The Artist's Paradise (14 page)

He called Vicki. “It’s Jonathan. I was wondering if you had heard from Angie.”

“No.  I’ve called a couple of times, but she’s not picking up. I’m a little concerned.”

“She’s never been gone and not called. She must be really busy with that damn professor.”

“I know you don’t understand why she went to Knoxville. I’m not sure I do either. But not calling home isn’t normal.”

Jonathan set his beer on the coffee table, “
No. I don’t understand. But I’ll keep trying to reach her. I’ve already called her twice today. I’ll give her another call later tonight. I’m sure she’s fine. Busy with Professor Wonderful. I’ll give you an update tomorrow.”

He
closed his cell phone and patted Mister Tubbs on the backside. Mister Tubbs climbed up into Jonathan’s arms and laid his head on his shoulder. “You know, my little man, your mommy is being a real problem these days.” He gulped down his beer. Why hadn’t she bothered to text him if she was too busy to call? What was
really
going on in that cottage?

#

After dinner, Jonathan and Mister Tubbs settled in the home office. Jonathan selected the leather desk chair, and Mister Tubbs curled up on the side chair. Jonathan made two more attempts to reach Angie by phone. Each time his call went directly to her voice mail. What the hell? Was her cell dead, turned off, or was he being ignored? Bile backed up into his throat. What if something bad had happened to her? No. She’d insisted on independence. So, let her solve her own problems.

He
glared at his PC screen. A blank
Word
document sat flashing. Ten things he liked about his wife, hum. This assignment would be easier if he weren’t so angry with her. It might go faster if he started the list of her irritating traits. He looked over at Mister Tubbs and sighed. Damn, where was she?

He
glanced at the mantle clock as it played the Blue Danube—a gift from Angie on their first wedding anniversary. She had placed the clock on his cherry bookshelf and sparkled like a child placing her Christmas gift under the holiday tree.

It
was almost 10 P.M. His assignment from Doctor King wasn’t going well. His list of ten things he did not like about Angie’s behaviors had swollen to fifteen. His positive list remained non-existent. Surely, she had some endearing traits.

Before she left, they fought about trust. She’d said she no longer trusted him. Now it was his turn to wonder. What was she doing? She had been so distant those last few weeks. Could she be involved with that
man? It was as if she had vanished off the globe—no contact in days and living with a strange man. How could he trust
her?

When they first met, she had been young and naïve—
almost twenty-two and fresh from college. He was a man of the world—nearing thirty-one and ready to settle down. He’d wanted her the first time they met. With the skill of Don Juan, he courted, pampered, and romanced her. She resisted initially, and then succumbed. Their whole married life he’d protected her from the real world.

His emotions bounced from anger to sadness
and back again. Was she planning to come home, or had she left permanently? His stomach cramped. She should be at home, not tramping all over Tennessee.

As he tapped the top of his desk
with a pen, he knocked a pink business card onto the floor. He pushed back from the desk and picked it up. Hum mm—the card from the mystery woman. He’d forgotten she’d given her phone number to him. She was a beauty. He’d picked up on her vibes—she was a
modern
woman.

He read and re-read the card. Staring back at the
number, he grabbed the phone and dialed. She picked up on the first ring. “Hello. This is Lucinda”

Jonathan sat up taller in his chair and inhaled a deep breath. “Hey, Lucinda, you may not remember me. We met at the
Tavern on Rush
a few weeks ago—Jonathan Rhodes.

“You’re the tall, dark, and handsome guy with the waiting wife?”

He gulped. She did remember. “Yep. That’s me. I wanted to apologize for my brisk behavior that evening. My wife and I had dinner plans and I was afraid I’d be late.” Sweat rolled down his temples. What in the hell was he doing? “Anyway, I enjoyed meeting you and hoped to clear up any misunderstandings.”

He heard her breath softly pu
rring into the phone. His stomach flip-flopped, as if he’d swallowed a goldfish.

“Well, you see, Jonathan, I’m thrilled you called. You’re a very interesting man. I’d hoped to get to
know
you.”

His heart pounded loudly in his head. God, she was so sexy
.

Chapter 24

Angie rose early the next day.
Taking a deep breath, she could almost taste the fresh air. Surrounded by the sweet fragrance of roses and pungent pines, her life was a fantasy in wonderland. She wrapped her arms around her chest in a hug and grinned. Her first full day of lessons had arrived.

