The Artist's Paradise (2 page)

Chapter 2

Jonathan Rhodes raised his
sandy-blond head off his office desk, rubbed his sleepy eyes, and stretched his lanky legs. He pushed the chair back from behind his solid cherry desk and attempted to reach the small of his back, flinching with pain. Oh, how his back ached. What time was it? How long had he been asleep?

He glanced over his shoulder at the mahogany wall clock as it struck seven times. The last chimes he remembered had been at four a.m.  Great, he’d only slept three hours.

He struggled to his feet and surveyed his paneled office. The blinds were closed on all four windows behind him. Other than the lit Tiffany lamp on his desk, his office lay in darkness. He strode to his private bathroom. Glancing into the mirror, he smiled. At forty, he still looked good. There was just enough time for a shower and a shave before the rest of his law firm partners started their day.

Pulling
out his razor, he glared into the mirror and rubbed his square chin with shaving lotion. He’d gone over everything about the case at least four times. He was ready and anxious to get the final judgment. He could taste that bonus. Yet, something seemed amiss.

He grabbed a freshly starched white shirt from his bathroom cabinet drawer along with a cobalt blue tie.
He changed, studied his face in the mirror one last time, and saluted his approval. His tie pulled out the blue color in his eyes and a white-starched shirt always said “professional.” Minutes later, clean-shaven, hair and teeth tended to, Jonathan yawned and hit the intercom button, “Gina?”

“Yes, Boss
?”

“Glad you’re here early.”

“When you’re on a case, my hours start early and run late. What can I do for you this fine morning?”

“I need black coffee and quick. Come in with your pad and pen. We’ve got a lot to cover before
my two o’clock appointment.”

“Be right in.”

Minutes later, he raised his head as his office assistant shot through the doorway. Of Italian descent, Gina was nearing fifty and had a traditional hourglass figure, with a slight heaviness through the hips. Her deep brown eyes always had a smile behind them. When he joined the firm, Gina taught him the secret culture. She guided him through the political land mines. He owed his last promotion to her mentoring. He would take her with him to the top floor.

“Coffee’s perking. It’ll be ready in two minutes.”

“Thanks.” He returned his attention to the notes on his legal pad.

True to her word, the coffee pot signaled done. Gina returned, prize in hand. She settled the coffee mug on his desk, then spun around and hurried toward the door. With an abrupt stop,
she turned and asked, “Did you remember to call Angie last night?  Wasn’t she expecting you home for dinner?”

Jonathon thumped his forehead. “Oh damn
. I knew I’d forgotten something. I’ll call right now. Thanks for the reminder.” Geez, he was a dead man.

His
hand hesitated over the receiver. He labored as he punched in his home telephone number.
Please give me a break, Angie.

Angie answered on the fifth ring. “So, you decided to grace me with a phone call. How nice.”

The arctic blast shocked his senses. “Listen Baby, I’m sorry. I know I said I’d be home for dinner, and I meant it.  Carl insisted we go to dinner last night. He demanded a strategic proposal for the Hamilton trial, and he wanted it by two o’clock this afternoon. I worked on the proposal all night. He’s my boss.”

Silence.

“I need him in my court to make equity partner. We want that, right?”

The telephone disconnected.

Gina re-entered the office as Jonathon slammed down the phone and stood. “Didn’t go so well, huh?’

He shuddered as if a chill had passed into the room. She leaned on the desk and gazed up at him. How did she always know?
“No. Not really.”

“Wasn’t yesterday some special day–anniversary or birthday?”

“Yes, our anniversary, maybe our last, if I read Angie’s response correctly. How can I be so stupid? No, don’t answer that.”

“Well, if it was me—and it would never be me—I’d pack up my briefcase and take off for home right now.”

Jonathan’s gaze searched for a safe haven. “I can’t leave now. You know about the two o’clock meeting. Carl would kill me.”

“Today you die, Boss. It’s just a matter of who kills you. Do you have a preference?”

He sank into his chair and drummed his fingers on his desk. How did he manage to get himself in to such a mess?

