Champagne Deception (2 page)

Watching
him chug down another mug of beer, Coretta wondered why she was still with him.  Inertia.  That was the only explanation.  Physics states that objects at rest stay at rest.  And she had been in a comfortable, albeit chilly, relationship with Jonathan for so long that it was virtually impossible to imagine making a move.

“Anyway, enough of this nonsense,” he interrupted her thoughts.  “I picked up two very wealthy new clients today,” he announced proudly, sitting back in his chair for effect.

“Mmm, that’s great,” she murmured, stabbing the sushi with her chopstick.

“Yes, it is.  It’s fantastic.  And how about your paintings?  Any luck finding a gallery?” He posed the question casually and with the expectation of
the same answer she always gave: no.  No, she had not had any luck with her paintings today, just as she had not had any luck for the past ten years.  Jonathan sorely wanted his girlfriend to move on and forget the childish fantasy of being a famous artist.

“I had a meeting this morning, but it didn’t go very well.  The gallery owner told me
my paintings weren’t her style.” She spared him the painful details of how the arrogant woman had skewered her paintings and proclaimed that all of Manhattan would feel the same way.

“Well, don’t cry over spilled milk.  I don’t want you to go crazy and cut your
hand off like Van Gogh!” Jonathan snorted, reaching across the table to jab her in the shoulder as she glowered at him.

Van Gogh cut his ear off, not his hand
, you idiot.
You can be so ignorant
, she thought before replying, “Rejection is par for the course in the art world.  I’ve known that for many years.”

“But yet you keep pursuing it.  A
re you a glutton for punishment or what?” He shook his head disapprovingly.

“No, I’m not!  I’m ambitious.  I believe in my work, and I’m not going to stop until my paintings are showcased in a real art gallery!” She cried on a crescendo of frustration.

“Lower your voice! People are staring.  If you want to be a masochist and keep putting your work out there, that’s your choice.  But you know I don’t encourage it.”

“I don’t care if you
encourage it, and I don’t care if people are staring!” Coretta bit back.  “Maybe I’ll just open my own gallery!  Then I’ll have a perfect place to put my work!”

Jonathan
grunted, “Yeah, good luck with that in Manhattan.  Even people making six figure salaries like mine can’t get much real estate for their buck in this city, and you know it.”

“You wouldn’t help me?  You have the money,” she pointed out, still baffled about how they could live separate financial lives after so many years as a couple.

“I make a living by advising people on
wise
investments.  An art gallery is certainly not a wise investment,” he insisted, motioning to the waiter to pour him another beer.

“You drink too much,” she said plainly, staring down at the uneaten
raw fish on her plate.

“I can handle my liquor.  Just lay off.”

They fought like a married couple, but she experienced none of the benefits of marriage.  She was as loyal to him as any good wife would be, and for what?  They passed the remainder of the dinner in a tense silence.  When he walked her back to her apartment, she did not invite him inside.  Trudging up the ten flights of stairs, Coretta reflected wistfully on her semester in Milan.  It seemed like a lifetime ago, and it might as well have been.

As a college girl, Coretta had been bubbly and made friends easily.  One of her closest friends at the university in Milan had been Lorenzo Fiatti
, whom she met in a pottery class.  She had always been secretly attracted to the tall, wavy-haired Italian with the mega-watt smile.  Over the years, they had lost touch, but Coretta found herself suddenly wondering what had become of the green-eyed cutie.  With vivid clarity, she could still recall the day they met back in fall semester of her senior year…

“What are you making?” A
rich male voice inquired curiously.

Hands saturated in clay, Coretta looked up and replied, “I wanted to make a vase, but Dr. Fiore says I should make an ashtray like everyone else.”

The tall, lean boy looked at her with sympathetic amusement.  “I know.  This isn’t very creative for an art class!  What’s your name?”

“Coretta Nicholas.  I’m from Connecticut.  Doing my semester abroad here.” A flutter of nervousness assaulted her as she gazed into green eyes magical enough to cast a warlock’s spell.