Her daily workout
would stimulate her more than the caffeine in the morning coffee. She jumped into a tee shirt and shorts. Finding a running path in a nearby park, she raced around the half-mile track. Her three-mile run completed, shower taken, and coffee perked, she settled onto a rocker on her small -back porch. Relaxing in the morning breeze, she enjoyed the birds in the feeder. The gardens were in full bloom with pink inpatients, yellow coreopsis, and lavender irises.

She
couldn’t help fall in love with Tennessee more each day. An abundance of blooming flowers filled the neighbor’s garden next door with vibrant shades of reds, pinks, yellows, and whites. The fresh air, so unlike the stale city smog, graced her lungs. The gentle breezes tossed her chestnut hair as if taking flight. The sounds of nature surrounded her. All she had back home was Lincoln Park and the zoo. Chicago would be difficult to return to after spending time in Knoxville.

She jumped
at the sound of a knock at the front door. Racing into the cottage to greet the professor, she smiled as she welcomed him in. His warm-dark eyes and muscular body caught her immediate attention. She had known he was handsome, but built like a boxer too? He was a spectacular vision to enjoy.

“Good morning, Angie.
Breakfast is ready. Are you prepared for your lessons today?”

“Ready, Major Turner, Sir.”

He tapped his heals together, and entered with a tray laden with tea, croissants, and fresh fruit dipped in yogurt.

She followed him to the small coffee table like a starving puppy. He set down the silver tray and settled onto the sofa. He looked up, patted the seat next to him, and said, “Come, eat. You must be starved after that long run.”

She rubbed her stomach. How did he know she’d taken a run? “I am. You are such a wonderful cook. I’ve probably gained five pounds since I arrived two days ago. You’re spoiling me, terribly.”

The professor scooted closer to her and placed his right arm around the back of the couch. “Are you ready for our next lesson?”

She turned to face him. “Ready, Captain. I await your command.”

“
Good. Today we evaluate your skills in the following techniques—graded wash, glazed wash and dry brush. You will be using all three techniques in one painting.”

“Tricky. How much time are you allowing me for the exhibit?”

He paused, tapping the pencil against his chin, and then replied, “You may have from now to lunch. This allows you the ability to create a watercolor masterpiece.”

She gulped down her breakfast and stood. “It’s time for me to begin, and you to scoot. I’ll see you at lunch.”

As he rose, he said, “I can see I’ve created a monster. I’ll go. You don’t have to push me out the door.”

She
laughed as he skittered, butler-like out of the cottage, tray in hand.

As the door closed, Angie heard her cell phone ring. “Damn. Who could that be?”
She paced across the room and picked up the cell phone. With a quick glance at the caller I.D., she discovered three missed calls—two from Jonathan and one from Vicki. No time to talk now, professor’s rules. She’d call both of them later. They would have to understand. After all, she was involved in an intensive study.

#

Two hours later, the professor charged into the cottage, red faced and out of breath. “Well?”

Angie turned away from her easel to face him, and put one hand on her hip. “Well, what?”

His eyelids, narrow slits, fired a chilly stare in her direction. “Don’t you disrespect
me.
”

Angie opened her mouth and then closed it again. She thought back to his class instruction. Had she forgotten something? Why was he upset with her? Taking tiny steps over to where he stood, she paused, and stretched out her arm. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Cheating is more than a little something. I won’t tolerate a rule breaker.”

She shook her head. “Cheater? Rule breaker? What are you talking about?”

He charged toward her and grabbed the paintbrush from her hand. “If you can’t complete your assignment in the correct time, you fail. Using time you were not allowed is cheating.” He grabbed her painting off the easel and sent it crashing to the floor. Wet paint ran in rivers of color onto the carpet. “Now see what you made me do. Clean that up, now.”

Without hesitation, Angie raced to the sink for cold water and a rag. She flew back to the canvas, knelt down, and dabbed the wet paint on the rug. Her long chestnut curls hid the tears trickling down her cheeks. Why was he treating her like a naughty child? She dabbed at the paint, to no avail. The carpet, a soft sand color, was ruined. Finally, no longer able to hide
her tears, she turned her face up and cried out, “I can’t get up the paint. I’ll pay for the rug. Please stop yelling at me.”

He glared down at her, turned, and stomped out the cottage door.

Angie fought to regain balance on her wobbly legs as she stood. She glared at the mess on the carpet. That was not her fault. He threw her work onto the rug. Yet, she responded like a guilty preschooler. He had no right to talk to her like a criminal. She had no idea why he was upset. But whatever made him angry didn’t warrant an outburst. She pulled on her running shoes and left the cottage. She needed a run.

