A half hour later, we met Mr. Cobb in the lobby of our building, and Mark drove us to the architect's office. The meeting lasted an hour with the Cobb men battering the architect with questions and comments. I silently took notes and hoped I got all the information right.
As we headed home, conversation in the back seat revolved around Mr. Cobb telling silly stories about Ben as a child. I laughed and tried to imagine my ultimate male as a little boy.
"At age eight, Ben decided he could draw. Quite proud of his first painting. So I said, 'What is it?' 'My dog, Tar.' It resembled a bus with a tail. Helen framed it and put it in Ben's room. Every day he came with a different picture. He believed all of them were suitable for framing. His mother complied until his wall dripped of dreadful artwork."
"My official gallery," Ben said with a smile.
"Two weeks later, little league started. Some of his friends came over to trade baseball cards. They went in Ben's room and surveyed the wall. Ben's first show so to speak. They all asked the same question. 'What is it?' He couldn't believe they couldn't see the obvious. Imagine what ten pictures splattered with black paint looked like to four eight-year-old boys? Absolute junk," Mr. Cobb said as he laughed through the recollection.
"They still have no taste," Ben added.
"He told them to have their eyes examined and leave. All the boys praised his mother's framing and encouragement. Their moms never did that. As for art, you see his fondness for black is long and deep. Also it left a deep scar. He still refuses to show much of his work in public. Afraid, boy?"
Ben scowled at his father.
"What happened to Tar?" I asked, hoping to keep the conversation light.
"He died a warrior's death. He chased a squirrel up a tree, didn't watch for cars, and got nailed," Ben said.
"How did that make him a warrior?" I asked.
"He followed the ancient inborn creed of dogs. Chase all small fur balls," Ben said with a hint of emotion.
"Were you upset?" I asked.
"Almost a man at thirteen. I cried for days."
"Did you get another dog?" I asked as I slid my arm around his shoulders.
"He discovered girls instead and has followed the other ancient inborn creed ever since," Mr. Cobb said.
"Another creed?" I asked.
"Chase every one," his father said.
We arrived at his hotel.
"And on that cheery note, children, I shall leave you. I hope to see you soon, Alexia. I enjoyed your company immensely. You're enchanting. The museum will be glorious," he said as he took my hand and kissed it. "I expect to see you, too, Ben."
"I'll have to check my schedule."
Mr. Cobb had set him up with me. Would we discuss the past and all the painted ladies?
"Good day, all." He flashed a triumphant smile and left.
He had won round two.
"My father has a charming wickedness about him. He seems courtly one minute and a complete rogue the next."
"Just like you."
"You think I'm wicked." He put his hand to his chest to feign innocence.
"Yes, I feel I'm under a spell. Your father is implying you have been well acquainted with numerous women."
"There haven't been that many women."
"Do you have an actual total or a vague estimate?" I asked and didn't want to know.
Mark dropped us at the curb of our building. The sympathetic look he shot Ben told me he'd heard our conversation.
We hiked up to the condo, and he led me to the couch.
"Do you want to play truth or dare?" he asked.
Not especially, but I went first.
"You're my fourth lover," I offered.
"This year?"
"Ever," I said as I crossed my legs.
With a surprised look on his face, he cleared his throat, and then studied me again.
"How many guys have you dated?"
"Ten or so. Some were one and done. He never called back or I didn't answer. Do you keep a complete list of your past flings?"
"I dropped out of college after a month, moved to Paris, and would wake up with women I didn't remember. I drank heavily then. Full self-destructive mode. Whiskey, women, painting, and cigarettes were my only interests. I drew some of my conquests. Two of those paintings hang in the Art Institute."
"I've seen those. The titles are appropriate."
"Yes, most of my models at that time were one-night stands. Women found out I was an American painter, and their clothes would evaporate. They threw themselves at me, and I happily obliged."
"Sounds familiar," I said, pretending to notice my chipped nail polish.
"When I finally sobered up and made my reluctant return to America, the cycle threatened to start again. I crushed my remaining cigarettes and adopted scotch with a three-drink maximum. I stopped painting portraits of my dates and paid models instead. It dawned on me the women I chose wanted my fame and money, not me."
"Do you have any STDs or children?" I asked.
The drugs and drinking didn't lend themselves to safe sex. Look who was talking? I hadn't insisted on a condom every time either. This guy became my drug of choice. I'd do anything for one more taste.
"My lab reports have come back negative for years. As for offspring, I think I would have been notified by now," he said.
I didn't know him then, there were no vows between us, and the past was better left to gather dust. Nothing to be forgiven, our life together started now.
"You could drive me crazy and tell me about the men you dated," he said as he put his arm around my shoulder.
"I don't want to bruise your delicate feelings."
"I appreciate it."
"One more question is nagging me. If it's too personal, tell me to back off. How old were you when…"
How rude and none of my business. And if he mentioned a brothel, I would choke.
He smiled and rubbed his chin. He enjoyed his trip down memory lane, compliments of my curiosity.
