The Artist's Paradise (17 page)

“Hello.”

Angie dropped her brush and glanced up. A slender gray-haired woman appeared in the backyard next door. The woman watched her intently. Angie waved and returned her attention to her painting.

The woman approached with a smile, holding a bouquet of deep purple irises.

“Good morning. I’m your neighbor, Hanna Baker. I brought you some flowers from my garden.”

“
What a vibrant purple, it’s almost black. I’ve never seen such gorgeous irises.” Angie said. “Thank you for sharing your garden with me. I’m Angie Rhodes, a guest of Professor Turner.”

The older woman smiled.
“I’ve seen you around for the last few weeks. Are you his new girlfriend?

Angie laughed
. “Oh my no, I’m an art student taking a summer class.”

“Of course, pardon me. I just assumed …” Hanna hooked her hair behind her ears. “
James had a few others stay here during the summer months.”

“Yes, I understand one of
his students helped design and build the cottage.”

“Well,
it seemed to me he treated her more like a girlfriend. But it’s none of my business. My husband, Jack, tells me I’m a busy-body.”

“Most men think we women are too curious for our own good,” Angie said.

“I’m glad you understand.” Hanna leaned in for a closer look. “What are you painting?”

“It’s a garden landscape, my class assignment for the day.”

The neighbor woman handed Angie the flowers, smiled, and excused herself. As she waltzed back to her own yard, she looked over her shoulder and shouted, “Maybe we can have tea one morning.”

“I’d love to. Let me know when.”

“How about tomorrow, say around 10?”

Oh no, that would break Rule #1. She saddened. She
missed time with another woman—if only for just a few minutes. “Sure. Come over to the cottage tomorrow, but I can’t visit long. The professor has rules about distractions.”

Angie, delighted to learn more about the professor
’s former students, whistled as she continued with her exhibit. At last, another human to talk to. She realized how she had been so isolated.

With her
painting completed, Angie stood and stroll back toward the cottage. Her stomach growled. She had not seen or heard the professor all day. It was almost four o clock, and she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She’d been accustomed to the professor providing all of her meals. There was nothing in the cottage to eat. She must develop more independence. She was a grown woman, not a silly child, waiting for someone to feed her.

A sharp voice brought her back to reality. “Who was that interfering with your work?”
Professor Turner stood in front of her, his hands on his hips. His irritation poured out with each tap of his foot.

“What?”

“You heard me. Rule #1—no visitors during class time.”

Angie strained to hold her tone level and emotions in check. “I haven’t had a single visitor. My entire focus is on learning.”

“Don’t lie to me. Who gave you those flowers?” His words spit out like a jealous husband.

“I met your neighbor lady, Hanna. She pick
ed flowers in her garden and gave me the Irises. She left in less than five minutes.”

“You k
now the rules. No visitors—none.”

Angie glared at him, grabbed up her blanket, and stomped into the cottage. She slammed the door behind her. She wouldn’t be spoken to like that, not by anyone. Not
even
the professor.

Chapter 3
0

Two hours after the blow up with the professor, he’d not attempted to contact her. The emptiness in her stomach took priority over her hurt feelings. She Googled delivery options and finally settled on a local college favorite, pizza. The life-saving meal arrived within thirty minutes and after tipping the driver, she sunk into the sofa and devoured half of her medium meat lovers with extra cheese.

With her hunger satisfied, she picked up her cell phone and called Vicki. No answer. She left a short message and
placed her cell phone back on the coffee table.

She
needed to talk to her friend. Vicki always picked up. Maybe she was still upset from their last call. She knew she’d been short with Vicki. But the professor was so bent on his rules.

What was wrong with him?
He was such a gifted teacher. She was growing in her craft. But this other side of him was confusing, mixed up childhood or not.

Angie
gathered up her newest exhibit. She walked over to the north window and held her painting up in the evening moonlight. She knew it was good. She’d incorporated everything the professor had berated her on. He had been so critical. Yet, she knew having rushed the project had hindered her final product. No one ever said she had to be a speed painter. She’d already learned so much from him. It would be better for her if she rolled with his moods and learned as much as she could in the next few weeks.

Sh
e’d developed expertise in avoiding conflict. She’d spent most of her teen years managing to stay clear of her parents and their issues. Until recently, she’d escaped arguing with Jonathan. She wouldn’t ruin her chance to become a true artist, just because of an occasional black mood and a few ridiculous rules.

Determined to end the madness, she
grabbed her exhibit and stomped out of the cottage. Marching up to the professor’s back door, she knocked and waited. The door opened slowly and the professor leered through the slim crack he had made available. His head slumped downward, no eye contact. “Yes?”

