None of this was Jon Donnell’s fault, no matter that his fashionable presence had set her teeth on edge.
“Damned decorator!” She attacked the dried paint ground into her cuticles with a nail brush. She pulled the plug and rinsed off with a hand held shower head before stepping out onto the faded Oriental rug she’d found beside the dumpster.
A knock at the door startled her. Who could be calling this late?
“Who’s there,” she called through the thick metal door.
“Jon Donnell.”
“Oh, guh-rate! What do you want?” She couldn’t hide the sarcasm in her voice. Her question was met with silence. A knot formed in Max’s stomach as the silence lengthened. She couldn’t afford to alienate the man who paid her rent. She unlocked the deadbolt and drew back the safety latch, peering out cautiously.
“Oh,” was all he could say. Something feral flickered deep within his dark eyes.
His reaction sent a tingle spiraling through her insides. Max adjusted her wrap, clutching it around her shoulders and managing, in the process, to bare a little more skin. She drew a deep breath. “Is there some reason you’re here at this time of night? Don’t tell me this is a social call.”
“Would you like something to drink? I have water, soda or beer.” She could afford to be hospitable to the man who held future commissions in his neatly manicured hands.
“A beer would be great.”
“What do you want with Max?” She handed him the longneck bottle and then twisted the cap off her bottled water. “You can tell me anything you’d say to him. We have no secrets. It’s as though you’re speaking directly to Max.”
A little smile quirked the corners of his mouth and warmed his gaze. “I want to talk to him about his future. I want to talk to him about his work.” He took a swig of beer without taking his eyes off her. “How old is Max, anyway?”
“Max is twenty six.”
“Sure. Help yourself. Everything is stacked around the studio.”
She tried to control her excitement. This guy really gets my work. She wanted to talk to him about it, but she also wanted to smack him upside the head for assuming that only a male could have real talent.
She was unable to contain her curiosity. “What do you think?”
“It’s beautiful, sort of a Botticelli influence with the blue undertones. This must be his earlier work.” Jon glanced back at her. “It’s much less sophisticated. Almost naïve, yet it’s intriguing. Great portraiture.” He sat it aside and began turning over other canvasses.
“Yes, it’s an excellent landscape. Great use of color and under-painting, but I don’t see any other abstracts. Where are the abstracts?”
“There are some. Here, let me show you.” She tried to recall the current location of the few examples she had created for class assignments. She pawed through the stacks and came up with three non-representational pieces.
Jon gazed at her, looking doubtful. “That’s all? So you’re telling me Max just started exploring abstractionism?”
“I guess you could say that.” She didn’t tell him that the exploration was initiated when Willa brought his first commission for a large abstract. She couldn’t read his expression. “Max believes the principles of design can be interpreted in any style to produce an acceptable product.”
“You sound like Max’s agent, Willa. She’s all about the product.” Jon’s dark eyes lit up when he smiled.
Max experienced a warm rush spiraling though her chest. She could see why Willa thought he was so hot.
She relaxed enough to draw a breath. “Willa is committed to Max. Her goal is to help Max become famous and successful.” She glared at him and shrugged her shoulders. “They’ve been the best of friends since they played together in the sandbox.”
Jon’s deep voice sent a shiver skittering down her spine. “Willa’s got her claws into a sure thing. She knows Max is her gravy train and she’s going to ride him all the way to the bank.”
Stung, a knot of anger formed in her stomach. “Willa is Max’s best friend. She’s always got Max’s interests at heart.” Willa never failed to be her champion. Max couldn’t bear for this man to disparage her in any way.
“I’m sure she does, as long as Max’s interests coincide with her own. Willa is a sharp girl. She’ll land on her feet.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Max hits the big time, he’s going to want an equally big name art agent. Someone with the right connections to take him to the top.”
She sucked in an appalled gasp. “Max would never dump Willa. Max and Willa have been together forever.”
Jon stole another amused glance in her direction. He lifted an over-sized still life of pears and pomegranates and sucked a long sigh in through his teeth. He set the painting aside and flipped the next one over.
“This is really nice.” He gazed at a life-sized self portrait she’d done as a class assignment her senior year. “I think he’s captured your inner spark of mischief, except...” He turned to look at her. “He’s got that tiny mole beside your right eye on the wrong side.” He reached out and touched her cheek lightly. His fingertips just grazed her skin, leaving a visceral sensation echoing in their wake.
His voice was just above a whisper. “I wonder how he got that wrong.” The expression on his face was hypnotic.
“I’ve seen enough.” He picked up the pomegranate painting. “I’m taking this one with me. Tell Willa to send me a bill.”
She frowned. “But, I have no idea how much that one costs.”
Shut up, Max! He’s buying. She bit off what she’d been about to say.
“Tell Max to call me tomorrow morning and we’ll meet for lunch. I can do big things for your boy.” His gaze skimmed over her body once more before he turned to the door.
“Yeah, my boy...” She clenched her fists and restrained her desire to throttle this man until he was blue in the face. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. She watched the door close behind Jon and unclenched her fists.
She went to the stack of clean clothes piled on top of her dad’s army foot locker. She found a fresh tee shirt and pulled on a pair of panties. Hanging her robe on a hook, she spread her towel over the edge of the tub. So much for housekeeping.
She looked in the mirror and touched the tiny mole with her finger. Max had painted it on the wrong side because she was looking in a mirror as she painted.
