On The Dotted Line (31 page)

He
grabbed the boots he got in college. “I was still too late.”

“Stare
at the flame and write down any images you see.” Willow placed the candle on
the floor and sat down with Jade, Argyle and Nan.

“What’s
this called again?” Dressed for their casual time in a simple t-shirt and
jeans, Jade leaned forward.

“Fire
Scribing.” Argyle held his hands up as if framing the scene before him. “I like
it.”

“Fire
scrying.” Willow corrected. Rather than staring in the fire, she glanced at her
friends and her only family. Jade finally found her after she hid for four
days. Her friend caught her sneaking out of the shop and demanded explanation. Though
she tried to avoid the conversation, she suddenly found herself crying in Jade’s
arms, revealing a story she never wanted told. At least she faced her fears and
came out clean. True to Jade’s character, the woman didn’t judge her.

“Scrying
means seeing. It’s a different way of looking into the future or answering
questions,” Nan explained and peeked over at her. “Maybe give you some insight.”

It
took her an extra day to tell Nan all the details, and for the first time in
her life the woman was without any words of wisdom. Yes, Nan and Vincent both
offered to have her come live with them. Vincent even took her aside separately
to ask, but she declined. For the first time ever she was alone, toggling
between sleeping at the shop and at the apartment, and she wasn’t dying.

After
isolating herself for a little longer, she braved the world and at last closed
the shop and had Jade over for a little spiritual fun, something she had
promised to do before Randolph left her, or she left him.

“This
is exceptionally good for my muse.” Argyle narrowed his eyes and stared into
the flame. “I believe I see a camera, a television camera. Maybe another show
is in my future, just the other day I called some people.”

Willow
wished she only cared about her career or being noticed. “Do you see anything
else?” The man never spoke of anything but art and moving ahead. Did he want a
partner?

“I
have no time for anything but the pursuit of my craft.” He gave her a quick
wink and nudged Jade. “What does my student see?”

“I
can see this becoming an art piece for me. I can be an ever changing flame. I
think I see a top hat.” Jade tilted her head. “Slate loves his top hat.”

“When
you’re in love you see that person everywhere.” At the words leaving her mouth,
her chest constricted, but she forced a smile on her face and gazed into the
flame. She only saw fire.

“Did
I tell you that Willow drove Slate to the art supply store yesterday?” Jade motioned
to Nan.

Willow’s
cheeks heated. Two days ago she asked Jade for help in becoming an adult. Slate
stepped in and took over her twice-daily driving lessons. Since he got her
fresh, he also decided she would be the one woman who would drive a stick shift
and parallel park. No matter, she loved driving even if it was only through the
residential streets of Los Angeles.

“What
kind of car are you going to get?” Jade asked.

While
her two feet and ten toes got her around for years, she needed the freedom only
four wheels would provide, something she realized the first night on her own
when she wanted to go out for some bicarbonate for her stomach. She shrugged. “I
just want something simple.”

“Don’t
get something the world has, or something only for the name, get a vehicle that
says ‘I am Willow.’” Argyle nodded. “Don’t get anything typical.”

“Maybe
you should splurge.” Jade’s eyes widened.

Yes,
she could choose any car, any home, anything. For the first time in her life
she had the money for every material thing she could imagine. She started out
wanting the money for Nan, but once Nan married Vincent, her net worth would
rival the Van Ayers’. “I think I’ll choose something I don’t destroy.” Two feet
and ten toes weren’t going to work for a girl out on her own.

“I
think that’s probably better.” Jade sighed. “We should still make some plans
about what to do with your financial situation.”

“Next
week.” She didn’t want to look at the check again, let alone cash it.

“No
problem. When you’re ready.” Jade grabbed her hand. “Of course we could also
have Slate beat the crap out of Randolph and then hide the body in some clay.”

“Do
I get to throw the monstrosity in the kiln?” Argyle cleared his throat. “Unbelievable.”

“Now,
now.” Nan held her hands out.

Jade
straightened up as if caught chewing gum in class.

Willow
held her breath waiting for Nan’s words about negative energy.

Nan
took her time looking at all of them. “Tell Slate he has to get in line behind
Vincent. He wanted to hire someone to do it.”

At
the unexpected remark, they all went into a round of laughter. The giggles took
over her body, cleansing her, each jolt shaking off a bit of the dark cloud
that seemed to hover around her.

“Actually,
now that I look at the flame, I see an anvil I would like to drop on Randolph’s
head.” Jade pointed.

They
continued to chuckle.

“Has
he been by the gallery?” The question simply happened, and she gasped when she
realized she said the words aloud.