She
stepped back as if he were contagious. “It is time for you to review my exhibit. May I come in?”

He silently opened the door. Holding her head erect, Angie extended her stride as she marched behind him. Once in the living room, she stood by the window and held up her
painting. “I think it’s quite nice. What are your thoughts?

He took the painting from her and walked to the opposite side of the room, examin
ing the artwork. Then he turned to her, smiled, and said, “Yes, quite nice indeed.”

The old professor was back. Where he had gone, she couldn’t guess. But he was the man she
had come to learn from, and he had returned. From now on, she would dare to ask more questions. If she needed additional time, she would demand it. She could follow his ridiculous rules, but he must give her the time to do the work.

“Professor, I studied the articles about Paula. She is dedicated and driven.
Was she easier to work with than your other students?

He paused and let out a long breath. “There has never been a student more focused on her craft. It was, and always will be, her only love. Even as she designed and helped me build the cottage, it was a means to her end goal—fame and fortune.”

Angie sensed his sadness. His eyes were dull, no sparkle, his face, without expression. Had this Paula been more to him than just a summer student? Of course, she had. “Do you ever hear from her?”

He turned his back to Angie and said nothing.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

He turned back around and met her stare. “My life has been difficult. No woman, not even my mother, ever remained true to me. Paula, like the others, stole my talents and used it for her own good.”

She crossed the room and put out her arms to him. He grabbed her and pulled her close. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

He stood erect and
inched closer. “You can learn, you can become great, and you can give me all the credit. But will you?”

“Yes. Of course I will.”

“Time will tell.” He stepped back and gave her a long, cold stare. “Sleep well. Tomorrow you have a full day for your assignment, and you’ll need every minute I allow you.” The professor bid her a curt
good night.

The harsh tone in his voice
returned. Was he still angry? He went from caring to cold. What did he have planned for her? Angie’s stomach cramped. She ran to the cottage as the bitter taste of bile spilled into her mouth. She poured herself a tall glass of cold water and gulped it down as if finding an oasis in the desert. The rock in her stomach remained.

She
grabbed the cell phone and punched in her home number. Please, Jonathan, be there. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hi, it’s me. How’s everything at home?”

He swallowed so loudly she heard the gulp. “Fine, everything’s fine. Mister Tubbs and I get along famously. And you?”

Finally able to speak to Jonathan, her throat tightened. How could she tell him what was happening? She needed his advice
, but would he listen or try to understand? For the first time in eight years, she’d stood up to him. If he knew her real situation, he’d use it every time she wanted to do something he didn’t. She couldn’t give up that easily.

“I’m learning a lot
, but I miss you and Mister Tubbs.”

“We miss you too. It’s not the same here without you.”

Angie’s hands trembled. She wanted to ask him about the strange changes in the professor. Why couldn’t she tell him the truth? “I know I haven’t called much. The professor has these rules. No calls during the day. That’s considered class time. Now he’s starting to extend the class into the evenings.” She dropped onto the edge of the bed. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

“That would be wonderful. Could we
schedule a set time for our calls?”

“My schedule
’s never the same. Class may extend into the late evening.” She jerked her head away from the phone—a call waiting beep. Could it be the professor, or perhaps, Vicki returning her call? She must end this call. “It’s better if I call you when I know I’m allowed.” She heard him breathing more quickly, but he remained silent. “Jonathan, please trust me. I’ll keep in touch as much as possible. I’ll be coming home soon, and this will all be over.”

“What choice do I have?
You know trust is a two-way street. But that conversation is for another day.”

A loud knock on her door
caused her to drop her phone. She picked it up. “I have to go.” Her shoulders tensed. “Professor Turner’s here again. Sorry. I’ll stay in touch.”

She glared at the door.
Now what did
he
want?  “Who is it?”

“It’s me
. Who else would be at your door? Open up.”

In slow motion, she complied
with his demand. There stood the professor. Deep lines accented the anger in his face. A staccato tone vibrated in his voice. “I tried to call, but you wouldn’t answer.” He brushed past her and strode across the room. “You
know
you must be available to me at all times. Remember, it is a privilege to be my summer student, not a right. You can be sent home if this is not what you wanted.”

Sent home?
“It’s exactly what I dreamed it would be.” She backed away from his attack. “I’m available to you every day. I have done nothing wrong.”

“Why did you fail to respond to my call?”

“I thought class was over until tomorrow.” Her fingers repeatedly tapped her thigh. “I heard the call waiting beep, but I was speaking to my husband.”