She tossed a bag of popcorn in the microwave and searched in her fridge for a bottle of water. Hearing a knock at the door, she slammed the refrigerator in disgust.
If that pompous excuse for a designer was back to taunt her she’d give him a very large chunk of her mind.
A wave of relief swept through Max, instantly evaporating her anger. “Don’t be ridiculous, Willa. You’re always welcome. You know that.” Max motioned her inside and swung the door closed. She twisted the deadbolt locks into place, nodding in satisfaction at the mental image of clanging cell block bars that leapt uninvited into her mind. “Make yourself comfy while I serve up my offering.”
“Oh, popcorn! And here I thought I was springing for dinner.” Willa brandished a paper bag and gestured to the bottle she had tucked under her arm. She stepped out of her peep-toe pumps and dropped her Fendi handbag beside them.
Willa tore her paper bag open forming a makeshift serving tray. She shook the contents around to display several kinds of cheese and a loaf of foccaccia bread. “Let’s chow down on this.”
“Where did you score this treat?” Max tossed a cube of Monterrey Jack into her mouth.
“Art opening at the Menil. I closed it down.” Willa uncorked the pinot grigio and took a swig before passing the bottle to Max. Willa reached for a cube of Swiss and bit into it. “I love the Menil. Such lovely patrons.”
“A lot of talk and most of it was about you.” She tore into the foccaccia and scooped a smear of brie onto it.
“About me? What about me?” She bounced up and down on the futon, spilling a little of the wine on her tee shirt as she moved. She took care of the spill by sticking the wet portion of the shirt in her mouth and sucking on it. “Waste not, want not,” she said with a grin that displayed her dimples to great advantage. “Come on, Willa. You’re torturing me.”
“Everyone was talking about the hottest young artist to hit the Houston art scene in a decade. And, our newest client, Oleg Cantwell, was raving about your latest painting.”
Max shook her head, confused. “How could he rave about a painting he hasn’t laid eyes on?”
“I told him how amazing it is and he dutifully repeated it to everyone he saw. Oleg is an overstuffed parrot. I just have to train him to say the right phrases. He’s like my great big echo.” Willa giggled as she mimed the movements of a hand puppet, and then made the imaginary puppet swoop down to select another cube of Swiss cheese.
Willa laughed. “I’ll tell you if you start to suck. You’re like a kaleidoscope, Max. Every time I look at your paintings I see something new.” She licked brie off her fingers. “Your paintings have gone from selling for a couple of hundred dollars to thousands.”
Max gazed at Willa in admiration. “How did you have the nerve to ask so much for my work? The designers are paying some serious bucks.”
“Supply and demand. We’re filling a niche,” Willa examined her manicured fingers and then wiped them on the torn bag she had brought. “Find a need and satisfy it. It’s the American entrepreneurial system.”
Max shrugged. “That makes me feel inadequate, on some level.”
“Well, get over yourself. This is all part of my grand scheme. We’re moving up in the art world.”
Max pierced Willa with her direct blue gaze. “Could you elaborate on that part about the grand scheme?”
“Listen up, Grasshopper. My plan is to place your work in the homes of Houston’s wealthiest art patrons.” Willa affected an expression of supreme boredom. “Dahling, it’s an original Max Foster, don’t ‘cha know?” She waved her hands in a pretentious flutter.
Max giggled at her antics. “Sounds like a plan but, realistically, how can I hope to please everyone? I can try to guess what someone wants and miss the mark by a mile.”
“Humph! Sounds too easy.” Max drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “I’ve always painted to please myself. If someone likes my work and they get out their checkbook, I can eat.” She rested her chin on her knees.
“And you’ve never had an ulterior motive in your life, even when we were in kindergarten.” Willa shook her head so that her curls bounced. “People will be buying your work as investment pieces instead of just pretty works of art to go over the sofa.”
“You’re such a mush,” Willa shook her head. “You’d give them all away. You’re so lucky to have me.” Willa drank more wine and tore off a chunk of bread. “I am the teller at the bank of Max. No freebies. And the big designers have to pay extra big bucks because they’re so annoying.”
Max cleared her throat. “Speaking of designers, guess who made an appearance earlier.” She raised her eyebrows and paused expectantly.
“No way! What did Jon Claude want this time?” Willa sat up like a terrier at attention.
“He wanted to see Max. And he took a painting with him. The still life with pomegranates. He said for you to send him a bill.”
“He wants to have lunch with Max tomorrow to discuss something about his future. How am I supposed to do that?”
Willa brightened. “Lunch? I’ll call him. Just leave Mister Jon Claude to me. It’s time he learned who the artist Max Foster really is.” Willa stood up and fished around for her shoes. “Put the cheese in the fridge and drink the rest of the wine. Trust me; you’ll sleep like a baby.” She handed the bottle to Max.
“You’re going to tell him that I’m Max?” At Willa’s nod, she sighed. “I’m sure that will take some of the starch out of him, but I hope it doesn’t end the commissions.”
“I hope not either. I’ve worked hard to establish a working relationship with Jon. I’ll have to find a way to break it to him without damaging his delicate ego.”
Max locked the door behind Willa, twisted the cork into the wine and put it into the refrigerator with the remains of the cheese.
She turned out the light and gazed at her work in progress by the glow of moonlight pouring down through the skylight. Max wrapped her comforter around her shoulders and sank onto the futon. She fell asleep thinking about how the painting looked washed in moonlight with much of its brilliant color reduced to shades of gray.