He glanced at his watch and slid his phone out of his pocket and dialed his missing wife. After the fourth ring he hung up, and with his presents still in hand, went to Nan’s suite.
Music permeated from inside her room, New Age music, the kind he would hear in a spa with wind chimes and such. Willow must have joined her. He knocked softly on the door.
Right before he went to knock again, Nan opened the door.
“Good evening.” He grinned at his sort of mother-in-law dressed in a bright red muumuu with palm trees and little Jeb who trotted up to him. Before the puffball scuffed his shoes, he bent down and scooped him up, wincing when Jeb licked him.
“Same to you.” She backed up and motioned for him to join her.
The scent of spicy incense hit him and he entered to find Nan had done a little decorating in the room, complete with some candles, flowers, stones and pieces of fabric draped over the lights to give the room an ethereal dark quality. Willow only put her lotion in the nightstand drawer. “How are you?” In search of his wife, he tried to see into the closet and bath area.
“Is that what you wanted to know?”
“I’m just looking for Willow.” He put Jeb down, crossed his arms and waited for her to produce his spouse.
She moved in front of him, blocking his view. “She’s not here.”
“Didn’t she come home with you?” The muscles in his neck tensed.
Nan walked over to her armoire. “No, was it my turn to babysit her?”
“We’re supposed to be together in the evenings.”
“Did you have a work event tonight?” She returned and held a small brown paper bag out to him.
“No, not tonight.” A glance inside the bag revealed little lumpy cubes of something.
She shook the bag. “Eat one.”
“We haven’t had dinner yet.” Still, he reached in took a piece and popped it in his mouth.
Apricot and vanilla filled his mouth, creating a sweet, chewy treat. Really chewy, extremely chewy, he prayed he didn’t crack a crown chewy.
Nan gave him a one-sided smile. “Good?”
The confection was worse than a caramel but he managed a nod.
“I make that candy out of dried apricots. Apricots stones are thought by some to be medicinal, but they also contain high levels of cyanide. It used to be thought apricots were an aphrodisiac, but today dried apricots are used mostly to relieve constipation.” She narrowed her eyes.
He continued to chew with his mouth closed. At the moment he could only pray she didn’t put any of the pits in the candy.
“It is my understanding that she only has to be with you for sleeping unless you have an engagement.” She stepped toward him and took his chin in her hand. “Everyone at one time or another needs some time alone to clean out their system.”
At last the candy softened, he finished chewing, swallowed and opened his mouth.
“Do you know what I called that candy when Willow was little?” She tightened her grip on him.
He waited, eager to hear a story about when his wife was little. His preliminary searches found nothing after about the age of ten and her mother passing away.
She pulled him down. “I called it ‘Be quiet and think.’“ She laughed and put the bag in his hand. “Give her some when you run out to find her.”
“Who said I was going to run after her?” He didn’t need to retrieve her, she would return, her contract specified it. It might be nice to have an evening to decompress alone, though his wife should have informed him of her whereabouts.
She patted his shoulder. “Then give her some when you meet her in bed later.”
“I must get going. There’s some work I need to attend to.” He smiled, but crumpled the bag in his fist.
She waved. “I’m going to go cook with Chef.”
“Have a good night.” He turned on his heel and left, glancing in the direction of their wing and then toward the stairs. In an attempt to answering questions about Willow’s absence to his parents, or sitting alone in his suite, he decided to heed Nan’s advice and take some time alone to clean out his system.
He tossed the candy on a side table and raced out of the house, thankful to get his car before one of the staff parked it in the garage and took off.
He continued his drive past the upscale boutiques and bistros. Once the flashing lights of the vintage clubs like the Whiskey A Go Go reflected in his windshield, the vibe of the entire street changed, Hollywood happened. At the edge, between the wealth and the real, stood the gallery.
He made his last couple of turns and pulled into the alley behind the gallery, coasting slowly past Willow’s store which appeared without any flicker of light or life inside. Technically she wasn’t gone, didn’t breach her contract, but he shuddered all the same. He parked outside her shop and walked to the gallery, letting himself inside and allowing the fumes of paint, clay and canvas to overtake him.
“Have you come looking for a job?” Slate came over and shook his hand. “Come to the back, I have a surprise for you.”
“Why do you ask that?” Randolph followed, glancing at the blank walls of the gallery, Slate must be preparing for his next show. His mind wandered to Willow. Where the hell did she go? She could have called, texted, left a note, told Nan where she went, anything. Her actions were deliberate.
“The last I saw of you, you were with Willow after you were left at the altar and about to lose all your money.”
He opened his mouth to tell Slate he had it all taken care of. At least he thought he did, but his wife was missing and he didn’t know her all that well, couldn’t even find anything about her online. The woman could have disappeared with a ring worth seven figures and while he was out searching for her, she was picking up Nan and her fur ball and hightailing it out of LA.
“Randolph?” Slate waved his hand in front of him.
