Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures)

by Davis, Nageeba

  “The boy’s hungry. Let him eat.” Villari’s father leaned over and patted Matthew on the back. “Isn’t that right, Matt? You’ve got a lot of eating to do if you’re going to grow as tall as your mama.” Lindsay smiled, shook her head at the sight of her son, and resumed eating. Matthew giggled and dug into the second mound of spaghetti that the “Dragon Lady” had piled on his plate. It was hard to believe this was the same family that had arrived on the Villari porch over a week ago. Clutching his mother’s hand and hiding behind her skirt, Matthew had been so shy and quiet that I wondered if anyone would ever be able to reach him. But things were changing by the moment. Even the baby seemed to sense the difference, no longer clinging to her mother and staring out with dull listless eyes. She was sitting up in the high chair, banging her plastic cup, intermittently cooing and gnawing on the pieces of pasta Lindsay placed on her tray.

  And then there was Lindsay. I thought I could see the tension in her face easing a bit at a time. Her eyes were softer, less furtive and worried, the furrows in her forehead smoothed out a little, her mouth not quite as taut. But she still held herself tightly, just as she had that afternoon at the park, as though still protecting herself from uncontrollable rage and unpredictable fists. I didn’t know how long it would take for her to unwrap herself, to feel free and unafraid. Maybe it would never happen. I wasn’t sure how long a person could live with a nightmare before the nightmare simply became a part of herself.

  “Maggie, eat. You’re still a bag of bones and that’s an insult to my cooking.” The Dragon Lady smiled down at me from the head of the table. I needed a new nickname for Villari’s mother. Although she could instill fear in any of her grown children with one look of displeasure, her generosity was boundless. She had freely opened her house and home to Lindsay and her kids for as long as they needed, no questions asked.

  Villari had gone to Lindsay’s house the day after Cassie had attempted to kill me, the day after I knocked her flat with my incredible fighting skills although Villari insisted that it was the element of surprise that had actually saved me. Personally, I believe it was sheer fright that gave me the edge. I was seconds away from death and a woman can do a whole lot of damage if she thinks her life is ending before the next commercial. But whatever it was, Cassie was going to rot in jail for a long time, maybe in that nasty cell Villari had threatened me with. The roaches were gonna love her.

  Preston was shell-shocked after hearing the whole story, although I suspect a good amount of his pain will ease once he realizes that he has a strong chance of going to court and claiming his sister’s portion of the inheritance for himself. Large sums of money can soothe a lot of aches and pains.

  Anyway, even though Cassie had confessed to her crime during our little hair-raising discussion, and the case, was for all intents and purposes closed, Villari couldn’t stand the idea that Lindsay was still stuck in that house with her abusive husband. Especially since Elizabeth had fully intended to help the woman. So deciding to bypass the red tape, he took a trip to Lindsay’s house that evening, right around the time Vacuum Nose would be sitting down to dinner.

  A couple of hours later, Villari was driving down my driveway with a woman, two kids, and a few ratty old suitcases. He picked me up without saying a word and we headed out to his mother’s. I don’t know what happened at Lindsay’s house. Villari never said and Lindsay refused to speak a word about it. But I have a feeling that Villari didn’t follow the rules that day.

  When dinner was over and we had said our goodbyes to the family, Villari drove me home. We didn’t talk much, but it was a comfortable silence, and I leaned my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes until we pulled into my driveway. Villari and I walked hand-in-hand to the porch, softly lit by a single yellow bulb. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, the shadows embracing the two of us like quiet lovers.

  Villari shut the door and gathered me into his arms, just holding me. I laid my forehead against his chest, breathing in the fresh cotton smell of his T-shirt that always reminded me of clothes hanging out to dry on a hot summer’s day. I lifted my head and searched his coal-black eyes, so dark I couldn’t see the pupils. A moment passed as we simply gazed at each other. Then, lifting one hand, he held my face gently. He leaned down and brushed his lips against mine, a mere whisper of a kiss. It wasn’t enough. I stood on tiptoe and curled my arm around his neck, pulling him closer and demanding more. I felt him smile against my lips. And I smiled back.