The
laughter stopped.

“It’s
okay. Actually, he knew you first. I was just curious.” She turned her
attention back to the candle and saw nothing. A big void surrounded her.

“The
order we met you doesn’t matter. We’re your friends no matter what.” Jade
squeezed her hand. “We haven’t seen him. Slate and Argyle, are going to his
office for a meeting about the co-op.”

Argyle
looked down at his lap, for the first time since she’d known him, the man had
no words.

“It’s
okay.” More than once, actually more than a 100 times or a 1000 times, she
wondered if Randolph went to the gallery and if he looked her way. “You know, I
think the flame needs some time. I’m going to get the snacks and tea I made.” She
let go of her friend’s hand, and walked to the back.

Before
retrieving the tray, she stood on her tiptoes and peeked out the window toward the
Gallery where Randolph always parked his car.

“Chiquita,
I’m worried about you.” Nan joined her.

She
turned away. “Don’t be, thanks to him I can serve food here, and I’m insured.”

“When
you don’t finish something, the energy stays out there, and then it can inhibit
your other goals.”

“What
are you saying?” She leaned on the small counter.

“Maybe
you need to talk to him, at least face him.” Nan came up next to her.

“He
couldn’t face me. I can’t face him.” She inhaled. Rather than staying to make
him say the words directly to her, she walked out on him, on them. Maybe that’s
what her psyche wanted. “Deep down I knew it wouldn’t last.”

“Your
fear is keeping you from closure. You have left the door open a crack, a small
amount so only a thin strip of light shines through, and you don’t want him to
slam the door in your face.” Nan rubbed her back. “I see you look for him.”

“We
should go back out there. I don’t want to be a horrible hostess.” One thing she
learned was how to plan a get together. A new found skill.

“Do
you want me to stay here with you?” Nan took the tray of vegetables, fruit and
finger sandwiches.

“No,
I want you to be with Vincent. This is my time to be alone, and I think I need
it.” She faced the woman who sacrificed everything for her. “I made a special
tea for today.” I’m calling it feminini-tea. I’m celebrating being a woman out
on her own.”

“Chiquita...”

“I’ll
be right there.” She tried to give Nan the hint to give her a moment.

Perceptive
as always, Nan left.

She
tended to the tea, but before returning to her guests, she stretched over the
counter to gaze out the window once more. Her heart seized at the sight of an
all too familiar luxury sedan in its rightful spot. For several seconds she
stared outside, then backed away. No way would she hold out hope for the door
to be opened, no way would she face him only to have the door slammed.

With
her heartbeat still speeding, she lifted the pitcher of iced tea. Maybe she
should have named it emp-tea instead.

“Even
though I’ve been here before, I still find it hard to believe you are heir to
all this.” Slate spread his arms out and turned around the conference room of Van
Ayers First Capital Trust.

Randolph
put his hand over his eyes. Part of him prayed the meeting about the co-op sped
by, while the other part hoped it never ended. He didn’t know if he wanted to
wallow in work or spend his time sitting and staring at nothing in the hotel
suite he rented with his mother. Either way, the gnawing hole in his chest
wouldn’t ache any less. Willow walked out. She really walked out. No tears, no
fanfare, no fighting for the man she said she loved. Nothing.

“So
you will run this one day?” Slate asked.

However,
he did tell her to leave. He basically kicked her out of the only home she ever
knew. “This is a disaster.”

“No,
it looks like an interior designer did it, you’re good.” Slate hit him on the
arm. “You need more art.”

He
groaned. Everything about his life was designed, down to the paper that lined his
bathroom drawers. Then Willow entered his life and added her flair to things,
something unexpected, her hairbrush in his drawer, her hand cream on his desk
in his home office, her book in the library. She left many things, including
her book. He had it in his suitcase.

“Randy!”
Slate snapped his fingers.

“Please
don’t call me Randy.” No one called him Randy except Stephanie, and if there
were any lawsuits he could file against the woman, he would drag her to court. Not
that it mattered. Stephanie merely facilitated the inevitable. A couple in love
should be able to survive the revelations, but he was the first one to throw in
the white flag, and Willow never argued. He slid his hand down his face and
opened his eyes. “Why don’t you sit down?

“This
place always reminds me of being sent to the principal’s office. It’s creepy.” Slate
took his seat. “Men in suits always think they can take command of everyone’s
future.”

He
had been waiting for Slate to address the elephant in the room, and that was
what he was, a creepy elephant without a mate. They said elephants could die of
a broken heart and he understood. The pain was overwhelming. “Remember, I’m the
one who is going to make your vision happen.” He needed to save face somewhere.

