The Artist's Paradise

by Pamela S Wetterman

  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.

  All 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 your 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 had she stopped painting? She’d given up too easily. She’d accepted Jonathan’s life plans without question.

  After marriage, she 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.”

  Angie tasted the sweet bread and replaced it on her plate. “I remember being happy in college—carefree, challenged, and so much in my own world. For almost four years, I followed my love of art. After graduation, I threw myself into my painting full time. That was all before I met Jonathan. How do I recapture my dream now?” Angie folded the white-linen napkin and placed it on the table.

  “Reconnect with yourself. When Patrick left me, my spirit almost broke. My identity was gone. I survived. You’re stronger than you realize. Please don’t settle for less. You deserve to be happy."

  Vickie made sense. “My journey starts today.” She hesitated a moment, and then pulled her cell phone out of the Gucci purse. “I guess it’s time to turn this phone back on and see if there have been any calls during our shopping extravaganza.”

  Five missed calls, all from Jonathan. He was probably home. Renewed in spirit, she had the resolve to face him.

  Chapter 4

  Jonathan peered out the living room window. The evening shadows of the old elm tree in the front yard shaded the entry steps. Years earlier, he and his father planted the elm in a time of incredible sadness. Losing his mother to cancer when he was merely twenty left a huge void in his life. Shortly after her death, his father moved away and left the three-story brownstone empty. On Jonathon’s wedding day, his dad deeded the brownstone over to him as a wedding gift.

  How Jonathan loved the location. A residential area of Chicago, Gold Coast was alive, established, and full of culture. Growing up, his family spent hours on Sundays picnicking at Lincoln Park or going to the zoo. Most people who worked downtown loved the fact that it was so convenient. Some walked. Others took the train. Once you lived in Little Manhattan, no other place compared. Warm memories flooded him as night settled in.

  He ran his hands through his unkempt hair, stepped over to the fireplace, and scooped up the picture frame on the mantle. Angie’s cherries and cream face beamed back at him. Her larger-than-life smile glowed. She possessed a classic “Audrey Hepburn” grace. Her personality sparkled from every pore. Her laughter was musical and inviting. Life without Angie would be impossible.

  He tenderly placed the photo back onto the mantle and retraced his steps through the room. The grandfather clock struck five times. He’d been home for over an hour. Time passed in slow motion. He’d explored for clues as thoroughly as a homicide-detective. His search for answers resulted in little comfort. His exploration of the brownstone left him more confused. Their bedroom resembled a tornado aftermath. Clothing and suitcases were strewn all over. The rest of their home appeared immaculate. The only comforting clue—Mister Tubbs remained on guard in the brownstone. She would never leave for good without him. Where was she?

  Startled by the ring of his cell phone, he flew to the coffee table and grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Boss. Can you talk?”

  Jonathan collapsed into his favorite leather armchair next to the fireplace.

  “Angie’s not home. She won’t answer my calls. Did you get the anniversary gift?”

  Mister Tubbs trotted over to the armchair and jumped up on Jonathan’s lap. He settled in, and promptly fell asleep.

  “Assignment completed. Tiffany’s will be delivering a beautiful bronze pendant graced with eight lovely, if small, diamonds. She’ll love it. And, to make sure you’re out of the doghouse, your favorite florist’s delivering two dozen of his best red roses in a bronze vase.”

  Mindlessly stroking a sleeping Mister Tubbs, Jonathan asked, “How’d you know I forgot to pick up the roses?”

  “Safe bet. Besides, I called the florist to make sure you’d been there.”

  “Good work. I’ll have to get a second job to pay for the gifts, but it’s cheaper than divorce.”

  Gina giggled. “Careful what you say, Boss, even in jest. Gotta go. Good luck.”

  Jonathan scooted deeper into the armchair and straightened his back. “Right, all my luck has been bad lately. Time for some good karma. See you in the office on Monday. And Gina, thanks.”

  “Sure thing. See you next week.”

  What if she didn’t come home? The thought unnerved him. Of course, she would come home. She always did. One thing was certain. Angie was predictable.

  Mister Tubbs stirred in Jonathan’s lap and raised his head
in expectation.

  “Time to eat?”

  The terrier scampered to the kitchen, grabbed his favorite toy and tossed it into the air. Jonathan shuffled behind. He filled the dog dish with a gourmet mixture of dry and canned dog food. Mister Tubbs only received one teaspoon of the yummy-moist food but the taste always put a spring in his tiny steps.

  Jonathan set the bowl down and sat on the tiled-kitchen floor next to his dog. He’d messed up, but he’d do better.

  The doorbell rang. Jonathon jumped up. Mister Tubbs, in full watchdog mode, barked continually, reaching the front door before his master. As if in a procession, the florist deliveryman stood at the door, and the currier from Tiffany’s came up the walk.

  Jonathan smiled, swept a stray strand of unruly hair from his forehead, and opened the front door. Finally, he’d caught a break. Angie wasn’t home yet and the gifts had arrived. Maybe he’d survive this after all.

  As instructed by Gina, he tipped both couriers generously. The velvet gift-box dwarfed in his hand. What if she didn’t like it? He didn’t even know if he liked it. She couldn’t ever find out that Gina picked it out for her.

  Minutes after the deliveries arrived, the key clicked in the lock and the front door squeaked open. He gulped—was he ready to face her? Angie rushed in. As she stepped into the entry, the fresh-floral fragrance of Dancing Waters stirred his senses. She stopped, stared at him, and then edged past him in silence.

  This was going to be harder than he had thought.

  “Angie, Baby, you’re home. I’ve been worried. It’s great to see you.”

  “Don’t you dare tell me what worry is. I sat here all last night waiting for you—no call, nothing. You broke your promise.” She flung her shopping bags and purse on the floor, stooped down and swooped up Mister Tubbs, and stomped into the living room.

  Jonathan traipsed after her, head down, avoiding eye contact. She flopped onto the sofa, Mister Tubbs still riding high in her arms.

  He ground his teeth. She always gave Mister Tubbs all her attention. Mister Tubbs couldn’t do anything wrong, and he couldn’t do anything right. “Why don’t you understand? I work hard to secure a great future for both of us.”