#

An hour later, Angie found herself sitting in a small burger joint about four miles from the cottage. Hot and thirsty, she ordered bottled water and settled into a booth in the back.

What was she going to do now? First, she jumps to clean up a mess she never made, and now she’s run away from the tension. She couldn’t stay at the burger place forever. Why was she always running away from a fight? Adults learn to
deal problems. She’d finish her water and return to face his anger. Whatever he was upset about, she knew she was innocent.

With her courage rebuilt, she trotted back to the cottage with her chin up and her back teeth clinched. He would not talk like that to her again.

#

As Angie reached the professor’s house, she stopped at his front door and knocked. A soft
-spoken voice invited her in. She grabbed the door and stomped inside. “We need to talk.”  She jumped as he stepped out of the shadows. “I demand to know what you think I did.”

He stepped toward her and reached for her hand. “You did nothing wrong.
I did. I was so sure you were given only one hour to complete your exhibit. When you failed to bring your project to me, I assumed you were taking too much time. I can’t have cheaters in my class. You understand that, don’t you?”

She caught her breath.  He had an emotional fit over
time. That made no sense. “No. I don’t understand. I’ve never been accused of cheating, ever. You owe me an apology. And I will not replace your carpet. I did nothing wrong.”

He took a step closer to her and held out his hand. “I apologize. Please forgive me. Let’s shake hands and start over
. Okay?”

At least he was apologizing. Jonathan rarely ever said he was sorry for anything he had done. And, if she were asked, his list was
long. She smiled as she grabbed his hand. Giving him a soft squeeze, she nodded. “All’s for given. Next time you give me an assignment, we’ll start with the allowed time. I can’t go through this again. Deal?”

He pulled her closer and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for understanding. Yes, it’s a deal. How about an early dinner? I’ve made chicken and dumplings.”

She hugged him back. “Yummy. Let’s eat.”

Chapter 25

The weekend had arrived and she had performed so well. The professor had suggested she sleep in as a reward for her performance. Not being one to turn down extra rest, she happily obliged.

A knock at her door awoke her. “Coming. Just one minute,” she said, glancing at the clock. Jumping up, she grabbed her robe and raced to the door.

“Good morning, my sleepyhead.”

“Professor, it’s only 7 in the morning. I thought you suggested I sleep late.”

“Yes. Now it’s time to rise and shine.” He strode into the cottage and plopped down on the couch. “I’ve made plans. You worked so hard this week, you deserve a reward.”

She sat next to him on the sofa, smiling. “A reward? What is it?”

“I am taking you on a trip. Go get ready. We’ll be leaving in one hour.”

“A trip? What do you mean?”

“We’re going someplace special,” he said. His smile broadened with a sparkle in his eyes. “We’re taking a short road trip. Go change and be back to the main house in
sixty minutes.”

What
a fun man. He continually pampered her. She raced to the closet. Change into what? He hadn’t given her a clue as to what would be appropriate. She wasn’t sure how a trip played into her studies, but she really didn’t care. His plans shot shivers all through her body. Time for some fun.

She
scurried about double-checking her available wardrobe. Nope, nothing had changed. She still had only casual jeans and two pairs of dress slacks. Stripping off her nightgown and robe, she grabbed her best skinny jeans. At least she’d feel somewhat dressed up. But the shirt? The temperature should reach eighty today, but she chilled easily. Finally, she selected a long-sleeved, white boyfriend shirt. The sleeves could always be rolled up if necessary. She pulled on her sandals and ran a brush through her hair. Yep, she was ready for anything.

Twenty minutes later, Angie and the professor were speeding down I-40 East
toward Asheville. He had told her the trip should take about an hour. She sat back and enjoyed the scenery.

Angie gazed out the car window as the professor took the exit to Gatlinburg/Pigeon Forge.
Too excited to eat breakfast before they left on the trip, her stomach growled as they entered town. He must be a mind reader. She had hoped to visit this area while she was in Tennessee. What a fun surprise.

He
slowed the car in front of a cluster of artisan shops.

Angie gasped. “Oh, look. Pottery shops, gift shops, fudge shops, even a general store. This’s wonderful.”