Ring. His wedding ring. Damn! He shoved his hand in his pocket, wanting to dig his nails through the fabric at abiding by his wife’s wishes to keep his marriage secret when he didn’t know her whereabouts. If she decided to disappear, he swore he would use every last dollar at the bank to find her and watch her spend her life making his universe in balance again. “You know, everything in life can be negotiated. Life is nothing but a big business deal.”
“Exactly the words I would expect to come from the banker of Beverly Hills.”
Worse than nails on a chalkboard or even finding a hair in his food, Randolph shuddered at the all too familiar voice coming from the gallery storeroom. Ignoring the intrusion, he turned to Slate.
“Guess what, Argyle Brink is here and he wants in on the co-op idea.” Slate pushed him toward the storeroom.
Sick curiosity and the need for distraction alone made him walk over the threshold.
“Your timing is perfect.” With the flourish of a gaudy Las Vegas performer, Argyle bowed, taking much longer than necessary to straighten up. Boasting a large smile, he motioned to some sort of strange playhouse created out of crisscrossing pieces of wood.
“He made this for you.” Slate rubbed his hands together. “He is Jade’s inspiration and teacher.”
Randolph crossed his arms. Years of being around money mongers told him that Jade paid for every lesson. However, unlike Jade who lived the lifestyle only part time, Argyle was a living, breathing art exhibit twenty-four hours a day and had gained some notoriety on a couple reality shows. Randolph had met him several times, and even with his fondness for art, he couldn’t appreciate Argyle’s exhibits. With dark hair and a tall frame, Argyle had the looks and the attitude of an actor, not an artist.
“Everything worthwhile starts as a mess.” Argyle’s voice boomed through the space, and he walked around the sticks. “Only when people come together for the greater good, for a unified cause, can an idea be born.”
With his mouth open he watched Argyle reach into a tall black cylinder and pull out panels as if he were delivering a baby.
“Every entity m
ust offer something. Creativity.” Argyle attached a panel with paints and brushes and other art supplies onto the wood.
Slate elbowed him. “Wait for it.”
“Knowledge.” The man fit a panel with a three-dimensional brain on the structure.
Randolph leaned back on his heels as the over-the top artist continued building.
“Collaboration.” A panel with a bunch of images of people fit in the mix. “And lastly, but most important, funding.”
Slate pointed.
Argyle placed a roof tiled with golden coins on top. “When all these facets come together you have a gem.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an oversized diamond shaped stone and fit it into the panel with all the people and opened the makeshift door. A golden light glowed from within. “You have an artistic co-op.”
Slate went into a round of applause. “We’re going to be exhibiting some of Argyle’s pieces including this prosperity structure. He’ll also build more during his show.”
“Perhaps he needs to get a factory to start making pieces for him.” Randolph swallowed down his own laugh. “The real money is selling to the masses.”
“No one will ever be able to say you’re not always looking out for the bottom line.” Argyle joined them.
“What do you think of the co-op idea?” Slate asked.
Randolph looked between the men and then down to his phone. Still nothing from his ‘wife.‘ “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“I am envisioning a place where artists come together, share expenses, ideas, marketing, and pool their knowledge.” Argyle continued to use his performance persona.
“There are government grants for such entities. What do you need me for?” Randolph asked the obvious.
“Never trust people who simply give money away.” Argyle narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “We want our project to be a business, not a charity.”
“We really want to meet with you about our financial options,” Slate interjected.
“What collateral do you bring to the table?” He went into business mode, the same stance he should have taken with his spouse. At 12:01 he would act.
“I am my own collateral. I know everyone, directors, producers, if they are in the industry they want Argyle.”
In truth, Randolph barely paid attention as the men spoke. “I need some time to think about it.”
Argyle lifted his chin, but Slate shook his head. “We wouldn’t want a finance man who made snap decisions.”
“In my business you need to make sure we get a return on investment.” He walked away from the other two men and paced around the storage room, stopping in front of what he could consider a bunch of junk including some metal plaques, a pile of some handcrafted nightmare and some large letters off of a sign. Maybe he needed to put Willow’s picture on a billboard. “What is this?”
“This is the newest trend.” Argyle came up behind him. “Talk about return on investment.”
“Vintage architectural reclamations.” Slate joined and them patted the letter Z. “It’s all the rage.”
“It looks like garbage.” He tilted his head. “Those rags are part of an architectural restoration?”
“Those rags, my friend, are blankets created by your one night stand.” Slate lifted one of the green monstrosities. “Jade thought we could sell them here.”
“Willow knitted those?” He longed to tell Slate she didn’t need the pittance those would bring in anymore. Inside his pocket he twirled his wedding ring around his finger and ground his teeth together as his mind wandered again to the whereabouts of his wife. He let her walk away from the office when she was obviously upset. She could be doing more than stealing, she could be breaking other parts of the contract, like the fidelity clause. Heat overtook him and he half expected steam to come out of his ears. Maybe she went on a shopping spree with the money he handed her in that envelope. He should have used marked bills.
“Crochet.” Slate corrected. “We have one on our bed.”