“
Anytime
I
call, class is open for business.” He glared at her, face red and sweating. “I thought you understood. I must have access to you at all times.”

She glared back at him and waited.

“Is that understood?”

The demands wouldn’t stop until she agreed. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Don’t make that mistake again.”

“The purpose of your call?” she asked, gritting her teeth.

“I’m grocery shopping early tomorrow. I called to deliver your next assignment.”

She
re-focused her attention. He explained her next exhibit. When he finished, she asked a few questions to ensure she understood. Failure was too painful. He spoke in crisp sentences, but he offered no additional information. Then he turned on his heels, marched to the door, and left.

Finally a
lone, Angie paced the interior perimeters of the small cottage. What was happening to her? She responded like a robot. His demands had moved from quaint to unreasonable. She had become a recluse. No calls. No contact with anyone outside of the professor. He frightened her with his continued explosive tantrums. Fearful of being exposed to the wrath of the professor, she debated the risk of calling Vicki. What if he called or came back again? She needed help and she trusted her friend.

Stepping as far from the front door as possible, she picked up her cell phone and punched in Vicki’s number.
Please answer, Vicki.

“Thank goodness you called.
What’s going on? Are you all right?” Vicki said.

Angie hesitated, was she all right? Maybe she
was, but it didn’t feel like it. “I need a sensible friend. One who’ll listen and not judge me.”

“Judge you, never. But I have my opinions. Will you listen
, too?”

Angie swallowed
, as if she had eaten an oyster on the half shell. She flopped onto the bed. Vicki had never steered her wrong. “Yes, I’ll listen to you, but let me talk first.”

“Fair enough, talk.”

As she re-created the past few weeks, it took on a bizarre story, even for Angie’s own ears. She shared the ups and downs, the criticism and the praise, the gifts and the demands, even the dramatic kiss in the moonlight. Finally, Angie dared to ask, “What do you think? Am I crazy?”

Vicki remained silent for a few seconds, and then her response flooded through the phone. “O
h my God, honey, no you aren’t crazy, but the professor might be. I know you aren’t one to exaggerate. He sounds like a Jekyll and Hyde to me. Has he physically hurt you?”

“No, not really.
” She contemplated telling her about the bruises the night of the banquet. “At times he gets extremely impatient. His words are cutting. He runs hot and cold. And when he’s upset, the cold is worse than being locked up in a meat locker.”

“Look, I’m no expert but my experience with watching
Doctor Phil tells me you may be dealing with either a mentally ill person, or an emotional abuser. I think the latter fits him right down to his yo-yo interactions with you.”

“I don’t
believe
he’s an emotional abuser. He’s never actually threatened me, or hit me.”

“You said you’d listen. Please consider the idea.”

Angie paused. “What about him makes you think he is an abusive man?”

“Hold on. Let me Google the symptoms.”

Within a couple of minutes, Vicki continued, “Here are the signs of an e
motional
abuser. You make a list of any that apply.”

“Go. I’m ready.”

“The first symptom is extreme jealousy.”

“I’m not sure, but he seems to be jealous of my time with you and Jonathan.”

“Listen to this one, controlling behavior.”

“Yes, he controls my time, day and night. He provides all my meals. H
e even controls my ability to have any outside contact. I met the neighbor today, and he accused me of….who knows what. He’s
never
wrong.”

“What about unpredictable behavior, or unreasonable expectations?”

“Oh, for sure.”

“Isolating your time?”

“Check,” she replied and shifted her weight on the bed.

“Blaming others and minimizing or denying his abuse?”

“Well, he’s quick to blame others. We’ve never spoken of abuse.”

“Verbally abusive and sudden mood swings?

“He’s pretty mean-spirited when he’s upset, and he has started to be moody.” Angie leaned forward and stared at the list. “Is there more?”

“Yes, but these may not apply. Is he cruel to children or animals?”

“Nope, but he’s allergic to Mister Tubbs. What else is on the list of symptoms?”

“The last four markers are more severe—use of force during sex, threats of violence, breaking or striking objects? And we can’t miss the ever-present symptom on every list, past history of abuse.”

“Forget those last four, I’ve never had sex with him and the others are too far out to even think about.”

“Okay, but that still leaves the rest. What do you think?”

“Geez, Vicki, I’ve seen a lot of these behaviors. Don’t most people act out in some weird ways and are still fine?”

“One or two of these symptoms are normal if they occur occasionally. From what you’re telling me, he demonstrated several. Remember, you’ve only been there
a few weeks. That’s a short period of time to be exposed to five—controlling, blaming others, moody and unpredictable, isolating you from others, and verbally abusive.”