by Patricia Fry
Love that sassy hairdo, Savannah thought. It's a perfect frame for her pretty face. Her blue eyes literally sparkle under those feathered bangs. Maybe I should consider…
Peter's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Here's my top sales executive," he said, smiling at the young woman. "Kara, meet my friends, Michael and Savannah Ivey and the little Ivey, makes three," he said in a sing-song manner.
Everyone laughed. Michael and Savannah greeted Kara as Peter continued the introduction: "Michael and Savannah are here visiting from Northern California." He put his arm around the young woman's shoulders. "Kara works here part-time. She's a college student studying art. She's wonderful with customers—knows how to make that sale."
Kara shook her head and smiled. "There's no selling to Peter's art. You see it; you want it."
"You've got that right," Savannah said. "I was just telling Peter I'm a soon-to-be owner of his work. Just have to figure out which one I want to take home."
Peter grinned at her and then turned to Kara. "Now that you're here, I'm going to leave for a while. I'll be back in an hour or so. Come on," he said to Savannah and Michael, "I'll show you where I live, when I'm not at the gallery or traveling."
"Nice to meet you, Kara," Savannah said, as she trailed after the men toward the front door. But the girl didn't seem to hear her. What's got her intense attention? she wondered, following Kara's gaze. She's staring at Peter. Hmm, he didn't notice. When Savannah stepped out onto the sidewalk, she glanced back at Kara through the window. Looks like she has a crush on her boss, or is that an expression of hostility? Hard to tell. Whatever her feelings, they're intense.
"You say you work in a loft?" Michael asked, as they strolled away from the gallery past quaint shops filled with everything imaginable related to the beach. Savannah noticed several stores offering local art of all kinds—from hand-painted seashells and jewelry to metal art and screen-printed clothing to note cards and sculpted sea creatures.
"You're lagging," Michael called out to Savannah.
"There's a lot to see," she explained.
"Yes, there is," Peter agreed, twisting his head to ogle a couple of bikini-clad women.
"You haven't changed a bit, have you, Peter?" Michael said, laughing. "Still watching skirts."
"What skirts?" Peter asked, turning and winking at Savannah, who was rushing to catch up.
"Peter," Savannah said in hushed tones," do you know that man over there?"
"Huh? Where?" he asked.
"Oh, he's gone," she said, attempting to spot him again.
"Who was it?" Peter asked.
"Well, I saw him earlier outside your office window. Just now, it appeared that he was watching us."
Peter squinted. "What did he look like?"
"Kind of scraggly. He had unkempt medium-brown hair and a beard. He was wearing a baseball cap."
Peter chuckled. "Sounds like any one of the homeless who hang around this area. You've also described some of the typical surfer dudes."
"Well, this one seemed interested in us," she said.
"Savannah, do you mean to tell me that you don't get looks when you walk down the street in Hammond?" he asked, grinning.
"No, Peter," she said. "Not like that. This guy had something else on his mind."
"Oh, so he was interested in us guys?" Michael asked, laughing.
"No. Just never mind," she said, pouting a little. "If some creepy guy jumps out of the bushes and knocks you over the head with his skateboard, just remember that I tried to warn you."
By then, they were walking away from the beach and the shopping district.
"So you don't live on the beach," Michael remarked.
"No, but I can enjoy the ocean from where I am." He pointed. "See the third house up the hill there? …that pukey-yellow and poopy-brown monstrosity?"
"Yes," Michael said, frowning.
Savannah nodded, her eyes wide.
"That's not it," Peter said. "I'm at the top of the street in the Cape Cod. See the telescope in the bay window?"
Michael looked at Peter. "A loft in a Cape Cod?"
Peter shrugged. "What can I say; I'm an artist." He turned to Savannah, who was walking alone behind them and asked, "Is the baby enjoying the beach?"
"Well, we haven't had her down on the beach yet," she said. "I'm not sure she'll like the feel of the sand or the cold ocean water. Tomorrow's our beach day."
