Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (15 page)

We headed for the elevator and once outside, we hiked to the museum.

"I'll show you my favorite artist's work," he said.

"Van Gogh."

"What made you think of him?"

"Van Gogh was obsessed. He had to paint. What he lived for and it's obvious in his work."

"You think I'm a potential ear chopper." He rubbed the side of his head.

"No, but you live for your paintings. You guard them. They represent private thoughts. The critics love you, but you don't trust them. Only you understand the depth of your work. You don't care if anyone likes them or not."

"Very perceptive. You're right. I can't paint to please. It's too important to me to leave it up to strangers. The painting of you has brought me back. The obsession. The need. I haven't felt like this for a long time." We stopped at the curb, waiting for the light to change.

"You have been king of the hill since you burst on the scene. You could play tic-tac-toe on one of your canvases, and it would sell."

"Thanks for the tip. I'll try it."

We arrived at the Art Institute. I trucked up to one of the lions and patted its paw. Didn't I just do this for good luck? Did it work?

"I love them. They're majestic. Virile and untamed," I said.

"They are the guardians of art."

"If you could be an animal, which one would you choose?"

"I am an animal, or hadn't you noticed."

He grabbed me and carried me up the stairs. Apology accepted.

Hand in hand, we weaved through the various galleries. He gave me a running monologue about art history and artists, both informative and funny. We passed Grant Wood's
American Gothic
.

"I think the man model was a dentist," I said.

"I believe you're right. He's holding his favorite tooth extractor." He pointed to the pitchfork.

I rubbed my jaw and laughed.

Nighthawks
by Edward Hopper depicted a late night with lonely solemn patrons in a nameless diner.

"It's depressing. Why don't they go home instead of prolonging their endless night?" I said.

"What makes you think their homes would be any better? There are a lot of roaming souls. They drift hoping to land on a soft spot, trying to smile and fit in. It's hard when everyone around you seems happy and prosperous."

"How did the Art Institute get any of your paintings?"

"My ego and vanity. I donated them. Thought it would be cool to be in a major American museum."

"I'm impressed." I squeezed his hand.

"Then I'm glad I did it."

I found his painting entitled
Mercy.
A nude woman knelt before a man with a sword. Her head bowed, her hands clasped together almost in prayer. The man had the weapon raised, but hesitated. I leaned closer to search the woman's face.

"What will he do, kill her or let her go?" I asked.

"She betrayed him. He found her, his wife, in bed with her lover. She is begging for his life, not her own. Woman as the defender and protector."

"I thought he was a bandit who threatened her." I also thought art was open to interpretation. Obviously not when the artist was in residence.

"This is what's wrong with displaying paintings. All of them need a written explanation from the artist." He folded his arms in apparent frustration.

"Does he kill the other man?"

"Oh yeah. The husband accepts her apology. He has been negligent in his duties to her. She leaves to get dressed. The cheating asshole gives him an all-knowing grin from a side room. The husband follows him out and runs him through several times."

"Doesn't the wife notice the mess? Didn't the guy scream?" This painting was a crime scene and should be submitted as Exhibit A.

"Servants dispatch the body and wash away the blood. The first sword thrust was through his throat to keep him quiet." That had to hurt.

"You gave this a lot of thought."

"I love research." Was this going to be part of my job? My search engine would be impounded.

"Wouldn't that make the servants accomplices to the murder?" I asked.

"For a price people keep silent. They hated the other guy too. The master pays more attention to his wife, tells her he loves her, and they move away."

"Doesn't she wonder about her lover?" I asked.

"She knows he was a jerk and now thinks he was a coward."

"Does her husband ever confess to the murder?" Did he burn his clothes? Destroy his sword? Did I watch too many crime shows on television?

"Never."

"Then they lived a lie."

"No, they lived happily ever after."

"Some fairy tale." I preferred my version of bandits, at least no one died.

"It's reality."