“Wait until you see the galleries. There are some very fine artists living here. But first, we must tend to your needs. I heard that tummy of yours growl. The
Old Mill
restaurant is fabulous. They offer an authentic Ol’ South breakfast. If you eat everything they serve you, well, let’s just say, you won’t be able to fit into those sexy jeans anymore.”

Angie giggled.

The blue sky, spotted with fluffy white clouds and the gentle breeze, created a delicious day. After breakfast, Angie and the professor strolled from shop to shop in Pigeon Forge and then drove over to Gatlinburg.

Artisans occupied the entire town.  The professor bought a map of the shops and after walking the town, they drove up and down the side streets, and visited gallery after gallery. Much of
the art reflected the gorgeous scenery in Gatlinburg and the surrounding hills. The Aspen trees, a golden kiss of sunlight, covered many of the canvases. She found it easy to talk to the local artists. They shared their personal stories in their simple language. These people valued the peaceful life they’d found in Tennessee.

He
took her by the hand and said, “I have one more surprise for you. Come. Let’s get the car. We have an important stop before returning to Knoxville.”

Angie smiled up at him. “Another surprise?
What is it?”

“We’re going to the
Artistic Hideaway
. It’s not far. I saved the best for our end of day. Come. Let’s hurry.”

Within five minutes, they pulled up in a gravel parking area. A
two-story wooden house stood before them, converted into shops. The lower level advertised a gift shop. Steps to the upstairs ran along the side of the building. On the staircase was a small sign inviting visitors to the
Artistic Hideaway
.

Intrigued, Angie hopped out of the car and made her way to the steps. As she reached the second floor, a woman in her fifties glanced out the upstairs door and greeted her. She wore dark glasses, a
floppy-brimmed hat, and hiking clothes. Angie returned her tender smile, one that could only be described as infectious. The artist greeted each guest, as if a long lost friend had arrived. She welcomed all with a familiar hug and an offer of hot tea.

This woman, the artist in residence, spent the next two hours spinning stories of her life
, explaining how she found peace and joy in her work.  Each morning she hiked the tree-lined Smokey Mountains to catch the perfect pictures in her digital camera. The balance of the day, she re-created the captured stills with her watercolors. Her talent burst from every canvas. The landscapes exploded with color. Her scenery depicted the lines of Aspens along the mountain ridges. Each watercolor, painted with authentic detail, drew the viewer into the scene. Angie devoured every word while the professor sat silent on a wooden bench. She soon forgot he was there.

Finally, the professor spoke. “
Angie, my dear, tell me which painting is best?”

A test?
Angie reviewed each canvas for several minutes. She picked up a watercolor landscape in the Smokey Mountains laden with bright golden yellow Aspens. “This one.”

The woman looked at the professor. “She has a good eye, doesn’t she?”

He strolled over to the two women. “Yes, of course. Why else would she choose
me
to mentor her?” He winked at Angie. “Are you sure?”

Had she failed her test?
“Yes, the color’s exquisite. The wet-in-wet and the use of glazing heighten the brilliant colors. She is good and this watercolor is certainly one of her best.”

“Fine, the decision is complete. Wrap it up. We must be on our way.”

Angie caught her breath. “Wait. Wrap it up? I can’t let you buy this for me.”

“Why not? I promised to make up for
yesterday. You won’t take that away from me. This painting is yours, no arguments.”

#

Angie sank into the front seat of the car. Her emotions swirled like a merry-go-round. She had not wanted to accept the expensive painting. But he had insisted. He trembled, waiting for her to make her selection. He was a gift giver. This man, although difficult to understand, put her needs first. He treated her like an English royal. He spent a great deal of class time entertaining and pampering her.

But yesterday, he was
different. His focus was all business. His strict demands caught her off guard. His teaching methods were unconventional. But she would trust him as her mentor. No matter how hard he pushed her. Clearly, he was vested in her future.

Early in their marriage, Jonathan catered to her every desire, but now he had other priorities. She had become invisible. Jonathan, why hadn’t she thought more about him in the past few days? She’d promised herself she’d call him last night. After the situation with the professor, she had forgotten. She failed to call Vicki, too.

The professor gently placed the wrapped painting into the trunk of the car, slid behind the steering wheel, and glanced over at Angie. “Happy, my dear? My apologies for the deception. But I knew if you thought I planned to purchase a painting for you, you’d turn and run. Now you have an original piece from Tennessee as a long-term reminder of our time together. Thank you for being kind enough to accept my apology.”