"Oh yes, my son's coming tomorrow," Michael said, excitedly. "Wait 'til you meet him. He's quite a boy." He turned to Peter. "You never had any children, did you? Ever marry?" he asked.
Peter was silent for a few seconds, then, ignoring the questions, he said, "Here we are; home. Come meet my family."
Savannah and Michael exchanged looks—wondering who might lurk behind the cobalt-blue door. Using a key, Peter opened the door a crack and looked around. "The coast is clear," he said. "Come on in."
"What do you mean 'the coast is clear'?" Michael asked, maneuvering the stroller into the room. "What were you expecting to see—a date leftover from last night?"
Peter raised his eyebrows. "You never know, Michael, you old married man, you."
Savannah entered last and closed the door just as a wooly husky wriggled happily into the room toward them. "Hi, Sakari," Peter said. "Come meet some new friends."
"Sakari?" Savannah repeated. "A Japanese name for an Alaskan husky? Or is she Siberian?" she asked.
"Long story. Actually, she's a mix of Alaskan and Siberian and the name comes from Alaska. My fiancé called her 'Sweetie.' When she left and I took my manhood back..." he chuckled, "I started calling her Sakari, which, I must admit, still means sweet, but it doesn't sound so foo- foo."
"Well, she is sweet," Savannah said, kneeling to pet the rambunctious dog. When Sakari danced her way toward Michael for some petting, Savannah stood and looked around. "Great house. Do you do a lot of entertaining?" she asked.
"As little as possible. But it kind of comes with the territory. When you have a big house, you're often elected to host events."
"I know what you mean," Savannah said. "We have a big old house that Michael has been refurbishing little by little and, since we have the room, any gatherings are usually at our place. We've hosted weddings, charity events, most of our organization meetings…"
Peter nodded. "I hear ya. That's what people expect, isn't it?" He addressed Michael, "You're a handyman?"
"Yes, you might say that's my art," he said, faking a pretentious air.
Peter hesitated for a moment. In a more serious tone, he said, "Well, I might have a project for you."
"Anything I can do to help," Michael said. "Do you have tools?"
"Uh, no," he lowered his head. He then perked up and said, "But I know someone who does."
Michael shook his head, lowering his brows. "Guys don't like to loan their tools, Peter. A man's tools are like…well, probably like your paint brushes and paints… sacred… off-limits…"
Peter looked at him, nodding silently. He then took a breath, which seemed to give him a spark of energy. "Well, let me give you the grand tour. I'll explain what I need and we'll see what we can figure out."
Michael lifted Lily out of the stroller and carried the sleeping baby in his arms as Peter walked them through the house. "This is the kitchen, where I spend the least of my time." He opened a large pantry. "See, nearly bare. I'm no fan of cooking."
"Well, you're pretty good at it," Savannah said. "Your breakfast was delicious."
"Oh, that was a fluke. Beginner's luck. I eat out a lot," he admitted. He smiled. "But I do get regular home-cooking. I have a wonderful housekeeper who pampers me with great meals. She actually cooks while she cleans. So on the days she comes, I look forward to a real dinner, as well as sweet rolls or muffins for breakfast the next day." He faced Michael and Savannah. "Hey, you'll meet her; she cleans the beach house on Fridays, if you don't mind her coming in."
Savannah shook her head.
"Ah yes, what would I do
without Mama Maria?" he said, smiling. He then frowned. "I hope I don't have to find out. Lately, she's been a little spooked. I'm not sure she can hang in there with all that's going on."
Before Michael or Savannah could respond, Peter hastened his gate toward a narrow staircase to the right of the kitchen. "Come see my studio."
The staircase led to a large loft overlooking the spacious living room and with views of mountains on one side and the ocean on the other.
"Wow!" Savannah said, looking around. "What a bright, welcoming place."
"Yes, isn't it?" Peter agreed.
She walked over to a long table against the only wall without windows and looked at Peter's array of paints, brushes, and other items she guessed were used in his art. "You frame your own paintings?" she asked when she spotted an orderly supply of framing materials.
"I do some. I have a gal who comes in and builds frames for me a few times a week. Charlynn does a good job."
