CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

 

It was early afternoon when Willa knocked on Max’s door. Merrick had warned her that Max was pretty shaken up by the previous night’s misadventures.

Max opened the door, darkness circling her eyes, her cheeks pale and hollowed. She still wore the red dress, but she’d ditched the shoes.

“C’mon on in to hell,” Max invited. “No, I forgot. I’m in purgatory.”

Willa could feel anguish radiating from Max like heat from a furnace. She gazed around at the few remaining paintings leaning against the walls. “It looks so bare here in purgatory.” She took a quick tour of the loft. “I can’t believe you sold so many paintings. The last count was ten, not including the two you put on reserve.”

“That should make my agent happy,” Max said.

Willa gave her a long look. “I guess your dour mood means that you haven’t heard from Jon.”

“Nope.” Max shrugged. “I don’t know if he’s in jail or not. And I don’t know why he was arrested in the first place.”

“You poor kid.” Willa folded her into a hug.

Max clung to her for a moment and then pulled away. “I refuse to believe that Jon would do anything wrong.” She shook her head, as though her denial would make it true.

Willa reached for her cell. “Let me see if I can shed any light on the situation.” She made some phone calls and determined that Jon had been released, late morning, and that no charges had been filed.

“So, where is he?” Max wailed.

“He’s probably asleep, honey. They questioned him all night long.”

Max turned an anxious face to her. “I should let him sleep, right?”

Willa bit back the terse comment on the tip of her tongue. “Yeah, let him sleep. He’ll get in touch with you when he’s had a chance to regroup.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me,” Max said. “Maybe he hates me.”

“It’s not reasonable that a man would love you one day and hate you the next.” Willa’s heart ached with empathy, but she didn’t think it wise to join Max on the pity potty. She rummaged through the stack of clean clothes on the army foot locker and selected a pair of jeans and tee shirt. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

“If I’m not here when he comes...”

“He’s sleeping now,” Willa assured her. “I’m taking you to lunch because I know that you haven’t eaten a bite since last night.”

“I’m not hungry,” Max said.

“Yes you are,” Willa countered. “And if you’re not, you can keep me company while I eat.”

This brought a weak attempt at a laugh. “Isn’t my brother feeding you?” She was beginning to sound more like the old Max. She folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t tell me he’s been keeping you as a mere sex slave.”

Willa had to laugh at that. “Maybe he is, but I’m okay with it as long as he keeps me.”

She stopped at a news stand and picked up the New York Times as well as the Houston Chronicle before driving Max to a nearby IHOP. They commandeered a semi-circular booth and spread out the papers.

Willa ordered a three-egg omelet for each of them, thinking that Max needed protein.

Max took one newspaper while Willa opened the other.

“Look! Here we are.” Max held up the Arts and Entertainment section, grinning in spite of her anxious state. “They did a whole page on the show.”

Willa slid closer and read over her shoulder. “The critic loved you. He talks about your modest charm offsetting your immense talent. This guy really gets you. He was crazy about your use of color and...”

“Look how happy Jon looks in this picture.” Max touched his face in the photo. Her eyes filled with tears.

Willa sighed and pressed her lips into a determined line. “We made the society pages as well.” She spread the section she was looking at over the one in Max’s hands.

A smiling Merrick stood in front of the large slashed painting, embracing Max and Willa, one on each side. The caption read, Artist Max Foster with her brother, Architect Merrick Foster and his fiancée Willa Beth Shaw, the artist’s agent.

“Oh,” Willa said. “Merrick is going to faint. I didn’t tell the critic I was engaged to him.”

“I’m sure he’ll take it in stride,” Max said. “I wish I knew what Jon was doing.” Her voice sounded wistful.

Their omelets arrived and Willa carefully folded the newspaper, setting aside the portions she planned to save. “Let’s enjoy our food and then check the New York Times.”

Although Max had claimed not to be hungry, she tucked into the omelet and cleaned her plate.

Willa smiled. Last night had been a nightmare. Max was coming around, at least until she connected with Jon Donnell. Willa hoped he was in a forgiving frame of mind whenever he decided to surface.

In the car, Max turned to Willa.

“Would you call Jon? You could just be checking to see if he’s alright.”

“I can do that for you.” Willa used her cell phone to dial his number. The phone rang several times and Jon’s voice mail message picked up.