“I’m Lorenzo Fiatti.  Welcome to my country! I would shake your hand, but…”

“But it’s covered in clay,” she replied wryly.  “Have you ever studied abroad?”

“No, but I’d love to study in London.  My minor is English literature, and I’d really like to go to Stratford-upon-Avon and see where Shakespeare lived.” The young man’s eyes lit up even more as he spoke of his dream.

“Do you actually enjoy
reading Shakespeare?” She asked, making a sour face.

Lorenzo laughed heartily.  “I know, everyone thinks his plays are so hard.  But once you understand the difference between ‘thou’ and ‘thine,’ you’re all
set.” He winked as she blushed.  Chemistry vibrated between their young bodies, and Coretta felt an unfamiliar wave of exhilaration as they conversed.

“I think it’s a little more complicated than that, but you’re funny,” she giggled.

From the glazing station, an attractive girl with long, honey brown hair sauntered over.  She lay a possessive hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder and asked with narrowed eyes, “Who’s this?”

The introduction that followed had instantly shattered any ideas Coretta might have had about dating Lorenzo.  The honey-haired art student was Barbara, Lorenzo’s steady girlfriend.  Should she even bother to look him up
now?  What if Barbara the Girlfriend was now Barbara the Wife?  There was only one way to find out.

Switching on her computer, she conducted a quick
internet search and was shocked to find Lorenzo’s handsome face smiling back at her as he stood next to a cherry red Vespa in the heart of Milan’s fashion district.  Long and lanky as a college kid, Lorenzo had gained about thirty pounds of pure muscle.  Other than for the weight gain, he looked exactly as he had in college: friendly, open, and unassumingly sexy.  She clicked on the photo and was redirected to his professional website titled Fiatti Clay Designs.

“He became a sculptor!” Coretta exclaimed, surfing through photos of impressive, life-size
art installations in bronze.  He had come a long way since their pottery class where the biggest project of the semester was a glazed ashtray.

Coretta scrolled down to the bottom of the page where his contact information stared at her enticingly.  Jonathan didn’t like her to have male friends, and she wasn’t sure if she should open the flood gates of communication between her and Lorenzo.  Even in college, Lorenzo had
possessed a deeply philosophical soul, engaging in animated discussions about love and art---the two most important elements of life according to Coretta.  If she contacted him, even from a platonic perspective, she would be inviting a man into her life whom she had pined over every night of her semester in Milan.  But Lorenzo was probably married now anyway, and he hadn’t even flirted when he had a girlfriend, so he certainly wouldn’t flirt if he had a wife, right?  Against her better judgment, Coretta clicked on his email address and composed a brief message:

Ciao, Lorenzo!  I’m not sure if you will remember me.  It’s Coretta
Nicholas from Dr. Fiore’s pottery class.  Congratulations on your sculpture studio!  It’s amazing that you’re doing what you really love.  I’m still painting…here are a few of my latest pieces…

She attached three photographs of her paintings, including the one of the woman picking tulips that Stella Bishop had balked at.  Sending the email off into cyberspace, she chewed on her nails
anxiously, wondering what she had just started.  Shutting down the computer and slipping into a cozy pair of pajamas, she convinced herself that Lorenzo probably wouldn’t answer her email.  Probably wouldn’t even remember her…

Chapter Two

At dawn, over a cup of hot apple cider, Coretta sat down and checked her email.  To her astonishment, Lorenzo had written her back and, judging by the size of the message, he had a lot to say.  With a quickening pulse, she clicked on the message and read voraciously:

Ciao, Coretta! Of course I remember you.  How have you been?  Where do you live now?  You didn’t mention that.  As you can see, I’m still in Milan
and, yes, I’m very grateful to have my sculpture studio.  Your paintings are gorgeous. The one of the woman gathering flowers is very subtle and evocative.  Your work reminds me of the French Impressionists, so soft and beautiful.  I guess you saw the link on my website that I’m looking to join forces with a painter?  I think that could take my studio to the next level.  Maybe you could come to Milan and we could discuss this opportunity?