Glad I was born in the last century. No wanton violence then, right?

I stared back at the woman in the painting. Her angelic face and her sensual body provided sharp contrasts. Madonna and whore in one.

"Is this how you would treat an unfaithful wife?" I asked.

"My wife will never be unfaithful. I would never give her a reason. I'm thoughtful, caring, and wonderful. She would never find any man better than me."

He took my hand and kissed it.

"No wonder you're not married," I said.

"My ego is huge because it should be. But if my blushing bride should find it necessary to look for love in all the wrong places, I would intervene appropriately." His voice dipped dangerously low.

"Meaning?" I asked not sure I wanted to know.

He hooked my arm so I faced him. He backed me up and pinned me to the wall, whispering in my ear.

"He would be dead, and she would be sorry she ever strayed." He kissed my ear.

He released me and strolled back through the hallway. I felt a chill and tried to shake it off. I rarely attracted one man, let alone two. Plus my weapons of male destruction, Eleanor and Irene, had years of experience whittling men down to size. I'd owe them black and white cookies for eternity, but it would be a small price to pay to those who defended my honor. The whole knight gig must have been exhausting and dangerous for men and women.

I caught up to him, we continued our tour, and found the lovely paintings of Mary Cassatt. Her work portrayed an idyllic view of regular women, with their children, being mothers and nurturers. She made it look easy and serene to be a parent.

We came to my favorite painting,
Sunday Afternoon
on the Island of La Grande Jatte
by Seurat. I fawned over the size and colors. Who were they? How many dots did it take? What was the deal with the monkey? I continued to gush on and on. He seemed bored. With the painting or me?

"I'm sorry for carrying on, but it's lovely," I said.

"You can buy note cards, pens, scarves, and umbrellas with the picture on it. It's been oversold and commercialized. The artist's vision has been obliterated by a marketing blitz. It has lost its soul," he said as he threw up his hands. "This is what I'm fighting with my mother's work. I don't want to see it everywhere. It loses its strength, its beauty, and its charm in mass production. My meetings will settle it once and for all."

His face grew red and a few veins in his neck became visible.

"What have you decided?" I asked.

"She's mine. The memories and the work are all I have left, and I'll be damned before I see them cheapened. I'll give my father all the money he thinks he would make. I'll sell my whole collection of paintings and liquidate all my assets."

"You should open a museum." I thought of it last week, but never said it out loud. "A what?"

I stuck my foot in it now.

"A place where her work could be displayed and admired. The collectibles in your glass case would make a nice start. Sell only her books in the gift shop. Have interactive exhibits for children. Write her life story or make a documentary about her life. Your mother pioneered women in art and literature. Encourage children to draw characters or continue her stories. The items from my old condo would add a homey touch. It would be a lasting and fitting tribute to America's Beatrix Potter."

When did my mouth take over my brain?

He blinked twice. Always be careful around a hurt animal. It made him more prone to attack. Or pensive?

"It would take years to compromise on the location and presentation. The search for a responsible curator and the design of the exhibits would account for another chunk of time. Organization, detail tracking, and thousands of questions to be researched and answered. Alexia, I think you've made a career decision."

Only if he wanted it to fail.

"I wasn't volunteering. I don't know the first thing about putting together a museum. You need a staff."

"True and as my trusted assistant, you can start by attending the board meeting. Committees will be formed and interviews need to start right away."

We passed a guided tour and an older female docent pointed at him.

"Is that Benjamin Nance Cobb?" the woman asked.

"Shit," Ben said under his breath.

"Who?" a man responded.

"The guy in the black clothes," another woman said.

"Time to get out of here. Save yourself another candid photograph and head over to Eleanor's shop," Ben said as he pivoted toward an exit.

We separated as more people stopped and stared. The hunt was on.

"How about an autograph?" Someone yelled behind him.

"Can I take your picture?" A woman jockeyed in front of him.