“Jon, it’s Willa. I’m concerned about you. Please call me back.” She flipped the phone closed. “Not answering or not there.”

“Maybe he’s still sleeping.” Max looked at her hopefully.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Willa said. “He must be exhausted.”

~*~

Jon heard the phone ring but didn’t get up.

He’d been asleep since he returned to his flat, falling face down and fully clothed across his bed.

When he opened his eyes, the pain was still there. He felt an aching emptiness since Max Foster revealed her lies. Why would she lead him to believe she wasn’t the artist? Why was she playing him?

He turned over, stretching his arm out to the spot where she’d lain with him on Friday night.

She said that she loved me.

It had to have been about the one-man show. Maybe she thought he wouldn’t have promoted her work unless she slept with him. But, no, she pretended her brother was Max Foster. They were all in on it together; Max, her brother, her agent. They were all probably laughing at him for being such a gullible fool.

And then there were Dean and Denny Alonso. They’d gotten to him big time. Jon had even arranged for the use of the Claremont truck to assist in the burglaries.

A low growl crawled up from his chest, sounding more like some anguished animal than a mere man in pain.

Jon struggled to his feet, feeling disoriented and sluggish. Stripping off the rest of his clothing, he took a long shower before daring to face himself in the mirror.

He had a split lip and a sore jaw courtesy of Merrick Foster. His front teeth seemed to be a little loose. Pretty boy packs a punch!

He needed a shave, but he ignored the dark scruffy shadow.

Jon spied Max’s toothbrush, residing alongside his in the ceramic container and recalled her bringing it here. He reached out and stroked the handle with his finger. Who are you, baby? Who are you really?

He sighed, jerking himself upright. He squinted at his rough image in the mirror.

Not going to sit around here like a complete fool feeling sorry for myself.

He got dressed and threw some clothes into a bag. He tossed the bag in the trunk of his T-bird. He’d grabbed the Sunday paper outside his door as he departed and dumped it onto the floorboard. He wanted to put as much space as possible between himself and Houston and all the people who were laughing at him.

~*~

Max paced around and tried to clean up a little after Willa dropped her off at the loft. She swept the floors and arranged her painting supplies, noting that she was almost out of the gel medium she favored.

Perhaps, if she could reclaim some kind of order into her environment, she might be able to resolve the chaos in the rest of her life.

Max lifted a fresh canvas onto her easel, but had no desire to lift a paintbrush. Inspiration, her constant muse, who’d kept her head filled with clamorous colors and sensual designs; who’d crammed more images into her brain than she could paint in a lifetime; Inspiration had deserted her.

She turned the rest of her canvasses face out and evaluated them. Most were pretty good, even by her own tough standards.

She took out the clipping of Jon standing beside her. They both looked so happy. Jon was smiling and he had his arm around her. Max kissed her finger and placed it on Jon’s face as a lone tear streaked down her cheek.

That’s where she longed to be, back in that safe, warm place where Jon loved her. She felt empty inside as though betraying Jon had drained her of everything that made her happy.

Max folded her duvet and spread it across the futon. Just a short time ago she’d been completely fulfilled with her painting. She’d been happy here in her loft with all her simple needs being met.

What had happened to that girl?

In the few short weeks since she’d met Jon Donnell, she’d become dependent upon him for her happiness. It had started with him telling her that he liked her paintings and that he admired her and then, that he loved her.

Was she so completely defined by this man that, if she never saw him again she would be broken?

Max thought of Cherise Gilman. Was this what happened to women who fell in love with Jon Donnell? Did they become bitter and empty, just waiting for him to come back and make them complete again?

Max grabbed a fistful of coins from her change jar and went down to the pay phone in the lobby. She blinked, trying to steady her hand as she dialed Jon’s number. She got the recording. The sound of his voice gave her a small morsel of comfort.

“Jon, it’s Max...I just wanted to say... I’m sorry and...I love you, no matter what you’ve done. Please give me a chance to apologize for lying to you.” Her voice had a painful little catch in it. She hung up before she sounded too pitiful.

~*~

J.C. Donnell was surprised when Jon showed up at the ranch unexpectedly Sunday evening. He took a closer look.

“Have you been fighting, son?” he asked.