Coretta was perplexed.  She hadn’t noticed any link on his website; her only purpose in sending the photos had been to share her work with a fellow artist.  Revisiting the Fiatti Clay Designs website, she noticed the section labeled “Careers.” 
Apparently, Lorenzo had posted an advertisement seeking a painter to merge his studio space with.  In exchange, the painter would share a gallery with him where the duo would display a combination of their work.

Coretta had never had a
real studio before.  All her paintings had been created in the confined space of her apartment with paintbrushes strewn everywhere and smocks draped over the furniture.  She could be even more prolific with her art if she had a studio, not to mention the inspiring setting of a European city where so many artists before her had found a muse.  And to be able to bounce her ideas off a fellow artist would ripen her creativity even more.  Jonathan had no interest whatsoever in art; his entire life was dictated by dollar signs.  Speaking of dollar signs, that would be the primary obstacle in accepting Lorenzo’s offer: renting a gallery in Milan. She couldn’t afford the rent in New York, and she certainly couldn’t afford it in what was arguably Italy’s most sophisticated city.

The buzzer to her apartment sounded, startling her as cider spilled onto her pajamas.  She traipsed over to the intercom and inquired, “Yes?”

“It’s me, buzz me in,” Jonathan’s strident voice demanded.

Reluctantly, she pressed the button to open the building’s front door.  She hated when he came to her apartment this early in the morning---and with that
harsh tone of voice.  Clearly, he wasn’t happy that she had dismissed him last night without so much as a kiss.  She swallowed as she heard the familiar thud of his footsteps in the stairwell.  Opening the door on a beat of hesitation, she struggled to affix a smile to her face as he walked in.

“I brought bagels,” he said gruffly, shoving a brown paper bag in her face.

“Oh, thank you,” she murmured, grabbing a cinnamon raisin bagel and taking a nibble.

“I wanted to see you before I go to work today, but you don’t look too happy to see me,” Jonathan observed, frowning as he ripped off a giant chunk of
onion bagel and shoveled it into his mouth.

With disdain, Coretta watched the stocky man eat.  At one time, his body had been so attractive to her, but over the years the physical connection had faded.  It wasn’t the length of time together that h
ad made her lose desire for him; it was everything else.  The surly manner in which he spoke to her, his cold disregard for her feelings and, most of all, his utter rejection of her art.  As his meaty fingers slathered the bagel with cream cheese, Lorenzo’s message replayed in her mind.  A studio space…and a gallery…in Milan…

Impulsively, she said, “I know you’re not going to approve of what I’m about to tell you, but---“

Loudly masticating the wad of bagel dough, he interrupted, “I don’t like the sound of this.  What are you planning now, Pollyanna?”

“Pollyanna?” She echoed
, irritated.

“Yeah, you’re as naïve as that character, and you know it.  Go ahead, Coretta, make it fast.  I have to be on Wall Street in an hour.”

“I’m going to Milan,” she blurted out, unable to believe the words had just streamed from her lips.  She had intended to tell Jonathan that she was
perhaps
going to Milan, just mulling it over, but amidst his steady flow of insults, she had decided definitively to investigate Lorenzo’s proposed collaboration.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He shouted.

“I want to explore opportunities for my art in Europe.  I still have some, um, connections from when I studied in Milan, so I’m going to start there.” She failed to mention her one connection in Italy, her one
male
connection named Lorenzo Fiatti.

“So what, you want me to take you on vacation there?  We just went golfing i
n Myrtle Beach six months ago.” Jonathan shook his head in disgust, clearly not understanding the thrust of what she was telling him.

“No, I’m not talking about a vacation.  And you don’t have to come with me.  I just want to take a---sabbatical from my life here in the city.  I want to try something new.  Honestly, I don’t know how long I’ll be in Italy.  It could be for a while.” As Coretta spoke evasively, the fuzzy details were already becoming crystallized in her mind: she would be in Italy
for as long as it took to finally succeed as a painter.