"Is this your current project?" Michael asked, viewing the canvas resting on an easel.
"One of them," he said. "I paint by mood."
"By mood? Oh, that's interesting," Savannah said. Suddenly, she faced him. "Please tell me you're not a Gemini."
"Uh, why?" he asked.
"Geminis are probably the most moody of all with their twin personas."
"Well, I'm not a Gemini. I'm a Cancer—on the cusp of Gemini."
"Yikes! Even worse!" Savannah said.
"Do you believe in all that stuff?" he asked her.
"Oh, it's just a fascination for me. I don't really know much about astrology." She looked at Peter. "Evidently, you're using the best of all aspects of your chart because you seem to be doing very well." Savannah glanced around at the paintings. Suddenly she was drawn to one of them. "Who did this one?" she asked, studying it more closely.
"That's mine," Peter said quietly. "Why?"
She looked at him and then at the painting. Stepping back, she viewed it from a different angle. She shook her head slowly. "It isn't…well…it's different than the others. It's dark."
Peter studied Savannah's face. He finally said, rather flippantly, "How astute of you, young lady. That was…well, I wasn't in a good place when I did that one. I wanted to paint over it, but decided the mood—the emotion—was something I needed to face." He took in a deep breath. "If I'm going to stay in this business and enjoy the status I've achieved, I guess I need to develop a tougher outer core."
Savannah glanced at Michael, who was examining the framing equipment while still holding their sleeping child. She then looked back at the painting. "Sad," she said.
"Sad?" he asked.
"I sense sadness in this piece."
"Well yeah," Peter said, grinning, "the tree branches are drooping, the raindrops look like teardrops, the colors are drab. There's no joy there—even the creatures are hiding from the light; see the fox in the burrow? Look at his eyes. And the birds… I painted birds in this one—even they don't look happy, right?"
"Interesting," Savannah said. "I sensed it—I felt it—but I couldn't describe it."
"You have a good eye for the emotion in art—at least my art." His demeanor brightened as he walked briskly to the other side of the room. "Come look at this one. What emotion is prevalent here?" he asked.
Michael joined Peter and Savannah in front of the painting. He poked his wife playfully in the ribs. "What are you, an art critic now?"
"She's pretty good at it," Peter said. "Now what is the emotion here?" he asked her. "Can you feel it or sense it?"
Savannah gazed at the large painting. Finally, she said, "Wow! What comes to me is conflict, maybe confusion."
Peter looked at Savannah. Finally, he said, "I was at a crossroads in my life and in my art when I painted it." He reached behind it. "Here's a print of the one I did after the conflict was…pretty much resolved. I've sold more copies of this print than probably any other. Can you see the emotionally-driven changes in my work between these two?"
"Oh yes," Savannah said. "That's when the playful, whimsical aspect appeared…or returned, maybe."
Michael walked closer to the paintings Savannah and Peter were comparing. He looked from one to the other and said, "I can't see much difference. They're both really good."
"The differences are subtle, Michael," Peter explained. "You have to be able to feel what's in the strokes and the colors. Savannah has an uncanny ability to do that." He turned to her. "Where did you get that skill?"
She shrugged. "Heck, I didn't know I had it."
"She's as intuitive as most cats," Michael said. "I don't know how she comes up with some of the things she does." He then said, "I think I could paint a picture in this environment. Is this the only place you paint? Is this where you get your inspiration?"
"Once you've painted as long as I have, you don't need outside visual stimulation. It comes from inside." Peter looked somber. "And that's what people don't understand. You can't force or manufacture this," he said, moving his arm in a sweeping motion toward the array of his paintings.
"Certainly not," Savannah agreed. "Does someone think they can?"
Peter let out a sigh. "Apparently." His demeanor suddenly brightened. "Come on, I have something else to show you," he said, leading the Ivey family down the stairs, through a long hallway, and into the garage.
"Nice cars," Michael said, once the garage light went on.
"That's not what I want to show you. But yeah, I do enjoy my cars. He pointed to a low, lean sports car and smiled. "I use this one to get the girls—I mean women," he said with a chuckle. He nodded toward a shiny black sedan. "The luxury car's for dating."