Jon rubbed his fingers over his bruised jaw. “I did have a little disagreement with someone.” He brought a bag and a newspaper in from his car.

Carla reached up to embrace her son, her large brown eyes echoing the sadness she read in Jon’s.

“Let the boy get settled in, hon.” J.C. slipped his arm around Carla’s shoulders as he watched Jon trek upstairs.

“Something’s really wrong with him,” she whispered.

“Leave him alone. Jon’s a good boy. He’ll tell us in his own good time.”

She nodded and went into the kitchen to start preparing dinner for her men.

Anxiously, J.C. waited for Jon to come down. Whatever was bothering him, he’d brought it home with him like a big, black thundercloud hanging heavy over his head.

Jon came downstairs, looking tight-lipped and withdrawn.

J.C. took a moment to weigh his son’s emotional state before clapping his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Let’s go outside, son. You look like you need some fresh air.”

Jon followed him out to the patio. He took a deep breath and set his feet in a wide stance.

J.C. gripped Jon’s arm a moment and released him. He wished he could lift the weight from Jon’s broad shoulders and take it on his own.

“I’m okay, Dad,” Jon said quietly. “I needed to get out of Houston for a few days and cool off.”

“This is your home, son. You’re always welcome. If you want to talk about whatever’s bothering you, I’m here to listen. If not, I’m still here.”

“I know Dad.” Jon stood silently gazing out across the hills at the brilliant colors streaking the sky with the setting sun.

“You’re not having trouble with that little gal, Millie, are you? Your mom and I kinda thought we’d be seeing a lot more of her.”

Jon swallowed convulsively. “I’d rather not talk about her just now, if it’s all the same to you.” He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

J.C. raised his brows. That was the last thing he would have seen coming. He’d have sworn there was something real going on there.

“I hope you’re hungry, son. Your mama’s making meatloaf with tomato gravy. I know you like that.”

Jon nodded.

J.C. Donnell didn’t think anyone could bring his son down like this, but it seemed as if that pretty little city gal wasn’t as sweet as she’d first appeared.

~*~

Monday morning brought clear skies.

Max took a deep breath of the fresh-smelling air. She stood atop the rooftop of her building, enjoying the city view, sparkling after the rain.

She’d started the day with a simple glance out the bank of windows on the north side of her loft. Then she’d recalled the spectacular panorama she’d seen after Merrick and Sherman had repaired the fire escape.

She inhaled deeply. The rain had cleansed the city; washed away its impurities. It gave her a sense of hope, of a new beginning.

She sighed as a pang of sorrow shot through her.

The only trouble with new beginnings is that something else has to end.

She was going to give him another twenty-four...no, forty-eight hours to contact her and then she would forget all about Jon Claude Donnell. After all, she was willing to overlook the fact that she and Merrick had been arrested for consorting with him. And she still didn’t know what he’d been accused of.

And, speaking of mysteries, she didn’t know why Jon had attacked Merrick at the gallery Saturday night. What had changed him from the jovial man who’d greeted her with a kiss and introduced her to all his clients? Of course, he’d introduced her as ‘Millie’ but still he’d been proud to be in her company.

Max leaned on the edge of the building. She couldn’t blame Jon, when it was entirely her fault. If she’d been truthful with him from the start, she might have a leg to stand on. She heaved a deep sigh.

If Jon was so angry with her that he’d decided to dump her, so be it. She’d had her heart broken before. People lived through heartbreak. So would the artist, Max Foster.

She climbed down the fire escape and prepared to step in through her window. She bumped her head on the birdfeeder Jon had given her. Steadying the swinging feeder, Max realized it was empty. If it was empty, that meant that some bird had been dining there. She climbed in and reached for the bag of seed.

Max refilled the cup and closed the window. She felt a tiny molecule of satisfaction in knowing that she was capable of providing nurturance for something.

She heard a knock at her door and her heart lifted. Max glanced in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair.

Opening the door, her spirits sank when she saw the two delivery men from Claremont Designs. Several crates were stacked in the hallway between them.

“What’s all this?” she asked.

“Mr. Donnell arranged for the delivery, Ma’am.”

“Mr. Donnell?” Max’s spirits jumped back on the roller coaster ride, soaring high again. She opened her door wider and stepped aside.

