CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

 

On Monday morning, Jon got around to reading his Sunday newspaper. In the Arts and Entertainment section, he saw the picture of himself with his arm around the young woman clearly identified in the caption as the artist Max Foster. She looked incredibly beautiful standing in his embrace.

He set the section aside and read the rest of the paper. When he opened the society section and found the photo of the artist Max Foster with her brother and Willa, he read the names aloud several times.

He really was her brother. That might account for the horseplay he’d witnessed in the parking lot. It wasn’t a flirtation among lovers, but rather, a brother and sister teasing each other.

Willa was listed as Merrick Foster’s fiancée. That explained why they were making out in Cherise’s office.

Jon groaned aloud.

He’d made a fool of himself yet again when he’d thought ‘Max’ was cheating on ‘Millie’. His desire to pound on the guy probably wasn’t motivated by that so much as the fact that he’d thought ‘Millie’ was in love with him.

What a complete idiot!

She must be laughing her head off by now. They’d probably all compared notes and had a good laugh.

He threw the paper in the trash and paced around the room. He was furious with all of them for lying to him.

Jon cursed and retrieved the paper from the trash. He set aside the photos with Max Foster in them. He stared at her face and let out a heavy sigh.

As angry as he felt, he was also relieved that Merrick was her brother. At least she hadn’t lied about being involved with him. One truth and one lie. Why did she lie about her name? Why did her brother pretend to be Max Foster?

The lies and half-truths swirled around in Jon’s head, leaving him even more depressed and confused. Whatever the reason, he’d been played for a fool.

~*~

Willa was glad to see Merrick. Max’s tenuous reprieve from her pit of misery and despair was hard to handle alone. Like a pendulum that had swung too far in one direction, she was bound to return to her state of desolation.

Merrick arrived at Max’s loft just after Sherman had departed. He admired the swan bed and installed the chandelier for her.

Max seemed to be elated over the gifts. She read and re-read the note Jon had written.

Willa drew him aside, out of Max’s hearing. “I can tell something’s wrong,” she whispered. “You better let me in on it.”

He handed her the front page of the Monday Houston Chronicle. The lead story told about the burglaries.

Max came to join them. “What’s going on?”

Willa swallowed the bad taste in her mouth; tried to sound matter-of-fact. “It looks like your one-man show made the papers again.”

They read how some of the affluent guests invited to the art show were targeted by a group of seasoned burglars. The story detailed how the Alonso brothers had obtained the guest list from designer Jon Claude Donnell and researched their financial standings to select their victims. Using the parking valet service to acquire house keys and the delivery van from Claremont Designs, they were able to infiltrate several River Oakes mansions. When one home owner returned early, discovered the crime in progress, and alerted the police, the criminals were apprehended.

The story also mentioned that Jon Claude Donnell, Merrick Foster and Max Foster were questioned and released.

“Oh, great. You’re famous for being associated with criminals.” Willa furrowed her brow. “This isn’t the kind of publicity I had in mind.”

“I’m sure that Jon didn’t know what was going on,” Max protested. “He kept looking for Dean Alonso, the guy who did the catering. He wanted me to meet his fraternity brother, but he wasn’t at the show. He disappeared after setting up the food.”

Merrick speared her with a disbelieving glare. “You’re telling me that Jon wasn’t involved with the burglars?” Merrick made a scoffing noise in the back of his throat.

Max drew herself up haughtily. “The police wouldn’t have released him if they thought he was guilty.”

Merrick spread his hands. “So, where is he? Why isn’t he here?”

Her lips twitched, as though she might cry. “I don’t know, but he sent the bed and chandelier,” She straightened the crumpled paper she’d held tight in her fist. “And he wrote me this letter. He wouldn’t have said I was his dream woman if he hated me.”

“Max, look at this delivery slip.” Willa handed it to her. “It was ordered on Friday before the show. When Jon wrote the note he still thought you were Millie.”

~*~

Jon maneuvered the four-wheel drive truck over a hill and down into a pasture. His dad had asked him to help reinforce a section of barbed wire fence. He suspected J.C. was making busy work for him, but he didn’t mind. He was glad to be of use and glad to take his mind off the subject that haunted his waking hours. The enigmatic woman who had ripped a hole in his heart.

The first few days of his self-imposed exile, he’d spent slumped on the couch, channel surfing.

The fourth morning, his dad had beat on his bedroom door before sunrise. “Saddle up, cowboy. There are chores to be done.”

Since then, he’d been working alongside his father and rarely had time to think about Houston...about the debacle at Cherise’s...about the people who had made a complete fool of him...until he was alone in his bed, staring at the ceiling and aching to hold the woman he’d called Millie.

Jon stole a glance at his father. J.C. rode shotgun, his elbow hanging out the window. His bright blue eyes constantly roamed over the landscape and the livestock, taking in every detail of his beloved ranch.

J.C. pointed to a place down the fence line. “Pull in up ahead under those cottonwoods, son,” he directed. “My big Charolais bull broke through the fence in that little draw.”

Jon nodded absently as the truck lurched through a dry creek bed.

J.C. winked at him. “You know how it is when a bull has his eye on a particular little lady? Nothing’s going to stop him.”

Jon made a noise in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I know all about that.”

J.C. chuckled. “I imagine you do.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I used to think I was pretty smart when it came to women, but I’m beginning to realize that I’m a complete idiot.”

J.C. skewered him with a glance. “This is about your little Millie, isn’t it?”