  “Come here,” I whispered. “There’s something I want to show you.” I took his hand and laced my fingers through his. We walked down the hallway and I could see the surprise in his face when I pulled him past the bedroom. I stepped into my studio with him by my side.

  “There,” I said, indicating the bust in the middle of the room.

  I knew the moment he recognized her. His eyes widened slightly and he tightened his hold on my hand.

  It was Elizabeth. In all her glory, with all her patrician haughtiness and all her kindness that overflowed like a waterfall. I had tried to capture it in my sculpture. I think she would have been proud.

  Except f or one thing. Her voice was as clear as a bell in my head, demanding that I quit wasting time staring at her and take that gorgeous man to bed.

  So I did.

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from Artistic License:

  Chapter One

  I was a basket case. Not your everyday “Gee, I’m a little uptight, maybe I should have a glass of wine to calm down” basket case. Nope. Not me. I’m talking real-life crazy. I’m talking nutcase—chicken with its head cut off, wacko, psycho, neurotic—in bilingual terms, loco.

  My first show was opening in seven hours, and I was a little nervous. That’s putting it mildly. Truth be told, I was a nervous wreck. My skin was blotchy, pimples were sprouting, and I was retaining water. Limp, unenthusiastic curls hung from my head, an unusual feat for someone who was normally a dead ringer for Little Orphan Annie. Minus the little and minus the red. My hair was more of a soft, sable color if you were lucky enough to catch it in a dim, candlelit room. Otherwise it was brown... the definition of brown. Not the rich color of bare mountain peaks in autumn, and not the color of warm buttered toast or cafe´ mocha. Just plain mousy brown. The color of swamp muck.

  But I digress. My first venture into the sculpting world was just around the corner and I was too nervous to stand still. I was driving Mark, the manager and overseer of The Outlook, the very upscale gallery where my work was being displayed, unequivocally nuts. And that’s not easy to do. This man never got ruffled. He reminded me of the soldiers who stand guard outside Buckingham Palace. The ones who never move a muscle no matter how many times you wave a hand in front of their face or whisper dirty words in their ear or describe an itch that must drive them crazy. No matter what—rain, sleet, or snow—these guys remain starch stiff, staring stoically ahead, which seems, in my opinion, to be an awful waste of healthy male bodies. I mean, let’s be honest. The queen is moving up in years, and certainly no one would ever accuse her of being “a looker.” So, what exactly are they guarding?

  This isn’t to say that Mark is cold or aloof or anything like that. In fact, he’s quite the opposite. He is warm and sweet, and has a gentle sense about him. No matter how crazy the outside world, a strong current of peace seems to flow through him. Mark believes in quiet leadership. He can, and often does, slip into a room unannounced and calmly assess a situation without speaking a word. Then he stands completely still until the chaos and noise subsides. And surprisingly, it does. It’s an amazing thing to watch. He doesn’t scream or yell or, my personal favorite, offer a middle finger salute. Before you know it, though, the room is so quiet, you can hear people breathing
. After several moments, he gives a few succinct directions and suddenly, once again, the earth is spinning smoothly on its axis.

  But that was before my show. Much to Mark’s distress, I’d been hovering over his back and breathing down his neck for the past five hours, questioning his every move and decision. Which was a joke, trust me. I knew next to nothing about staging an art show. But that didn’t matter, and it certainly didn’t stop me. They say that ignorance is bliss, and I guess, in this situation, it was. Empowered by my naiveté, I suggested new colors for the walls, loudly discussed alternate traffic flow patterns, and hotly debated the placement of my different pieces.

  We were now in the midst of a rather heated discussion regarding the titles for my sculptures. He was completely unperturbed and I was pulling my hair out.