"I'd like some advice about getting started in the art business. Can you give me a minute?" A bearded man asked as he touched Ben's shoulder.

A swarm of eight people overtook and surrounded him. They all spoke at once. I slipped to the back and headed for the door. I watched him shake off the crowd and wander back into the museum. Two security guards appeared and followed him. They glared at anyone planning to follow Ben.

"Sullen and rude. Just like I pictured him," a woman in the crowd said with an audible sigh.

A flash went off as a man took a picture of Ben sulking away. I saw the headline in my mind, "Lovers' quarrel among the masterpieces."

I hopped in a cab and gave directions to Eleanor's boutique.

No wonder he never left the house. Picking up a quart of milk would become an odyssey. Speaking of life journeys, did I just sign on for years of museum planning? It sounded fascinating and frightening at the same time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I opened Eleanor's door and plastered a smile on my face to hide the emotional swirl inside.

She noticed me and motioned to the back of the store. I passed through the showroom to her office and private bathroom. She came in and closed the door. Neither of us said a word. She put out her arms, and I collapsed into them. I sobbed while she stroked my hair and rocked me.

She listened while I spilled my tale of joy, lust, employment, and possibly love the last few days.

"Well at least, you're alive. I was afraid you were discovered by the Donner party and fricasseed for dinner," she said.

"Who?"

"Cannibals, sweetie. Have another tissue, and I'll call Irene." She picked up the phone on her desk and started to dial, then hit the speaker button. "She'll want every graphic detail."

"What or whom are you detailing?" Irene asked.

"Alexia's sex life. Her ride with Benjamin Cobb has hit warp speed," Eleanor said.

"Was he any good?" Irene asked.

I started choking.

"Take it as a yes," Eleanor said as she handed me a water bottle.

"Are you officially cohabitating??" Irene asked.

"He's lending me a condo in his building because my apartment is under siege," I said.

"Are you in love again?" Irene asked.

"At least Cobb won't hit you up for money," Eleanor said.

They knew about the eight thousand gone dollars. I must have an embedded chip somewhere on my body, and they owned the encrypted code.

Irene rattled on about not rushing into things, and Eleanor added my best years were yet to come.

A soft knock on the door interrupted the advice tirade.

"I'm busytake a message," Eleanor said.

I sat next to her on the couch, blowing my nose.

"I believe you have someone of mine." Ben opened the door and closed it quickly.

"A typical day for you is being chased by your adoring fans?" Eleanor asked.

"Unfortunately, my picture was blasted all over the Internet recently, so I'm recognized. I'll admit an art museum was a poor choice, but Alexia wanted a personal tour."

"I'm sorry for everything," I said.

"Alexia could be in danger hanging around with you. You should travel with security," Irene yelled.

He swaggered over and disconnected the call. He left the receiver on the desk making sure Irene couldn't call back.

"Our latest picture is up on the web. From the camera angle, it looks like you're running, and I'm gaining on you," he said.

"You must be outfitted with a motion detector because the paparazzi knew where to find us," I said.

"Are you dressed in this one?" Eleanor asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Just making sure." She stood and replaced the phone receiver.

It rang immediately. She answered and mouthed, "Irene." Holding the phone from her ear, we heard the litany of profanity.

"Yes, castration is the only solution. Listen, there's another photo of them circulating. We're back to bunker mode. I call you later after I kick some perfectly toned ass." She glared at Ben as she hung up.

I would be no help. Eleanor bristled and grew in full retaliation mode. I knew the look. I borrowed her leather jacket in high school without permission. Of course, someone spilled beer on it. I had to work overtime at the pool concession stand all summer to pay for a new one. And give her weekly pedicures.

"You've lived under the spotlight for a long time, but this is new to Alexia. I understand you just met, but what are your intentions toward my sister?"

"Eleanor," I said.

"Valid question and something we need to discuss in private," Ben said.

On her way to the door, she stopped in front of him and pointed her finger in his face.