"I lost my virginity at fifteen. Richard Grant's eighteen-year-old daughter made the rounds. Grant tried to do a business deal with my father. He invited us to dinner when my mother was out of town. The fathers retired to the patio, and we dashed upstairs. The whole thing took twenty minutes. She drained me and went back downstairs to dry the dishes. I never saw her again but heard she married a Congressman and is living in Washington, DC."
"Did you tell your father?"
"Didn't have to. He could tell by looking at me."
"How did you look?"
"Relieved."
Since he was in the mood to be interrogated, I continued.
"How many paintings have you done? I know the Art Institute has a couple. I've seen a few photographs in magazines from the ones you sold."
He winced.
"I hate myself for selling any. Young and flattered, I wanted to prove to my father I could make money from painting. A few savvy buyers showed up at my loft one day with a lot of francs. I sold eighty and have cursed myself every day since. They reproduced the paintings on note cards and posters. It made me sick, but I couldn't admit it. I had bragged to my father about the easy money. Afterward, I stopped cold. Never let another painting out of my sight. I've done over one thousand paintings. I've kept one hundred and fifty."
"You still have all of them?"
"Yep. Under lock and key. Air-cooled comfort. Twenty-four hour surveillance."
"They are worth a fortune. Are they insured?"
"No, they will be worth real money when I'm dead."
"That's a horrible but true thought. Where are they?"
"In a bank vault. I rent space in the old Continental Bank building. The empty vaults are perfect. They are happy to have me. Would you like a tour?"
"Very much."
"Tomorrow morning, okay?"
"I'd be honored."
"Alexia, I'm glad you're out of the newspaper business. This conversation would have made a damn good interview."
I kne
w what I missed, but what had I gained? A better job, a cuter boss, and the ultimate benefit package. And by package, I meant happiness, comfort, and sex.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Down to the business district on LaSalle Street, we went into the bowels of the ornate golden building. A portly office manager named Floyd accompanied us.
"Is this what catacombs feel like?" I asked trying to hide my claustrophobia.
I felt a cold draft on my feet. A guard greeted us as the elevator doors opened.
"Sam, good to see you," Ben said.
"Mr. Cobb, always a pleasure," he said, smiling and shaking hands.
"This is Alexia Hale. I'm desperately trying to impress her."
"Well, if the collection doesn't work on Miss Hale, I suggest she consider dating a much older wiser man."
At least sixty-five, reed thin, and sporting only some of his original teeth, Sam adjusted his tie and winked.
"Thank you for your generous offer. I'll keep it in mind," I said.
"The thin air must be getting to you. Your encroaching senility is showing," Ben said not even slightly amused.
"I still recognize quality," Sam said.
Sam's key, Floyd's key, and Ben's key entered the locks. All were needed to open the door. I stepped in as the overhead lights flickered on.
"I don't think you'll find ghosts, but rumor has it some wild parties happened in there," Floyd said.
"Make sure you're out of earshot. I don't want to shock you," Ben said as he closed the door.
My mouth hung open. We were surrounded by canvasses of all sizes. Framed and unframed. Colors from the entire spectrum. Women from all walks and stages of life. Nude, appealing, sensual, stared at me. The past reborn and revisited.
Did he remember their names and circumstances? Did he care for any of them?
"Would you like to plow through on your own or pay a dime, and get a guided tour?" Ben asked.
I found a dime at the bottom of my purse and handed it to him.
"Wise choice. Out of all the crap I have painted in fifteen years, this is the best of it. In my own humble opinion."
I chose a painting of a lonely bleak road. The yellow half-moon cast the only light. A broken-down wagon sat in the middle.
"What's the story of this one?" I asked.
"When I decided to drop Emanuel and change my name to Nance Cobb. I took the horse, ditched the battered past, and rode toward the fading light. Neat imagery, huh?"
"The wagon is your father and the moon is your mother."
"Very good. If I ever catalog or give it all away, I'll have you write the histories."
"It all belongs in a museum. Ben, incredible art shouldn't be hidden. It's a gift to be experienced, pondered, and remembered."
His features darkened like a coming storm.
"I'm silly, naïve, and a few other choice words you won't mention. You're a gifted artist. It's a shame to hide these gorgeous creations underground," I said.
"Art is bought and sold for profit. Sheer greedy numbers. Every piece before you is a piece of me. I won't hold it up to public scrutiny for critiques, photographers, interviews, and all the other bullshit hype. It all stays where I say for as long as I want," he said a tad too loudly.
The boys upstairs would think we were having sex. Better than a prima donna hissy fit. So, it was clear that Ben guarded all his toys and wouldn't let anyone else play.
I ignored his ranting, put my head down, and hiked over to another stack. A nymph watched me. I picked up the painting of a young girl eating a peach. Budding youth, lingering innocence, with delectable lips.
"What's her story?" I asked, recalling I was the one who agreed to this trip below sea level.
"My neighbor's daughter in Paris at eleven, but could pass for sixteen. She was being groomed to join her mother's profession."
"Modeling?"
"Prostitution. Her mother sent her over to my apartment to test her charms. I gave her a peach and told her I'd draw her instead. I talked to her mother about keeping her daughter in school. She patted my cheek and marveled at my naiveté. I keep the painting to remind me. For all my gutter experience, I'm still a rookie in some circles."