“Yeah,
well you are the king of contracts.” Slate strummed his fingers on the table. “So
get your act together.”

“I’m
sure my crown doesn’t fit anymore.” He didn’t want a crown, he wanted her. In
the end she would be better without him.

“Jade
wanted me to tell you that she saw your car in the alley and then saw you drive
away. She said if you wanted to be part of her next exhibit as the wilting
wimpy banker, she has a spot for you.”

Unsure
if wimp was an upgrade from creepy elephant, he nodded at the truth. Yes, he
was a wimp. The kind of guy who drove down the alley behind the gallery, not to
get art, but to get a glimpse of Willow. He also drove by the marina and
anywhere else that he thought she might be at or reminded him of her. Maybe he
needed to add stalker to his list of attributes. Creepy, wimpy elephant
stalker, though an elephant would make a terrible stalker.

“Is
she all right?” he asked, not sure if he wanted the answer.

“She’s
better than you.” Slate leaned back. “Never seen you look worse.”

Willow
went with the flow, their situation merely a ripple in her pond where
everything was Zen-like. He had no doubt Slate’s words were the gospel. Sleep
was but a faint memory to be replaced by sort of passing out in front of a desk
at the hotel suite with his mother trying to tuck him in. Creepy, wimpy,
elephant stalker with insomnia only his missing mate would cure. He couldn’t
even create any art, the one thing he used to turn to when times got rough. His
muse left with her. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Too
exhausted for comebacks, he welcomed the light knock at the door. “Well, let’s
see if we can hammer this out today.” He needed to put on his game face. “Come
in.”

The
door opened and Argyle entered wearing a set of black wings made from currencies
of the world and holding a globe.

Randolph
wished he had as much guts to display his artwork. Yes, wimp fit him to a tee. “Nice
entrance.”

After
the requisite hand shaking between everyone, he guided the man to the table.

“I
made these wings to illustrate that while money may not make the world go
around, it certainly allows you to soar when you need it most.” Argyle turned
the chair and sat to not destroy his wings then put his globe aside.

“Well,
yes money helps, especially in an endeavor such as this, but we need to clarify
some points.” Randolph passed out the preliminary documents.

Before
they even read a paragraph, the door opened and his mother entered. “Randolph,
I heard your friends were here and I wanted to come in and say hello.”

Slate
and Argyle both turned.

“Mother,
that is very kind, but what’re you doing here?” He grabbed the edge of the
table.

“I
thought you may want refreshments for your meeting and our hotel makes the most
magnificent cookies, so I bought some for you.” She waved and came forward with
a pink pastry box.

At
the moment he would rather have Willow’s quinoa concoction. In fact, he was
sure his health had deteriorated since he wasn’t eating her food. “Again thank
you.”

“You
do your thing.” At the foot of the table, she fiddled with the string on the
box. “I’ve always wanted to see Randolph work. You don’t mind, do you?”

“I
would say it would be both an honor and a privilege to have you observe what
could be one of the greatest artistic endeavors of this decade.” Argyle motioned
toward the chair.

Randolph
gave it to his mother for not exactly asking him to get her invitation to the
meeting. She would have made a brilliant negotiator.

“Why
don’t we get started?” Randolph watched his mother and the battle of the string
on the box.

She
continued her battle, but smiled in his direction. “Ignore me.”

“That’s
nearly impossible.” Argyle stood, and with a lot of flourish held up what
appeared to be a bejeweled fingernail and cut the string.

“Oh.”
His mother giggled. “Thank you…” She let her voice draw out, waiting for an
introduction.

“Argyle
Brink.” He nodded and sat back down. “At your service, if you need anyone or if
you need to fly.”

“Thank
you again kind sir, I’m Lilly.” She reached into the box and offered him an
oversized monstrosity of a cookie.

“I
think I would rather have a flower, but this will have to do.” Argyle put the
cookie to the side.

“Are
you sure you don’t mind if I stay?” She walked around the table doling out her
cookies but kept her eyes on Argyle.

“I
would only mind if you left.” Argyle pulled out her chair, got her comfortable
and returned to his seat. “Well, let’s do this.”

“Please.”
The only positive point of having his mother here was she provided an amazing
distraction to Argyle and he could catch the artist off guard. There he was
again, no wonder Willow walked away without looking back, he would use his own
mother to win. “Why don’t we get to the subject of collateral?”