“You spent the night with the wondrous Willow?” Argyle chuckled. “I would have never seen that one.”
“By the way, have you heard from Willow?” He blew out his breath slowly, and ignored Argyle, instead choosing to look around and appear nonchalant.
Slate’s laughter joined Argyle’s. “No wonder you’re not all sad about your money, I always had a feeling she would be amazing, take someone to the stars. She must have given you some birthday present.”
He stared off into nothing and vowed not to beat Slate for mentioning his wife in such a manner or Argyle for being Argyle. When they stood at that chapel in Vegas, his only concern was to get everything done by the book in the time required. The last few days had been a whirlwind and his work was all encompassing. It took until today for him to even think about what he needed to do for Willow. However, there was something indefinable, about arriving home and finding her and the dog, if one wanted to call it a dog, waiting for him. It was nice to have someone to make a little small talk with before she drifted off to sleep curled up next to him, someone who asked him how his day was without wanting to know about the accounts he worked on. “She made my day.”
“Apparently,” Argyle muttered.
Slate’s cellphone went off and he lifted his phone. “Hey listen guys, Jade wants me home and since this meeting wasn’t planned, I better go make her happy.”
He wanted to ask Slate if he knew if his wife paid the rent, preferably he wanted his friend to tell him where she was and answer with something other than a sex comment. “Hey…” He tried to be casual and with his hand still in his pocket, leaned back on his heels. “…speaking of Willow, have you seen her tonight?”
Both Slate and Argyle shook their heads.
If he asked again, he would risk sounding like a psychopath. Though he longed to keep asking, he simply held up his hand. “Well, I’ll walk you out and get going.”
He and Argyle followed Slate as he walked around the gallery setting locks and alarms. “You never did tell me what you thought about that phantom artist I showed you with the murals.”
“The mural man.” Argyle clicked his tongue. “He’s an interesting man.”
“I think it’s probably a big publicity stunt by a corporation and a lot of garbage like you showed me in your storeroom.” He took a breath and followed the other men out the front. “Let me do some more research on your idea. I need to think about it. We’ll set up a meeting soon.”
“Sounds good.” Slate saluted him. “Later.”
Argyle bowed.
He watched the men leave and took a walk down the block and stopped in front of Willow’s store. “Willow’s Wonders.” He read the sign in the window.
Again, every possibility ran through his mind as to where she went. What did he know? He didn’t know her. Whenever he asked about her past, she never answered. He couldn’t find anything on the Internet about her and he had sources. He slid his phone out of his pocket and dialed the house.
“The Van Ayers residence.” Dimitri answered.
“This is Randolph, but don’t tell anyone I’m calling. I need you to answer the following questions with a yes or no. Do you understand?” He needed to collect some data.
“Yes.” Dimitri’s punctuated tone at least told Randolph he attempted to comply.
“Is my wife home yet?” He paced back and forth in front of the store.
“No, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.” He shut his eyes with his next question. “Is Nanette in the house?”
“No.”
He stopped his pacing. Everything he suspected always came true. “Do you know where she is?”
“Yes.” Dimitri answered without a pause.
“Where is she?” He squeezed the phone.
Dimitri didn’t speak.
He kicked the sidewalk. “You can say more than yes or no. Tell me now.”
“She’s out on the grounds with the animal.”
“Can you see her?�
��
“Yes.”
He breathed. “Call me if either Nanette leaves or my wife comes home, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up and walked down to the corner and returned to the back alley, a place much better suited for parking his car, not proposals. While the back passage was familiar and safe, the image of Willow walking through here after dark chilled him. Yet the night he proposed, she showed no fear where most women wouldn’t have dared go off alone.
Once again he counted off the possibilities of where she could have gone. With no car, Nan at home and the evening darkening the world, he tensed, adding another entry to his list of horrors. What if she were hurt?
At the back door of her store, he looked up. Yes, the alley was only good for parking his car and maybe one other thing. Maybe he needed to take a lesson from Argyle and create some art. He stepped back, taking in the building, plain beige worn stucco, a perfect blank canvas. For the first time in his life he had nowhere to go.
* * * *
The stars in the sky appeared, little light bulbs turning on one by one, and Randolph stared up in an effort to recreate what he saw. The next time Willow walked down the alley in the daylight he wanted her to feel like the stars were sparkling for her and her alone.
A long time ago, too many years to count, he learned to paint fast, quick brush strokes and splashes of color, realism was not his style. While collecting art was a worthwhile pursuit for a Van Ayers, creating art was most definitely not on his list of goals.
While most children had their art hung on refrigerators, he hid his creations on papers tucked away in hidden spots.
The painting, the risk, the creating all gave him a high unlike any other and his works became bigger, and even though he didn’t seek it or claim it, he enjoyed the notoriety his art received.
However, for the first time, he painted for someone. A person who, if she showed before midnight, gave him back his future. For her, he created a star-scape complete with her astrological sign, a couple of mystical planets and a comet for good measure.
He finished putting the final touch on the last star.
On The Dotted Line Page 11