by Landra Graf
Table of Contents
Title Page
Painting For Keeps | Cupid’s Café #1
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
EPILOGUE
Painting for Keeps (Cupid's Cafe #1) by Landra Graf | Exactly Like You (Cupid's Cafe #2) by Lori Sizemore | Captured Memories (Cupid's Cafe #3) by Katherine McIntyre | True Colors (Cupid's Cafe #4) by Landra Graf
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Painting For Keeps
Cupid’s Café #1
Landra Graf
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Painting for Keeps
Cupid’s Café #1
Copyright © 2019 Landra Graf
All rights reserved.
ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-949931-23-5
Inkspell Publishing
5764 Woodbine Ave.
Pinckney, MI 48169
Edited By Audrey Bobak
Cover art By Najla Qamber
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Dedication
To Cate, I love your brain!
Chapter One
Which first? Agatha Kakos waffled, staring at the half pint of Häagen-Dazs and the box of Cosmic brownies. Should she eat either of these items? No, but after the day she lived through, falling off the wagon seemed the best approach. It sure beat drugs or alcohol, which she’d possessed no tolerance for. No, bingeing followed by purging topped her list as the drug of choice. Especially since the breakup was official, two years down the drain. She’d lost the other half of her. She found herself no longer part of an us. She was now a numero uno.
When Jordan had asked for a break a month before their scheduled move-in date, she’d only seen the signs of pre-merging household jitters. It made sense. Hell, she’d experienced a few doubts herself about downsizing her own things and giving up her shared space. Then came their usual evenings spent together, canceled due to a big work project, followed by broken lunch dates paired with unreturned phone calls and texts. When she went to his office last week, his secretary told her he’d be in meetings all day. A finance analyst unavailable to his girlfriend, one he planned on moving in with?
She’d finally got the gumption that morning, pushing aside her fear due to the fact she was supposed to be out of her current apartment a week prior, and knocked on his front door before work. They’d never exchanged keys during their relationship. A normal person might have viewed that as a warning sign. She’d thought it sweet he wanted to wait. Did he answer the door? Not him.
Instead, a twenty-something, thin-framed, red-headed knockout with long legs and a smile greeted her. She’d called out for Jordan, her pink heels clacking on the tile floor as she walked back into the apartment, leaving the door wide open.
Yep, the memory convinced Aggie to dip her spoon into the salted caramel ice cream and shove the bite into her mouth. Sugary goodness melted on her tongue even as her stomach soured at the thought of the kiss. Young, hot-pink-heeled gal locked lips with Jordan, a steamy ten-second-seems-like-forever kiss seared into her memory, complete with a lower lip nibble. Then the woman who’d replaced her announced Aggie’s presence at the door.
Jordan barely bothered to look guilty when he approached her. Another salted caramel bite slid between her lips. The words not compatible were etched into her brain since he’d said them at least three times. He apologized for letting her find out like this, for still planning to move in to the duplex they purchased, but work kept him busy. Too busy to tell the woman he’d sent ‘love ya, cuddles’ text messages to every day for over a year they were over and everything she’d saved for physically and emotionally was gone like bait off a hook.
Who took over twelve months to commit to deeper feelings in a relationship? This guy. He’d reeled her in like one of those river monsters from the reality television show playing in the background on her flat screen. Slow, steady, and with a ton of false promises. Yet, she’d become a fool of a fish, falling for her captor and wanting to be kept.
One more spoonful and her belly reached acceptance mode, finally on board with dulling the pain through carbs. Then the ringtone “Maneater” by Hall and Oates echoed through the room. Curse her traitorous heart for wanting it to be Jordan, for wanting to call him, and instead, she got her mother.
She dragged herself off the couch and reached for the phone on the coffee table with a sigh. “Good evening, Edith.”
“Evening, Agatha. You sound awful. I take it the talk with your boyfriend didn’t go as planned?” Her mother had encouraged Aggie to grab the fish by the gills and talk to her ex days ago.
“You’d be right. Looks like we’re not moving in together after all. He’s found another roommate and needs a break.” She needed to put a positive spin on this, even if coupled with white lies. “I planned to call you in the morning. I’m going to stay on a month-to-month contract at my current place and take some time to figure things out.”
“Sure, dear, but figuring things out doesn’t get you what you want. You obviously did something to scare him away. You’re not bingeing again, are you?”
Aggie stopped mid-spoonful to her mouth. “Of course not.”
“Strong women are fueled by their desire to be taken care of. You need to re-interest him.”
“He cheated on me, Edith.”
The tap of her mother’s nails echoed through the phone. “Oh no, dear. Then he’s not worth it. You need to get up, get dressed, go out, and paint the town.”
“I don’t feel like strutting myself around.”
“Back on the market is the only thing to do, Agatha. Find another man, richer, wiser. I’ve got to get ready for a charity dinner tonight, but I’ll expect an update from you in a few days. Get a new man, reel him in, and make Jordan suffer.”