Argyle
took a breath. “I am bringing my name to this endeavor. My collateral is my art,
my trade, my knowledge. We will make this into an artistic co-op where the
creative types can commune together as a collective mind.”

Slate
nodded. “You know Argyle gets a lot of media attention, so artists will flock
to us.”

“I
am talking about true collateral.” Randolph leaned back in his chair.

“I
just gave you several examples.” Argyle spread his arms, or in his case, his
wings.

“Here’s
what the deal looks like using some property for collateral.” Randolph shook
his head and distributed more papers.

Both
men glanced at the paper and back to him, not even taking the time to read the
words. A flash of the night in Vegas when Willow signed her contract went
through his mind. He knew then she didn’t read it and yet he moved forward
anyway. What kind of husband would allow his wife to do that?

“I
am looking into having some of my contacts do some filming at the co-op for
television.” Argyle leaned forward.

“Oh,
that sounds exciting,” his mother whispered.

“Everyone
in Los Angeles has media contacts, and while valuable, they cannot be used as
collateral,” Randolph countered. As usual, the groove found him, but without
Willow it meant nothing.

Argyle
pursed his lips, turned to Randolph, his mother and back to Slate. “If we had
collateral we wouldn’t need a loan.”

“I
have made a list of acceptable collateral. Slate said you’ll be using the
upstairs of his building for the headquarters, but you’re asking for a loan for
other expenses.” He picked up his pen and twirled it between his fingers.

“As
I explained, I bring myself to the deal. My connections and my art is my
collateral.” With his feathers apparently ruffled, Argyle shifted in his seat.

“Aside
from these nebulous television people, who do you know?” He decided to play the
game.

Argyle
pushed the paper aside. “Do you understand what an opportunity this is for Slate
and his gallery?”

“Just
give me one name.” He continued his challenge.

Argyle
cleared his throat. “What if I told you I know the Mural Man?”

His
heart sped at the mention of, well, himself. “Excuse me?”

“You
know the man who does the random murals around Los Angeles. Another was just
discovered in Long Beach.” The man lifted his chin.

“He
did a piece outside my daughter-in-law’s store.” His mother looked down.

Randolph
ground his teeth together and inhaled before asking the next question. “What’s
his name?”

“Is
that considered enough collateral?” Argyle asked.

He
fought to keep his breath even. “What’s his name?”

“Listen
here, Mr.
Van Ayers
,” Argyle said his last name as if he were trying to
spit it out. “I see whose name is on the wall. You have no idea what these artists
go through. We need support. You’re nothing but a poser with your silver spoon
and fancy works on your walls. I’m sure the most creative thing you’ve ever
done is sign a check.”

A
poser, another word to add to his ever-growing description. Maybe he had been
these things all along. Willow wanted him to create. For her he would claim his
art. He stood and walked over to one of the traditional paintings on the wall,
taking it off the hook. Without second-guessing his next action, he turned the
painting around, revealing paintings and sketches he created in his signature
style and hid behind the more acceptable pieces. He propped it up against the
wall and went to the next one and did the same as he made his way around the
room. “While it’s true I may have a silver spoon, I can assure you that I’m not
a poser. The reason you don’t know the name of the Mural Man is because you don’t
know him. I am that man.”

“Randolph!”
His mother shot up out of the chair.

“I
can’t believe it!” Slate stood.

He
and Argyle stared each other down.

“Oh
my God!” His mother put her hand to her forehead and swayed on her feet. “Oh
God.”

In
a flash everyone, including himself, charged for his mother, but Argyle caught
her.

Her
eyelids fluttered, but then she pressed her hand to her chest and looked at all
of them. “I daresay that most women would love to be in my position.”

“Are
you all right, Mother?” He held out his hand.

“Your
art.” She looked around the room. ““It’s beautiful.”

Everyone
remained perfectly silent as she continued to gaze around the space.

“I’m
so glad you didn’t give it up.” She pulled him down and gave him a kiss on the
cheek. “I’m sorry if your father and I forced you to hide it.”

With
his mouth open, but no words, Randolph shook his head. She was glad he didn’t
give it up?

“You
are quite the woman, Lilly.” Argyle pulled her closer.

In
order to stop himself from yanking the man off his mother he crossed his arms.

The
door slammed open.

“Lillian!”
His father burst into the room flailing an envelope in his hand. “I heard you
were here.”

In
his entire life he’d never seen his father in such a state of disarray. His
suit was wrinkled, his hair a mess, he even had razor stubble and Randolph
swore he had on two different shoes.

“Van?”
His mother lifted her head.

Junior
went to her and Argyle. “Get your hands off my wife.”