Jon ground his teeth together as he put the truck in gear and turned off the ignition. “She lied to me. All the time I was falling in love with her, she was lying to me.” He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “I wasn’t even allowed to know her real name until Saturday night when it all came out. And she didn’t have the decency to tell me to my face, so I don’t know if she ever planned to let me in on her little secrets.”

Silence filled the vehicle after Jon’s passionate outburst. He sat, frowning as his fingers clenched and unclenched around the wheel, a storm still raging in his soul.

J.C. started to say something but then clamped his mouth closed.

Jon felt a bit better to have had his say. Better to get it out. He huffed out a sigh and climbed out, slamming the door behind him.

J.C. exited the truck, coming to stand beside his son as he jerked the tailgate down with a bang.

“She’s an artist, Dad.” Jon pulled on his leather work gloves and took the roll of wire from the bed of the truck. “She has more talent than anyone I’ve ever known first hand and I don’t know why she wouldn’t want to admit it to me.” He dumped the wire beside the damaged section of fence. “If I could paint like her I’d be right out there letting everyone know.”

J.C. followed with a toolbox. “I can’t imagine anyone painting any better than you.”

Jon gave him a sharp look. “The difference between me and Max Foster is that I can paint what I see and she can paint what she feels. She’s a genius. She’s living on a whole different planet from me.”

“Maybe that’s why she did it,” J.C. said quietly. “Maybe she didn’t want to live on a whole different planet from you.” He. squatted down to examine a fence post. “Hand me the wire cutters, son.”

Jon considered the possibility that she didn’t reveal her identity because she thought it would matter to him. Did it matter? Surely she couldn’t think he was such an egomaniac that he would envy her talent? He expelled a long breath and shook his head again. He had no idea what she was thinking.

While they repaired the fence, Jon told his father about being taken in for questioning concerning the burglaries.

“I listened to Dean’s story about his ex taking him for everything and how he needed a fresh start. I didn’t think a friend would deliberately try to wreck your life.”

“That’s not a friend, son.” J.C.’s grave expression betrayed his feelings about his son’s experience. “Is this arrest on your record?”

“The police questioned me, but I wasn’t charged with anything. They don’t put you in jail for being an idiot.”

“I think you’re being pretty hard on yourself,” J.C. said. “It sounds like you were just trying to give a fellow a leg up. You didn’t know he was a crook.” He removed his hat and wiped his brow.

“It sounds simple when you say it,” Jon said. “How come I feel like I’ve been played for a fool times two?”

“Let the cops deal with the burglars. What did the little lady have to say for herself?”

Jon hefted the remains of the bale of wire into the bed of the truck. “I haven’t talked to her.”

J.C. shook his head and grinned. “Now that makes perfect sense.”

~*~

Max curled up with her duvet in the middle of her new bed. It was located in the spot suggested in Jon’s drawings, right under the skylight.

She wished he could see how good it looked all put together. He would see it, she told herself. When the time was right, he’d come through the door and admire his handiwork.

In the meantime, she was using the swan bed as her command post. When she nuked a meal, she crawled onto the bed with her plate or bowl to enjoy her simple fare. When she washed her laundry in the basement, she brought her clean clothes there to fold before stacking them in neat piles on her dad’s old army foot locker.

Now, she doodled in her sketchbook. She’d written Jon’s name in several variations and colored in the loops.

Willa banged on her door and was admitted.

Max returned to the swan bed and picked up her sketchbook again.

“Good for you.” Willa ditched her shoes and climbed up onto the bed beside Max. “It looks like you’re back to your old self. It’s great to see you sketching again.”

“I’m just doodling,” she said. “I don’t seem to be able to find any inspiration.”

“How about this?” Willa tossed a check on the bed.

“What’s this?” Max’s squeaked out. “This is huge!”

“It’s a check from your friend and mine, Cherise Gilman. Since all the newspaper coverage she’s been selling your paintings like snow-cones in July. She actually made nice and was begging me for more.”

“I thought the story about the burglaries and my near arrest would kill any interest in the rest of my work.”

“Not so,” Willa said. “It’s a pity you didn’t kill someone. The public would be knocking on your mom’s door trying to buy your kindergarten finger paintings off the fridge.”

“Willa Beth!”

“I came to pick up a few more of these paintings.” She gestured to the dozen or so canvasses left propped against the wall. “The Cherise Gilman Gallery is looking kind of bare.”

Max glanced around the loft, trying to remember the paintings that remained. “You’re kidding. These were the ones I didn’t think were good enough for the show.”

“Well, bring on the B-team because your work is hot right now.” Willa turned her wide-eyed gaze on Max. “Do you realize how important timing is? Carpe diem. Seize the day, Max. Grab it with both hands.”

“You can take anything you think is worthy.”

“And you have to get back to work,” Willa said. “Oleg Cantwell is asking about the painting I hyped. And we need more stock at Gilman’s. The Max store is running low.”

“I get it,” Max said. “You can lay off the metaphors.” She glanced at the blank canvas sitting on her easel. “I’ll hit it tomorrow.”

The next morning, Max borrowed Sherman’s vehicle. She drove to an art supply store and bought a large roll of primed canvas and a couple of tubes of her favorite gel medium.

Next, she drove through the motor bank and deposited her gigantic check. She stared at her balance and wondered how this vast fortune would change her life.

Willa had said her work was hot.

Max was doing what she’d always wanted. She was painting and being recognized for her talent.

Somehow it didn’t feel as good as she’d thought it would.