Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (21 page)

"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 knew 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 family 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.

The fourth painting featured a woman wearing a black fedora and nothing else. Her face invited the viewer to ponder and linger.

Had he kissed those lips? I had to stop driving myself crazy. Women everywhere. Glared at me. Laughed at me.

Did you think he loved you? What did he say to us? See our expressions: desire, passion, lust, anticipation, and satisfaction. Who put those smug expressions on our faces?

Dizzy, I sunk to the floor.

"Tired or sick?" Ben asked, leaning over me.

"No offense, but I feel like I stepped into a poultry farm. I've seen more breasts, legs, and thighs than the chicken guy on television," I said.

He laughed.

"I'm fine. The closeness of the walls got to me all of a sudden. I might sit out in the hall for a minute." I said.

"Okay. We are almost done."

The hall muffled the scraping and packing in the vault. I hiked down to Sam. He offered me his desk chair and handed me a water bottle.

"The thin air and sealed space takes getting used to, but it could be worse," he said.

I nodded my head in agreement.

"A lot of pretty women in the vault, but none are flesh and blood. A man needs a woman who will stand by him, when the cheering dies down. After years of searching, it's time to settle down and enjoy," he said.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" I asked.

"I've worked here for thirteen years. You're the only woman he's ever brought here. This is his pride and joy, and he's sharing it with you."

"Think I'm special?" I took a long sip of water.

"I know it, he knows it. Maybe it's time someone let you in on the secret."

I finished the water, stood, and hugged Sam.

"Enough sparking, old man," Ben growled playfully at Sam.

"She seemed a little green around the gills when she came out, but she's perked up some now," Sam said.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on her," Ben said.

He took my hand and led me back to the vault. I waved at Sam as he winked and saluted.

The last painting, Lake Michigan at sunrise, stood out as plain almost rudimentary in comparison to the others. I shrugged my shoulders.

"I got a trespassing ticket for being on the beach before it opened. I told the policeman my name, and the cop asked for my autograph. A rabid Helen Nance Cobb fan. One of the many reminders of how my mother continues to make my life easier."

The paintings were crated and carefully loaded in the elevator. Seven separate trips. Ben made every one. I loitered by the curb when he came out the last time.

"Mark went with the men and the paintings. He said he would see you at the gallery. I'd like to go home and eat," I said.

"Will you be cooking for two?"

"Yes, we can drop by the grocery store. Do you like parmesan crusted pork chops, split with jalapeños, garlic, and sage stuffing with cayenne mashed potatoes?"

"You're my queen."

True that.

We hurried to the car, flew through the store, and I made a delicious dinner.

"The gallery show is Friday. You could be Mark's date if you didn't want anyone to bother you or the security disguise," he said as he cleared the table.

He offered me a slice of his world. Would a chance like this one ever come around again? My sisters were right. Time to grab this bull by the horns and enjoy the jolting ride.

"Stay in the corner and observe? Can I plant anonymous quotes about you?" I asked as I smiled.

"If you want. Tell them you were my favorite model."

"My name is Monique. No last name. Ben and I met on a moon-swept night under a swaying palm tree. He recited Byron. Pure kismet. We've been inseparable ever since."

"They would lap it up."