Michael shook his head. "Peter, Peter…what a life you lead."
"Yeah, I know—you're envious, right?"
Michael put one arm around Savannah. "Not really," he said, shaking his head slowly.
Peter walked past the cars to another door and invited the couple to follow him. They exited onto a lovely patio with a high wall around it. "Let's see," he said glancing around the area. He pointed toward a gathering of pots filled with colorful flowers. "There's Gingersnap. And Claude is lying on the other side of those petunias."
"Geraniums," Savannah corrected.
"What?" Peter said, looking confused. "Oh, yeah, the flowers. I call all flowers petunias." He gazed in that direction again. "Those aren't petunias?"
Savannah stooped and petted both cats. "They're really cute. Are they siblings?"
Peter appeared stunned. "How did you know that?" he asked. "They look nothing alike."
"They look a lot alike," Savannah said. "One's bigger, but they have the same facial structure, same ears, same cobby body, fur is similar…"
"Oh, I never noticed that. I just noticed they're different colors and they have different personalities."
"Yes, Gingersnap is an orange tabby and Claude is a tuxedo cat—way different coloring, but very similar body types and features."
Peter walked over to the two young cats. "Never noticed that before."
"So do they roam?" Savannah asked.
"No," Peter said, emphatically. "See that wire around the top of the wall?"
"Yes, electric, huh?"
"You electrocute your cats?" Michael asked.
"No. I turn it on at a real low voltage for about a week when I get a new cat. Then I don't need it anymore. The cats know they're supposed to stay inside. You probably saw the pet door from the house into the garage and the one out to here. The cats and dog have the run of the place, only I close this door off at night."
"Don't want a seagull to get them, huh?" Michael laughed.
Peter nodded. "Something like that."
"So what's the job you want to show me, Peter?" Michael asked.
He took in a deep breath. "I'd like to put in some cameras."
"Surveillance cameras?" Michael asked. "Out here? Also maybe in front of your garage, right?"
"No, inside," Peter said. "Here in my studio and at the gallery."
"Why inside?" Michael asked, creasing his brow.
Peter looked at Michael and then Savannah. "Man, I don't want to drag you into this. Probably should have put off your visit, but…" Just then Peter's cell phone rang. He edged it out of his jeans pocket, looked at it, and said, "I'd better take this call."
Michael glanced at Savannah and then back at Peter. "Uh, okay, we should go get something to eat anyway, and Savannah's mother's coming in this afternoon."
"See you tonight? Meet me at the gallery at seven, and we'll go from there." He addressed Savannah. "Dress is casual; probably get a little chilly tonight." He started to put the phone up to his ear, but stopped and asked, "Can you find your way back to the living room?" He pointed. "Just head that direction, through the door. See you later," he called after the couple as they walked away.
"Whew, that was quite a walk up this hill, wasn't it?" Savannah commented as they stepped out the front door and started down the steep driveway.
"Going down with the stroller isn't much easier than it was pushing it up," Michael said. "I think if we visit Peter's home again, we'll drive."
Savannah shuddered. "I'm a little leery about visiting him."
"For heaven's sake, why?" Michael asked.
"It sounds like he has someone after him. He seems a little nervous. Even his housekeeper's frightened," Savannah said.
"Wouldn't you be concerned if you had so much at stake?" Michael asked. "The bigger you get, the more you have at risk and the more you fear losing it."
"Michael, I don't care how big or small you are. No one wants to lose what they have." She looked at him. "Maybe he's paranoid. Have you known him to overreact to things before?"
He thought for a moment before saying, "No. In fact, he was always the cool guy—nothing fazed him."
"Well, something seems to be fazing him, now. I'm curious to know what it is."
The couple walked in silence for a block and then Michael said, "It is odd that he wants cameras installed inside, don't you think? Maybe he's worried about people stealing his art. You know, his gallery is certainly attractive, but the design isn't very practical. There are a lot of areas hidden from view. It would help if he'd cut those aisle panels down so there's more visibility around the room."