  “It’s simply a way to focus your art, Maggie. The titles you’ve given your pieces are simple and direct, but they need more. People respond to patterns and organization; it’s what the mind is built to do. The mind will seek order, even in the midst of chaos.”

  “You’re saying my work is chaos?”

  “Of course not. And don’t try and put words in my mouth. I simply meant that it is easier for people to walk into a room filled with art and appreciate what they’re seeing if there is a unifying theme.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to get a hold of myself. Mark was staring at me with a half-amused, half-irritated expression, and I wondered again for the thousandth time how it was possible that the two of us managed to get along. We were polar opposites, and I do mean opposites. Where Mark was quiet, organized, and neat to the umpteenth degree, I was noisy, random, and sloppy. Mark was compactly built, lean but not skinny, with a body that spoke well-modulated volumes about order and discipline. On the other hand, I managed to be bony and soft at the same time. I don’t think a muscle would dare show up on my body. What would be the purpose? I’d have them slacking off in no time. I’m exaggerating, of course. Given all the molding I do, my upper body was actually rather strong, but I was still a long way from boasting a chiseled physique.

  “Why can’t they just walk in and observe, appreciate and buy?”

  He shook his head. “Maggie, we’re good friends, right?”

  “I think so,” I agreed cautiously.

  “Then go home. It’s after twelve. Eat lunch, pour yourself a glass of wine, take a hot bath, and relax. Put this out of your mind for the next few hours. I’ll take good care of everything.” He picked up my hand and reassuringly squeezed it. “Remember, this is my show, too. It reflects my name and my reputation, also. Believe it or not, I want everything to be as perfect as you do.”

  I looked into those gentle blue eyes and sighed. “I’ve been a bitch, haven’t I?”

  Mark smiled. “You’re a little on edge.”

  I threw up my hands. “Okay, you win. Group them; tag them, and theme the whole lot of them. Just don’t make it look like a Martha Stewart ‘Crafts in Clay’ show.”

  He grinned. “I’ll do my best. Go home, take a nap or whatever you do to relax, and come back this evening ready to drink champagne.”

  I put my arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Why are all the good men taken?”

  Laughing, he tucked my arm through his and walked me toward the back. “Do me a favor and say that a little louder the next time Jamie is around. I’m not sure she feels the same way anymore.”

  I stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “She tells me I’m overreacting.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’s right.”

  “Overreacting to what?”

  Mark hesitated. He’s extremely reticent about his personal life. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s embarrassed by his lousy childhood or because he was naturally a very private individual. Probably some of both. From the little I’ve been able to piece together, the man had had a crummy childhood—an overbearing mother and a father who abandoned the family when Mark was barely out of diapers. I met his mom once, and it wasn’t something I’d want to do again. She defined tacky-platinum-dyed hair sprayed stiffly into place, fake stick-on nails, and a pudgy body stuffed into polyester stretch pants topped off by a loud, floral print nylon blouse. It was hard to believe she and Mark shared the same gene pool. We talked only briefly, thank God, but it didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to detect the signs of a blood-sucking parasite. The way she clamped her hand around my arm grated on my nerves, and before I could disengage myself from her tentacles, she launched into the woes of being a single mother. Within minutes, she had neatly maneuvered me into feeling sorry for her as she ticked off her list of problems: she was all alone, had no money, no one cared whether she lived or died. She wrapped up the diatribe bemoaning the fact that her only son seldom managed to visit her in Golden, a small town west of Denver. By that time, “seldom” sounded too frequent. All I wanted was to get out of the room and run as fast and far away as possible. Mrs. Martyr had worn me out in record time, and I hardly knew the woman. But it did help me understand why Mark refused to open up his childhood for public viewing.

  “You’re not the panicky type, Mark,” I added, knowing I was going to have to prod him for information. “What’s happened?”

  “Oh, you know, it’s the small things. Difficult to explain.”