#

Tears spent, Angie wandered into the kitchen for a coffee refill. Her cell rang a familiar ring tone. Her best friend, Vicki Towns, always knew when to call. Even though Vicki was ten years older than Angie, their age difference never surfaced. Vicki, the big sister she never had, offered friendship without judgment.

“Hi
, Girlfriend,” Angie said as she settled in at the kitchen bar.

“Hi, yourself.”

“Glad you called.” Angie stretched and stifled a yawn. “How are you?”

“Never mind
me. How did your love fest go last night? I want to hear all the spicy details, PG-13 version, of course.”

“No spice. No PG-13. Jonathan never came home. I spent my eighth wedding anniversary
the same way I spend most days, with Mister Tubbs. He didn’t bother to call until this morning. Claimed he had to work all night. Can you believe that? I was planning to move out but not sure where to go.”

“That’s
a bitch. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. We’re going out on the town. Take all his credit cards. We’ll show him what punishment is all about. We’ll start at the
Only She Boutique.
Watch out. Jonathan, it’s time to pay.”

Angie
nodded. How perfect—punishment for Jonathan .Vicki was right. She would stand up for herself. He would be surprised by her resolve—
no more Mrs. Doormat.

Chapter 3

Jonathan
raced past Gina’s desk shouting. “What a waste of time that meeting was,” his muscular arms flailing in the air. “Call a meeting to schedule a meeting—that’s Carl. Get me out of here.”

Gina handed him his packed briefcase.
“You’re papers are ready.”

“Thanks.
” He passed her, heading for the door. “Wish me luck. I’m going home to face the tiger in my camp.”

Gina poked a finger at him. “Before you go, tell me what you got her for your anniversary. Good gifts will help you clear the doorway.”

“Well, I was planning on ordering some roses, but forgot. I think I’m in more trouble than roses can cure.”

Gina placed her hands on her hips. “What anniversary is it?”

“It’s our eighth. Why?”

“
Each anniversary has specific gifts associated with it. At this point, you need a very expensive peace offering to fix this. I’ll look up the appropriate presents for your anniversary year and be right back.” She turned and stomped out the office, biting her upper lip and shaking her head.

She
returned within two minutes with paper in hand. “Here is the list. As you see, there are several suggestions. At this point, I’d select the most expensive one and hurry home before she has time to pack.”

Jonathan caught her smirk as he reviewed the list.

“My God, this
is
expensive stuff—bronze jewelry, bronze art statues, and antique copper jewelry. Where can I find these in short notice? You have to help me.”

Gina smiled. “You pick up two dozen red roses on your way home. I’ll get on
Tiffany’s
website. Get going. Look for home delivery by dinner time.”

“Dinner time? It’s only
3 in the afternoon. How do you expect me to keep her distracted all afternoon? And how do I prevent her from seeing the delivery? One misstep and no gift will be expensive enough to fix this mess.”

Gina, eyes wide,
held her breath. “I’ll work with
Tiffany’s
on a confidential delivery. A large tip is usually all that’s needed.” She leaned closer and said, “You’re a smart attorney. Take her to a movie, out to dinner, whatever. You’ll figure it out.”

He
sighed, “
Tiffany’s
? Oh well, I guess this’ll be an expensive mistake. Thanks, my life’s depending on you. If the police call about my murder, remember, it’s all your fault.”

She lowered her readers down her nose and gave him a long piercing stare.

“Right, I’m gone. I’ll catch a cab out front.” Jonathan ran to the elevator.

Gina flew to her computer. “Good luck, Boss. I’ll let Carl know you had a
family emergency.”

#

The cabbie dropped Jonathan off at the brownstone in Gold Coast around 3:30. He tossed him a five dollar tip and threw open the cab door. As he climbed the front steps, he stretched to his full six-foot four- inch height and drew in a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.

As he edged open the door, a squeaky bark greeted him. “Hello, little man. Good to see you
here. You’re the most feared guard dog in Gold Coast.” He bent down and gave Mister Tubbs a gentle tummy rub. “Where’s Mommy?”

