couldn’t wait to put brush to canvas.
He was dying to talk to Alex. But it was too soon. He’d share his good news first with the guys at the shelter, show them it could happen for them, urge them not to give up on themselves.
****
On the first day of class Nick was eager to learn the ropes and recapture the rhythm of a structured schedule. He’d purchased some clean clothing and essentials from the store and used the facilities at the shelter to shower and shave. After classes, he would lie low for a while so his students wouldn’t see him on the streets until he got his first paycheck and had banked enough money to put a deposit down on an apartment.
He’d have to find a modest place within walking distance of the college, since he didn’t have the funds for a car at the moment.
Nick’s immediate goal was to save as much money as possible from his job and start painting again commercially so he could one day buy a home big enough to build a large studio—one with room for lots of paints, easels, canvases, and perhaps a beautiful female painter and her two daughters. He was an artist and a dreamer, but Nick believed his love for Alex would overcome all obstacles and he would one day go back to her and tell her how he felt. He wished he could find out how she was managing and tell her about his new job, but he knew she needed time alone to sort things out in the difficult days ahead. And he’d have his hands full for a while anyway.
About midway into the semester, he noticed that one of his students, an attractive, voluptuous brunette from Brazil, showed great promise as a painter. Her work was as passionate and beautiful as she was. She put in a lot of extra hours after class but spent more time hanging around him than working on her canvas.
Isabella had a burning desire to be a great artist, and if her expression was any judge, a burning desire for her professor. Nick’s talent, rugged good looks, and charm trumped the age difference for her.
“Professore,” Isabella whined, pouting seductively. “I can’t seem to get the brush strokes right. Can you help me?”
Nick looked into Isabella’s large green eyes. Scantily clad and obviously willing, she was offering herself to him as surely as he was standing there. Isabella was exactly the kind of girl the old Nick Anselmo would have loved to seduce. But the new Nick wasn’t taking the bait.
“Try using a larger brush,” Nick recommended seriously. “Stand back from your canvas and use more of your whole arm, like this, and keep a loose movement.”
“I don’t understand,” Isabella whispered. “Come behind me and hold my arm and show me the movement you are talking about.” She grabbed him and pulled him closer to her.
“Isabella, I think I can describe it better to you in words,” Nick said firmly as he pulled away from her viselike grip.
“You don’t find me attractive, Professore?” she complained, like a child trying to get her way.
“I find your work to be beautiful and you are a lovely young lady, but I’m not interested in getting involved with any of my students, Isabella.”
But the vixen didn’t get the message.
“It’s natural for students to fall for their professors, no? And I find you so sexy.”
“I’m flattered, really I am, but I’m here to teach art to my students and nothing more. And besides, I’m old enough to be your father.”
“Maybe you should look into the mirror, Professore. You’re still a very handsome man. A man I’m very much interested in.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Isabella, but I’m more interested in your art.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, because I’m very passionate about my art and my men. Your loss, Professore,” Isabella said, her arms folded, head up, eyes closed and lower lip jutting out.
He had learned this lesson on more than one occasion. This time he was going to stay strong and out of trouble. He was deeply in love with Alex, and no coed was going to distract him.
Isabe
lla picked up her canvas and paint box and sashayed out of the art room, making sure he got a good look at what she had to offer on the way out. But he didn’t fail to see the rejected look flash across her face like a neon sign before her exit. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she was not his priority.
Feeling triumphant, he decided to write a letter to Alex. He sat at his desk, took out a piece of watercolor paper, folded it in half, painted a yellow snapdragon on the outside cover, and started writing.
Dear Alexandra,
I hope you weathered the storm and the other storm that life blew your way unexpectedly. I know you are a strong woman, and I have faith in you.
I am sorry I left so abruptly. I knew I would be the first suspect in Mark’s death, and I panicked and ran. I was a coward. There is no other explanation for my behavior. I should have stayed to defend you. As I always do, I turned to my art and left the drawings to explain what happened. By now you must have found them. I read in the papers that you were cleared of Mark’s death.
I know this will be a difficult period in your life, and I want to give you and the girls the space and time you need to mourn your husband. I have been there and know how hard it must be for you right now.
I have some big news. I got a job as a painting professor at the Sarasota College of Art. They will offer me a promotion next semester. I feel so alive for the first time in a long time, since the last time I saw you. I have moved into my own apartment and off the streets. I feel like a new person. I owe this rebirth to you.
Thank you again for all that you did for me. You took a mere homeless man from the bottom of the heap and helped him up. I was hungry, troubled, and lonely, and you rewarded me with your kindness. I trust the shelter construction is coming along, and I am looking forward to seeing it in the future.
I hope this is not the wrong time or the wrong thing to say, but I miss you. One day when you have had enough time to grieve, I will visit you. You are on my mind and in my heart daily.
Love Always, Nick
Nick placed the note in an envelope, sealed it, stamped it, and kissed it. He confirmed Alex’s address on the Internet and mailed the letter on the way home to his new apartment. On the way home—that sounded good. Instead of living on the streets, he walked the streets with a spring in his step. Life was full of exciting possibilities. He was painting again and doing some of his best work ever. He was in love. And love, like anything worthwhile, was worth the wait.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Things Have Changed
Six months later
It was almost half a year after Mark’s death before Alex could summon the strength to go through the entire house and part with the remaining suits and shirts in Mark’s closet. She’d given away most of her dresses because they no longer fit. She’d lost her appetite for food and for life, and the pounds had melted away. Her friends advised her it was best not to make any major life decisions until a year after the death of a spouse. She’d followed that advice. Her life was in limbo.
One of Alex’s first projects after Mark’s death was to dismantle her Great Wall of China. She’d started by giving away her everyday Christmas china pattern. Now it would be Christmas every day at the homeless shelter.