After hanging up the phone, Aggie took notice of her entire rigid demeanor and forced her shoulders to relax and her muscles to loosen. Her mother never helped in a crisis. The woman had a knack for making things worse. She wouldn’t rely on someone else. No, she’d survived over the years by being self-sufficient and relying on herself.
Depending on someone else came with a dose of trouble, evidenced with her boyfriend, now an ex, and the only thing to assuage her broken heart being the softened tub of ice cream and a box of Cosmic brownies. Yes, this time she’d start with a brownie and shoved half the frosted, candy-sprinkled goodness into her mouth.
The chocolate melted, doing the job she’d intended—it made her feel good. She let her mind focus on the television, allowing her bad habits to continue without thought. Swallowing the second half of the brownie, she reached for another. The crinkle of plastic for the ta
sty morsels’ wrapping resonated through the room. The drone of the British television host speaking of challenges to his attempts at catching a big one continued. But as the chocolate of brownie number two touched her lips, a knock came at the door.
This one was heavier than Mrs. Sanders, her sixty-plus landlord, and she’d never tell a soul how she jumped up so fast, tossing the brownie into the small waste bucket, and nearly tripped on the leg of her coffee table. She’d also never mention her quick stop at the mirror hanging catty-corner from the door, wiping at the smudge of chocolate at the edge of her mouth, and smoothing her University of Louisville T-shirt to ensure no crumbs remained.
Thoughts of Jordan’s desperate apologies, of his begging pleas asking her to take him back ran rampant in her mind. When she opened the door, she held tightly to the wood, ready to slam the damn thing in his face to get her retribution. But he wasn’t there to see her eager, roaring, vengeful resolve.
No, instead, was a man in a brown button-down shirt and matching pants, UPS symbol blazing from the pocket on the shirt, a small handheld machine in one hand, a thin envelope in the other. “Delivery for Agatha Kakos.”
“Me.” She raised a hand, the disappointment in her voice as clear as the glass windows behind her.
Women take their revenge at the time of the affront; afterward is too late. Then you’re already a victim. Her mother’s pearl of wisdom echoed in her mind.
“Sign here,” he replied, thrusting forward the handheld and a small plastic stylus.
She dragged the rubber tip along the screen, her name becoming blurry, tears threatening anew. It took every bit of sanity she had left to summon the will to keep those tears back.
The delivery driver shoved the envelope toward her and she numbly locked her hand around it. “Thank you, ma’am, and have a wonderful evening.”
Her response involved slamming the door and slumping against it, letting a sob escape, followed by a wailing moan. He’d never be back. She’d never get a chance to take back the part of her he destroyed. And deep in her heart, the whispers of how she did this to herself, the thought of starting over again, of being alone, swallowed her whole.
The envelope was clutched in her hands, a tangible chance to take her mind off reality. She ripped into it, pulling out a single piece of paper. It smelled like coffee, salt, and spring air. The words drew her eyes. An invitation...
An admirer seeks a muse.
Come, sip a cold beverage, taste the Mediterranean, and be inspired at Cupid’s Café.
No special attire is required. Come as you are two days from now at noon. Our establishment sits on the corner of Bardstown Road and Eastern. A once-in-a-lifetime, second-chance date you won’t want to miss.
Sincerely, Mr. Heart
Maybe there was hope for her after all.
#
Murphy O’Shea said goodbye to the friendly neighborhood police officers with the promise of following up with them if he remembered anything else. Coming home from grocery shopping to find his apartment broken into hadn’t been the part hurting him the most. Living not far from Louisville’s East District, closer to the bar district known as Highlands, break-ins happened quite frequently. No, what killed him was finding almost all his paintings destroyed. The same paintings scheduled to be transported to his friend’s gallery the next day in preparation for his upcoming show.
Each canvas possessed a bit of his soul; they’d been beautiful pieces displaying his love for color and the tedious technique of tempera. Very few modern artists practiced his method, which required a lot of eggs. In fact, he’d been buying more eggs for his art when this mess occurred. The police noted the smashed door, recommended he install a security system, and inquired if he had any threats or enemies.
Ha! Funny. He had nothing of the sort. No one knew him outside of his renters, therapist, therapy group, and a few friends. And even if enemies existed, his work had consumed him these past few months. Nothing exciting happened outside of painting. Days had passed when he wouldn’t even check the mail or leave his studio room.
He’d been thankful for the few friends he had making sure he ate and keeping him sane because his troubles ran beyond painter’s tunnel vision. Even now, the miniature replicas of famous statues on his fireplace mantle no longer occupied their usual spots. No burglar would do something so silly, and fear gripped him that maybe his illness was progressing into a more severe form.