Angie wondered if the professor would ever be honest. Perhaps, this method of leading women around was imprinted in the male DNA. Her face burned, “I don’t appreciate being tricked. In the future, honesty will carry you much further than creating a false surprise.”

He sighed. “I understand. There can’t be a next time. Message decoded.”

“Fine. And yes, I love the painting. But no more gifts.”

“Understood. On a lighter subject, are you hungry? We haven’t eaten since breakfast and it’s a long ride home.”

Angie warmed. His attention to detail kept her off kilter. “Yes, let’s eat. I’m sure you have a place in mind.”

He snickered. “You caught me again. I’m taking you to the
Park Grill
Steakhouse
. The food is five-star, and the view of the Smokey Mountains, delightful. It’s actually located in the Smokey Mountain National Park and has the feel of a lodge. You’ll love it.”

Dinner provided more satisfaction than Angie had imagined. The professor told stories of his early college days, spun tales of his artistic trials, and filled her ears with promises of greatness.

After dinner, she sipped her coffee and mused, would he consider her rude to ask? Finally, with her curiosity bursting, she plunged in. “Tell me. When did you begin painting?”

He st
ared down at his bread pudding and cleared his throat. His jaw hardened as if made of marble. “I am not sure. All my early memories include some form of art. I colored, sketched, and painted all my life.”

H
is response reflected a deep sadness within him. Her own childhood memories were filled with happiness. “No wonder you’re so good. Did you have a tutor or are you self-taught?”

He wiped his mouth. “My childhood was complicated. Can we change the subject?”

Angie reached across the table and took his hand. “There is nothing you can’t tell me. I am a friend.”

He stared out the window.
A lone tear ran down his cheek.

Angie squeezed his hand.
“Did you come from a broken home?”

He turned back, biting his lower lip. “I loved art all my life. My dad, a Sargent in the army, hated it.” He laid his hands on the table, tightly fisted. “I never had any friends. Why try to
make a friend? We moved from state to state with his career. He was embarrassed by his
sissy
kid.”

“How awful.
”

“
Yes. Very hard. I hated sports. He demanded I play baseball. He forced me to take Tae Kwando. I never achieved his love or respect.” He sighed. “Please do not make me relive this miserable past.”

“Of course
, I never meant to pry. Consider the subject closed.”

They headed
back to Knoxville shortly after eight o’clock. Once in the car, the professor sang and whistled all the way home.

Upon their arrival back at the cottage, he took her and walked slowly to the cabin.
“Let’s have some wine and watch the moon rise.”

She had no time to object. He was back in a flash with a bottle of White Zinfandel already chilled. “Tell me about
you,” he asked. She talked about her childhood, her parents, even her marriage, such as it was. She realized she was doing all the talking and most of the drinking.

“I suppose we must call it a night
,” he said.

As she rose to her feet, she found her wrapped in his arms, as he kissed her with a deep passion.
It lingered. She allowed the moment. Then she realized how wrong this seemed and pushed away. “I’m sorry. I’m married. We shouldn’t have.”

“
I apologize. I’m sorry too.” He pulled her closer and put his arm around her shoulder. “It won’t happen again. I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I met you. Now it’s out of my system.” He ran his hand over her cheek. “This has been a wonderful day. You can’t know how much your presence means to me.”

She tingled at his touch. Surprised by the warmth of his embrace, she nestled closer to him
. Gazing up at the full moon, she sighed. “It was a perfect day. Thank you for such a wonderful surprise.”

“We will have many good days while you are here. Be prepared to work hard and to play even harder.”

As they reached the front porch of the log cabin, he released his grasp and gently kissed her on the cheek. “Good night, beautiful Angie.”

“Good night to you
my friend.”

Whether the wine or the professor caused her elation, it was bitter sweet. She’d crossed a line and broken Jonathon’s trust. Luckily
, she had the sense to stop, and the professor was gentleman enough to apologize.

He
wanted
to kiss me from the first day he met me. How romantic.

Such
a magical day, she thought, as she stepped inside her summer abode. She was happy for the first time in an eternity.  She felt so special when she spent time with him. And with his tutoring, she could do anything she desired. He was the key.

She slowly undressed. Brushing her hair, she gazed into the mirror and wondered what tomorrow would bring.

Floating to the sofa, she gazed at the painting resting against the back of the couch. A perfect example in dramatic use of watercolor, he’d wanted her to have this picture. When she returned home, it would occupy a special place of honor—over her king-sized bed—a beautiful reminder of her time in Knoxville.