Mister
Tubbs began to spin and twirl in place. A housewarming gift from him, the day they moved into their Chicago brownstone. He fulfilled his promise of a puppy with class and character. Mister Tubbs was indeed a
character
.

“Okay.
Your mommy’s not here. I guess you deserve a reward for your hard work. How about a treat?”

Mister
Tubbs raced toward the kitchen and Jonathan followed. He gave him his doggie biscuit and then looked around for signs of Angie. He jogged up the steps to their bedroom and pushed open the door. The room, full of suitcases and covered with her clothing, looked as if it had been tossed in a home invasion. What the hell had she been doing?

#

Angie’s anger ebbed a bit after lunch at
The Tavern on Rush
and shopping at the
Only She Boutique.
She’d forgotten how to laugh and enjoy life over the past few weeks. Vicki had the knack of making life’s challenges appear solvable. Strolling past several restaurants, they stopped at an outdoor coffee shop near Lincoln Park for a quick dessert and hot drink.

Memories flooded Angie as she caught sight of a young female street-artist setting up her easel. A line of curious watchers crowded in around
the girl. How long had it been since she’d attempted her watercolor craft? After graduation from the University of Illinois, she’d followed her desire to become a full-fledged artist. She’d believed in her talent. But now, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d held a paintbrush. When had she allowed Jonathan to consume her life?

Once settled at a bistro table,
she let out a deep sigh and stared back at the street artist. What a beautiful young woman. Dressed in bright purple, head to toe, she would catch the attention of any man on the street. Her talent in watercolor canvases and portrait sketches drew her crowd of fans.

The artist popped with energy. She chatted with each passer-by and they drew closer as she spoke. Her beauty enhanced by makeup applied with expertise. The look flattered her.
Perhaps, you had to be in your twenties to get away with such a dramatic presence.

Al
l her life, Angie fostered a more natural appearance—a soft touch of lip-gloss with a hint of blush. Yesterday she created a new persona to entice Jonathan with her Hollywood glamor. With the expertise of a cosmetic make-over and designer haircut, she had hoped to regenerate that old sparkle in Jonathan’s eye. He never came home. She got his message—he didn’t care.

Angie
ran her fingers through her new haircut and commented, “Do you like the new me?”

Vicki raised her gaze over the menu and smiled. “You’re naturally beautiful and those red highlights make you
r chestnut hair glow.”

“
Brandy, my hairdresser, convinced me that copper highlights complimented my emerald-green eyes.” Angie lowered an eyelid. “Who would have thought I could become a woman of mystery for only one hundred and fifty dollars and three hours of time.”

Vicki laid the menu on the table.
“Your new layered haircut is gorgeous, too.”

“Thanks.
I’m trying to get used to wearing bangs.”

The two fell silent,
immersed in their coffee selection. The aroma of cinnamon filled the coffee shop.

“You didn’t mention it,” Vicki said as she scanned the menu. “I saw the pictures of your dad and his newest girlfriend in the morning paper. That must be
tough. Has he called you?”

Angie
swept her hair off her forehead. “Yes. They both called this morning. Mom called first. She’s finally finished with him.”

Vicki reached out
and patted Angie’s arm. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know how I feel
.” Angie tapped the table with her fingertips. “Dad blames mom, and she demonizes him. So many husbands seem to be unfaithful these days. What’s wrong with men? Why can’t one woman be enough?”

Vicki’s face
reddened, as she sipped her water without comment.

Angie
cleared her throat. Oops. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a touchy subject.”

Picking up the menu,
Vickie remained silent.

“Marriages fail every day. If Jonathan and I are in trouble, I need to find a way to fix us. I don’t want to be one of the statistics.”

“First of all, no
one
person can fix a broken marriage. What happened in my marriage is in the past.”

Angie reddened. Was Vicki scolding her? “I don’t want to pry in your personal business. I’m searching for help.”

Vicki smiled. “I’m worried about you. How are you doing, really?”

“
I’m getting worried about me, too. Sometimes I wonder if Jonathan is working or if he’s traipsing around like my dad. Why can’t I trust him?”