Things had certainly changed around the Newborn house. These days, the discount store greeter was Alex’s new best friend. She and the girls weren’t exactly destitute, but they had to be careful with money. She was fortunate Mark had left his life insurance policy intact. Since his death had officially been ruled an accident, the proceeds had enabled her to keep the house.
She had taken a job at a local gallery in Jacksonville Beach to maintain her ties to the art community and to help with expenses. There were a lot of those. When she went through Mark’s closet, she’d found a stack of unpaid bills he’d hidden in a shoebox. Bills she was now responsible for paying. Death didn’t absolve her of those obligations.
The girls were very good about cutting expenses, and they each got a job on campus. Alex gave away their outgrown dresses to the homeless shelter—the former soup kitchen—now refurbished and renamed The Samantha Bennett-Anselmo Residential Center.
What bothered Alex most about her life was the clutter, and she was definitely doing something about that. One of her earliest projects was tackling the laundry room to make more room for her art supplies. There were a lot of things in there that the shelter residents needed. Bottles of soda, apple juice, the three- and five-gallon water bottles she had to lean over when she wanted to reach her paints and pallet. Old, almost never-used appliances—rice maker, blender, ice-cream maker, food processor—that had been collecting dust for years.
From the shelves she removed large roasting pans—she no longer had anyone to make a roast for—cookie sheets, light bulbs, and candles. She straightened up the laundry-folding table she used for mixing paints and storing art supplies. It was never used to fold laundry. And she parted with the pet bed used by their old dog, Hendrix, who had passed away the month the girls went off to college. Mark had nagged her to throw out Hendrix’s smelly things, but up until now she and the girls hadn’t been able to part with them.
She tossed out stacks of plastic bins filled with the girls’ old crayons, glue, construction paper, beads, clay, and markers. She was cleaning out her studio and cleaning out her life. That felt liberating. She’d become a first-class organizer—a Marie Can-Do.
It also felt good that she and the girls, when they were home on weekends or breaks, were regular fixtures at the new shelter. She taught art classes there for homeless children and adults, which gave her a lot of satisfaction. She also answered the phone for the Shelter Helpline, doling out financial assistance to help residents pay for rent and utilities.
When they were in on weekends, the girls shared the Sunday paper with the residents who couldn’t read and caught them up on the news of the day.
Emory helped those who came in to use the computer and handed out toiletries and free school supplies, socks, and pants from giant bins. The girls learned the lesson of charity, and when they saw a homeless person sleeping on a cot that had only a pillow, a sheet, and a blanket, and with all their belongings stuffed into a plastic bag, they learned to appreciate what they had.
Alex didn’t know what she would have done without the girls. Of all the things she was most grateful for in her life it was Ella and Emory.
Every time Alex helped an outcast on the edge of society who had slipped between the cracks and needed a hand up to find his or her way back to the mainstream, she felt like she was helping Nick. She was thankful someone in his new location had given him the help he needed to rebuild his life.
****
It had been almost six months since she received Nick’s note. At first, she hadn’t looked for him because she didn’t want to raise suspicions and put the police on his trail in case they decided to change their minds and prosecute him.
Instead, she tried to track him down quietly. She heard he’d quit Reed’s, but Mr. Reed didn’t know where he had gone or where to forward his last paycheck. She showed his picture to countless residents of the shelter, to no avail. No one had seen him. She was probably being ridiculous: If the police couldn’t find him, how could she?
After her release from prison, Alex roamed the streets of Jacksonville Beach after she got off work at the gallery, and found herself looking at street corners where the lost made their homes, hoping she might catch a glimpse of him.
A number of times she thought she saw him wandering on the beach. She’d run up and tapped strangers on the shoulder, but they were never Nick. It was just her mind playing tricks.
Before she received the letter, Nick had simply disappeared off the face of the earth again. He could have been anywhere. And he’d put her through hell with worry.
Even when the letter came, it wasn’t exactly an invitation back into his life. No, if Nick wanted her, he was going to have to take the first step. She was resigned to the idea he would never b
e a part of her life.
The shelter director continued to receive checks from Nick for the shelter building fund, through a third party. Apparently, he was painting again and making a good living at it. But other than that first correspondence, he hadn’t contacted her.
Now that she knew where he was, she debated whether or not to get in touch with him. Should she write, or just march down to Sarasota and demand answers? She loved him, and she wanted him back in her life, but she was still upset that he had deserted her. She wasn’t going to make any hasty decisions.
The other day Alex had passed a new shop near her gallery that offered a bagel and a psychic reading. She really didn’t have the money to spare, but she spent the money to get her fortune read anyway.
“Your love will come back to you,” the psychic pronounced after studying Alex’s aura and her palms.
Alex knew it was just a scam. If the woman was so psychic, she would have divined her husband was dead and never coming back to her. Unless she was talking about Nick. She wanted to believe Nick would return.
By now he might be warming someone else’s bed, perhaps enticing another student into an illicit relationship. That was not the Nick she knew, but if he genuinely cared, he’d be with her today. Maybe he was hesitant to get in touch with her because of the abrupt way he had abandoned her.
Alex placed an article in Sandlines about the new shelter opening, which she was coordinating, announcing the shelter was accepting donations. In reviewing the list of donors, she noticed Elizabeth Diamond had made a contribution in the amount of $5,000, the exact price of the diamond bracelet Mark had bought her.
Elizabeth came to see her unexpectedly, right before she moved away from Jacksonville Beach. She told Alex she had sold her beach house and her gallery and was heading to Boston, where her family lived, so they could help her raise the baby.
Groundwork for Murder Page 20