  “Try anyway,” I insisted.

  A small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “You are a persistent thing, aren’t you?”

  I waited.

  He sighed. “I’m never going to get rid of you unless I say something, right?”

  I waited again.

  He shook his head. “In the interest of preparing for the show, which I cannot possibly continue with you stepping on my heels, I’ll talk. But you have to promise not to push for any more details than what I’m willing to give. Is it a deal?”

  I nodded reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll take the deal, on one condition. You have to tell enough of the story so it makes sense, minus the intimate stuff, of course. Trust me, I don’t want to know what color underwear Jamie wears. But you have to tell it from start to finish. No handing out little anemic scraps of information. Okay?”

  “Okay. I accept your conditions, as you do mine,” he replied. “But not now, not today.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Maggie. I have too much work to do to indulge in a little heart-to-heart. If the whole story is what you want, then you’ll have to be patient, and wait.”

  I drew myself up. “How long?”

  “Tomorrow. Lunch.”

  “Fine,” I said haughtily. “But it will cost you. As an unbelievably nosy person, waiting twenty-four hours for information upsets my equilibrium. If I have to wait, then you can pay the damn bill.”

  “Naturally,” he said, chuckling. “Given the supreme sacrifice you are making, I would expect nothing less.”

  “As long as you understand,” I called over my shoulder as I pushed through the swinging doors into the back studio, “that I want to go to La Casa Fiesta.” I didn’t have to turn around to see the dismay slide over his face. Mark was much more comfortable in a fancy restaurant serving entrees drizzled with a lemon caper sauce than in a place specializing in refried beans. The phrase “chips and dip” was enough to send him shuddering.

  “Come on, Maggie, have a heart,” he implored.

  I kept walking as though I never heard him. The poor guy was too uptight. Nothing loosened a man up more than a good sweaty bout of sex, something I couldn’t help him with, or a plate of enchiladas with enough chopped jalapenos to clear up the world’s sinus problems.

  The sadness in Mark’s voice worried me, though. He and Jamie had been dating for almost two years. I’d known them both for a little over a year, and I hated to think that Jamie felt any differently now than she did in the beginning. But I’d been married once myself, and I knew how things could change without warning.

  I leaned against the counter and looked around the studio. I loved this place—the perpetual layer of white dust, the wooden sh
elves lined with vases and other pieces in varying stages of completion. I liked the openness and the onslaught of light. I was even partial to the cement floor. Although I did most of my work in my home studio, I came here to use the wheel and relax—my own form of yoga. I loved putting my hands in the cool water and molding the wet clay as it spun around. It called for small movements and a steady touch, and I got so lost in the spinning motion that time slipped by soundlessly.

  In fact, I came in early this morning, so anxious about my show that I couldn’t eat or sleep. After showering and puttering around the house for several long minutes, I threw on some clothes and drove to The Outlook. Fortunately, Mark always unlocked the back door once he arrived so people could work in the studio. I strode in, tossed my purse in the corner, and crossed the room to the cabinets where the clay was stored. Pulling out a small square, I unwrapped it and kneaded the clay until it was soft and malleable and then placed the mound in the center of the wheel. Pulling up a stool, I sat down, flipped the switch, and winced when the wheel let out a high squeaking noise as it reluctantly started to rotate. As I dipped my hands in the cool water and placed them on the clay, the motor began to hum and my nerves calmed. I felt myself sloughing off the stress and the fear of finally exposing my work to the public.

  The funny thing is, I never expected to be here. When I was young, things were very different. I wanted to be a baseball player. It was a dream of mine, a really big dream that made everything else pale in comparison. I was determined to be the first woman baseball player. At ten years old, I ate, slept, and dreamt baseball. Without a mother to guide me toward a more feminine pursuit, I was molded by a pushy older brother who never got over his profound disappointment that my parents’ bundle of joy turned out to be a girl.