Vicki picked up her water goblet and took a sip. Her dark black hair glistened with silver strands
. With a face smooth as a teenager, her age was undetectable. How did she manage to look so young? After all, she was divorced and over forty. “Not sure why you haven’t asked him. Perhaps you don’t want to know.”

Angie
leaned closer to Vicki. “You may be right. It could be fear.”

“I’
ve never seen anything to make me think Jonathan is cheating on you, but some men are good at hiding a secret life. That’s why I’m divorced. Patrick was a scumbag. After my experience with him, I don’t trust the male species much.”

“
Last night should have been special. I’d hoped to show him how much I loved him.” Angie dabbed her eyes. “He obviously didn’t care enough about me to come home.”

“If I learned anything, living with Patrick—
no amount of staged romance can fix a marriage.”

“That’s for sure
.” Angie sighed. “I watched my mom attempt to be alluring, romantic, and dress in outfits designed for much younger women. It never worked. Eventually, she settled for a home and financial security. I don’t think she ever loved my dad. ” Angie raised her palms into the air. “Look at her now. Am I settling for material comforts, too?”

Silence.

Angie gazed over at all her packages. Did these expensive possessions make up for Jonathan’s shortcomings? Had her need for material things affected her more than she realized? Her parents argued about money as long as she could remember. Her family, lower middle-class in her early years, did without extras. Angie attended a public school where most of her friends had pocket money for everything they wanted. She’d fought the urge to ask for the expensive clothes her friends wore, only requesting necessities. She’d watched her mother do without. Her father spent his salary on himself. He lived and dressed for the position he planned for, not the one he had attained. He executed his career plan well and advanced to bank president by the time she left for college.

“What do you think I should do?”
Angie asked.

“It’s time for you to
figure that out for yourself. Build a life of your own. You can be married and still be your own person. You can’t expect someone else to make you happy.”

Angie’s eyes opened wider. A life of her own—
a life
without
Jonathan?

“Do you have any hobbies?  What’s your turn on
—your passion?”

Passion?
“I loved to paint with watercolors. I remember, as a kid, spending hours sitting on the back stoop, paint box and pad in hand. Life happened. I stopped painting after a few years of marriage.” She cleared her throat. “Jonathan’s career required so much of my time. His public persona, his social obligations, and his
damn
brownstone became my career. Now I volunteer at the hospital, and go to the club to work out.” Angie shifted in her chair. “The only part of my life that provides me satisfaction is when I work at the hospital. It breaks my heart to see those premature babies crying and alone. I want to bring them all home. Instead, I spend hours rocking them, singing lullabies, hoping to make a difference.” So many times, she’d shared stories of those tiny ones with Jonathan. He rarely commented, as if he couldn’t relate. He failed to express interest in her tales of the day, acting as if she chattered nonsense.

Vicki swung her arm like Monica Seles. “Yes, you work out and play tennis at the club.
You volunteer at the hospital and food bank. But what does the
real
Angie need in her life? You have the finances and free time to follow a dream. What stirs your soul?”

Angie stared at the lifeless hands in her lap. Good question. What
did
she want out of life? Was her marriage in trouble? Growing up, she’d envisioned herself a renowned watercolor artist. Why
ha
d she stopped painting? She’d given up too easily. She’d accepted Jonathan’s life plans without question.

After marriage, s
he desperately wanted to be a mother – two kids to love and rear. Holding those little ones in the hospital broke her heart. “I wish I knew” Angie said. “Painting requires passion and inspiration. In the last eight years, with Jonathan, I’ve lost my inner compass. How can I find it?”

“Finally
, an honest, although painful, truth. Do you recall a time when you were happy?”

The waitress delivered their mocha coffee and banana bread and scooted away.
Angie chewed on her lower lip. “I’m not sure. Maybe it was before Jonathan went to work for Jackson, Jackson, and Long. Our lives changed, and I never slowed down long enough to question it.”

“You’ll
figure it out, but first start the journey. I don’t want to be taking you shopping on your sixteenth anniversary and find you living the same lie.” Vicki nibbled on the banana bread and then wiped her mouth. “Hum mm. Delicious. It’s made with black walnuts.”