"How awful for her."
"People have to eat and pay the rent. I've given up passing judgment or offering advice."
I stared at the girl and imagined her happy. Anything else would have depressed me more.
"Want to see my favorite painting?" he asked.
"Please."
He sauntered over to the wall and pointed to a child's drawing of a family: father, mother, son, and a dog.
"I hid it on my mother's worktable. It took two days for her to unearth it. When she found it, she had it framed and put it in her bedroom. 'First faces I see in the morning and the last ones at night,' she said. After she died I went to their room and took it off the wall. It had been there all that time."
"It should be in your apartment."
"It was for a while. Now, I'm planning to replace it with your portrait."
I began to understand the feeling of being on display.
"I know this painting, but didn't know you were the artist." I pointed to it on the opposite wall.
"I had an agent at the time who talked me into loaning paintings to museums. Presumptuous and arrogant, of course it appealed to me. A book was released of the portfolio without my permission. I fired him and collected his finder's fee and his Italian sports car."
I examined the work. A woman in her fifties. Not beautiful, but had a quality about her, drawing the viewer in. She reclined with her back to the audience. She glanced over her shoulder as if she had turned in response to her name. Her poise, her confidence, her sensuality all captured in her glance. The original woman. Eve. Mother and temptress. Nurturer and siren.
We worked our way through the rest of the covert gallery. He commented on each one that caught my eye.
"Is this the first tour you have ever given?" I asked.
"Does it show?"
"Pride mixed with joy. I like it."
"I'm glad we came."
Three hours later, we emerged from the cavern. I felt immensely closer to him. He had given me a peek at his heart and soul.
"Impressed, Miss Hale?" Sam asked.
"Completely. Thank you."
Ben took my hand, and we jettisoned back to civilization.
"Have you ever considered getting your work appraised?" I asked when we were back in the car.
"No, and it never will be as long as I'm alive."
"You're very possessive."
"And you're obsessive. How about dinner?"
"You should have them photographed for an official book."
"Only if I can put your luscious body on the cover."
I shut up, but how could I make him understand his talent was a gift to be shared? Reasoning with Benjamin Nance Cobb's psyche would be a life's work. Was I applying for the job?
Over dinner, I remembered a phone call from a few days ago.
"Harold Wellington called and sounded frantic. He needs your final number by tomorrow."
"I forgot all about him. I agreed to a small show for a select group of people. It's the fundraiser I told you about for my friend's son."
He pulled out his cell phone.
"I need you and a team tomorrow to meet me at the vault at about nine o'clock. Bye," he said. "I left a message for Mark, and you need to call Eleanor to be my date. You can pose as security or staff."
How did I forget he asked my sister out? I chose to distance myself, so I had no right to be jealous. Much.
"I pick security. I'll be Cassandra, dressed all in black, with a headset and clipboard. A Russian accent would be a nice touch. Is one of your paintings for sale?"
"No, people bought tickets for a private viewing."
"Sounds like a wake."
"Hopefully, it won't feel like one. I need to pick some paintings tomorrow. Want to come?"
"Please, I vote for the famil
y portrait."
"I hold the power of veto over all. I pick the paintings. You can watch."
"My sisters say I'm too opinionated. I should defer to my elders."
I smiled as he moved closer and kissed me.
"I intend to share all the wisdom of my years with you. I will tutor you personally in any and all topics of life," he said.
I was always an excellent student and a quick study.
"This show will be for other artists casing Wellington as a potential player. They want to see how he handles the show and them. All sizing each other up."
"But you're not interested in selling. Has the show sold out?"
"Two hundred tickets in seven minutes. Not rock star level, but I'm encouraged. I'm the best of my generation and the next," he said in a serious tone.
"A modest man would mention he was fortunate to be discovered at an early age."
"He'd be a liar too. Ego is everything. I want to be the artist now. Not fifty years after my premature death."
The tilt of his chin, the glint in his eyes, he sent signals to all around him. He reeked of success, confidence, and pride. He was guilty of a few sins and reveled in the tale.
The next day Ben, Mark, four guys, and I descended on the vault. The men were impressed with the sheer amount of paintings.
"Man, you did all this? Why don't you sell it? You would make a killing," one of the movers said.
Ben didn't respond, but frowned at Mark.
They dug in and got to work. Five paintings were selected. First choice, a nude woman reclined on the beach.
"Did you paint this outside?" I asked.
"Of course. On the Riviera, women sunbathe nude. I asked her if she would mind if I immortalized her, and she could have cared less," he said as he hugged me. "It's just a picture."
I won't be jealous ever. I promised myself over and over.
Second, the Water Tower at night shrouded in the snow.
Next, a deserted Parisian street café with the remnants of lunch on the table: bread, cheese, and two wineglasses. One with a smear of lipstick. I studied it and concluded the couple skipped before they paid the bill.
"You need to get out more. After a light meal, they retire to their room for an afternoon of lovemaking," he said as he smiled.
Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy Page 16