The cell phone in his pocket vibrated, blasting out Drowning Pool’s “Bodies.” A ringtone specifically selected for his friend, Patrick, who went through girls like people used paper plates. He answered and let out a sad and pitiful, “Hi.”
“I called as soon as I got your message. Talk to me, Murphy.”
“They’re gone. All of them. Months of work destroyed in senseless destruction.” He ran a hand through his blond hair, tugging on the tips. It had grown out in the last couple of months. Preparing for his first show left no time for a haircut.
“Is everyone else okay? Trix and the kid?” Surprisingly, his friend held a note of concern in his voice for his renters. A sense of humanity, interesting.
Murph kicked at the edge of one of the ruined canvases, doing his best to lock down the scream he wanted to let out. “The other building was left untouched. I’m the lucky winner of having my life ruined.”
“Buddy, I’ve heard these depressing words before, dark shit and dangerous. Maybe you should take your pills.”
“They don’t work like some magic thing to clear away the bad stuff. Never have. Consistency is what makes the damn things successful, and I’ve been cold turkey too long.” Plus, if there were mythical drugs to keep him sane, he’d already be on them. Funny how even those closest to him didn’t understand how this stuff worked. Sympathy was one thing they offered, but actual understanding proved a completely different story. “I can’t do the show, Patrick.”
“You need to find a way, friend. It’s too late to turn back. I’ve got my rep on the line.” They’d met on a fluke accident with him walking into Patrick’s gallery to take a closer look at a couple of paintings. He’d never expected the gallery owner to actively quiz him on his painting knowledge nor invite him to bring back his work at another time, which he’d done about a week later. Since then, they’d become friends and partners, investing in his art and working toward his first show, a show he couldn’t pull off anymore.
“And you always say I’m the dramatic one.”
“No dramatics about it. Your display photo has gained interest. A serious tempera buyer, he’s throwing out words like leading edge contemporary and revivalist. So, the show must go on.”
Murph sighed, fingers stretching out, grabbing the statue of David and putting it on the right end of the mantle. Back where it belonged. “How the hell do you expect that to happen?”
“Don’t get lost, first of all. Just focus. We already have five completed pieces at the gallery. You need twelve more and then leave the rest to me.”
Twelve more, and creating the last nine had been more challenging than pulling teeth. His muse was gone, disappeared from his life, and he’d spent months reaching, draining every ounce of her from his mind and body, pouring it through his fingertips. A steady knock came on the screen door frame.
“Let me think about it, Rick. Someone’s at the door. I got to go.” He moved away from the fireplace, hoping the visitor wasn’t Trix or another nosy neighbor worried about the police presence.
His buddy growled at the use of the nickname Murph called him. He hated nicknames. “If you don’t say yes, I’ll bother you until you do. Your personal fucking shadow, and if you really do drop, you lose out. No do-overs. It’s now or never.”
Those words had him longing to drag this out, to make someone else experience a twinge of the anxiety he experienced at those words. So, he hung up without any preamble, a press of a button and the angry tones disappeared. He slid the phone into his coat pocket and opened the door, ready to rehash his conversat
ion with the cops for the concerned citizen. Instead, he got the following from a short, pudgy UPS courier, “Are you Mr. Murphy O’Shea?”
“Yes.”
“Sign here, please.”
So he did, giving his signature scrawl of his first and last name before being handed an envelope with no return address except a stamp from Cupid’s Café. He’d never heard of the place, nor had he ordered anything so small. No canvases would be delivered until the next day.
He shut the screen, locked it, and walked into his living room to sit on the couch. The place looked like a damn mess. All his paintings strewn across the wood floor, cut and ripped, some defiled with markers. Fucking devastating. The helplessness caused him to slouch, almost folding in on himself, inside and out. Motivation all but destroyed, he saw no way to replace all the work from the last few months.
Looking at the envelope, he’d half a mind to throw it away, but a voice whispered inside him to take a peek. A lack of good news, no harm and no foul, this day ended with enough bad crap and all his work being ruined took the cake. So, he pulled out the letter. The letter proved to be an invitation, which said:
An admirer looks forward to meeting with you.
It’s been a while since you spoke, but they haven’t forgotten. Come, sip a cold beverage, taste the Mediterranean, and reminisce at Cupid’s Café.
No special attire is required. Come as you are two days from now at noon. Our establishment sits on the corner of Bardstown Road and Eastern. A once-in-a-lifetime, second-chance date you won’t want to miss.
Sincerely, Mr. Heart
Murph laughed, a sick, halfhearted sound coming out of his mouth with little effort. Who could he possibly know that would want to catch up? An admirer? Only one person came to mind at the word, and she’d disappeared a few years prior. Then again, why the hell not? This might be a gift or a new muse to inspire him, and he’d need all the inspiration possible to produce twelve paintings in two months. He got up and stuck the letter to his refrigerator before opening the door to grab water.