She felt like dancing as she followed the men into her loft. They set the crates in an empty area and handed her a clipboard to sign. Max was given a copy of the delivery slip.

“Mr. Donnell sent this, too.” The deliveryman handed her an envelope with the name ‘Millie’ handwritten on the outside.

Max clutched the envelope, leaving the door ajar after the men were gone. She felt dizzy, a fluttering sensation in her chest, like butterfly wings beating against her ribs.

Jon wrote me a letter and he sent me a present. He can’t be through with me!

Her hands were shaking as she curled up on the futon. Tears ran, unchecked down her cheeks.

That’s how Willa found her.

“Max! Max! What’s wrong?” Willa shook her shoulders to get her attention.

“He...he wrote me a letter.” Max held up the crinkled, damp envelope.

Willa pried it from her fingers. “How do you know it’s a letter? It could be a bill for services rendered.”

“Oh, Willa, you’re so crazy.” Max grinned through her tears.

Willa examined the envelope thoughtfully before handing it back to her.

“Open it up, Max. You’ve been waiting for him to communicate with you.”

Max exhaled heavily and nodded. She carefully peeled the envelope open. With shaking hands she extracted one slim piece of paper.

Her eyes focused on the broad strokes of Jon’s handwriting as she took in his words.

 

My Dearest Millie,

If I designed my dream woman, she

would be you. Please accept these

gifts as my simple way of making

your dreams come true.

Love, Jon

 

“What gifts?” Willa asked. “Did Jon get you a present?”

Max pointed to the crates standing under the bank of windows.

“Omigod,” Willa said. “Jon Donnell sure knows how to give a girl a present.”

“What do you think is in there?” Max asked.

Willa grinned at her. “Silly girl! You have to open them up. We need a screwdriver. These crates are substantial.”

“I have a screwdriver.” Max searched among her art supplies and produced several tools including a hammer, several screwdrivers and a small pry bar.

The two friends attacked the smallest crate. Removing one side, they were able to slide the contents out.

“It’s a light fixture!” Max clasped her hands together in delight.

“No, it’s a chandelier.” Willa started unwrapping the delicate, multi-faceted crystals.

“It’s the same as in Jon’s design.” She scrambled to her feet and returned, waving Jon’s renderings depicting a crystal chandelier hanging over her claw foot bathtub.

“What’s all this?” Sherman came in through the open doorway. “Are you ladies planning to make some changes?”

“Sherman,” Max called. “Come help us open these crates.”

“Sure thing, babe.” He sauntered across the loft, stopping with his hand on the largest crate. “What’s in there?”

“I don’t have any idea. They’re presents from Jon.”

“Jon, the guy I met at your show? The one who didn’t even know your name?”

She nodded. “That’s the one.”

Sherman gave her a skeptical look. “The one the cops were after?”

Willa gave him a frown and shake of her head.

“Do you need the wood?” he asked. “I can use it in my work.”

“Take it,” Max said.

Sherman picked up the pry bar and started removing the sides of the largest crate. He let out a low whistle. “This guy gave you a big wooden bird.” He pulled the headboard of the swan bed from the packing material.

Max stood with her hands covering her mouth. “It’s the bed from Jon’s design.”

Willa held out Jon’s rendering showing the bed placed under the skylight. “It looks like he is trying to make your dreams come true.”

“Let’s put this thing together,” Sherman said. He started dragging the headboard from the crate.

“Please be careful,” Max said. “That’s a five-thousand dollar bed frame.”

Willa’s eyes opened wide and she made a moaning sound. “He must love you a lot.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Max asked. “He wouldn’t give me such an extravagant present if he was dumping me.”

Willa gave a noncommittal shrug and turned her attentions to the bed.

With Sherman’s help they assembled the bed and shoved a very expensive pillow-top mattress into the swan’s back.

Max climbed onto it with Sherman and Willa joining her.

Melodic baritone laughter rumbled up from deep within Sherman’s chest. “I never thought I’d be lying on a five-thousand dollar bed with a beautiful blonde and a gorgeous redhead.” Sherman stretched his arms over his head. “America is truly a wonderful country.”

Willa cleared her throat. “Excuse me but, my hair is strawberry blonde.”

“Whatever,” Sherman said.

“I have to buy some sheets,” Max said. “I have to find Jon and thank him.”

“Whatever,” Sherman said.