Loving Again

chapter Five


Monday was the day Amanda worked on studio accounts and pulled phone duty. She didn’t mind doing the bills but the phone calls, she swore, were never for her. She was wrong this week. The first call was from her alarm company. The sensor on her back basement door had gone off. Again. Just like it had for her house sitter while she was gone.

When she went home and inspected the basement, the door was still open. She couldn’t tell whether someone had gotten in and gone through the boxes she’d not yet unpacked or whether it was a mess because she’d left it that way. She decided to take care of it later and returned to her studio.

Where she got two more calls.

The first was from Cynthia Blaine in Seattle, asking if she could stay with Amanda in a couple of weeks when she came to Portland to deliver some new work to The Fairchild Gallery. Amanda was happy to return her old friend’s hospitality.

That was followed by a call from one of the tenants in a commercial building she owned.

“Amanda, Drake Vos. I’d like to talk to you about the lease for the restaurant. Are you available for lunch today?”

“Sure. What time?”

“How about right now? I’m parked outside your studio.”

She walked from the office past the glory holes to find Drake Vos on the sidewalk outside the overhead door, leaning against the front fender of his black Lexus. At forty-eight he was almost old enough to be her father, but somehow she never thought of him that way. Maybe it had something to do with his tall, dark, and yummy good looks or perhaps the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. He’d been hired by Tom Webster to run his restaurant in the building Amanda owned when Webster opened his club. After Webster’s death, Drake had been a godsend keeping the restaurant running in the face of terrible publicity and had been doing a great job building the business back up.

She laughed at the “gotcha” look on his face, shut down the phone, and motioned him into the building.

Opening the trunk of his car, he extracted two large carry-bags. “If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain … ” He kissed her on the cheek. “ … we bring the mountain to you.”

“I know. I should have come in to see you but I’ve been slammed with work. Thanks for making the effort to come here.”

She led him back to her part of the studio where he swung the larger of the two bags onto an empty worktable.

Waving him off, she indicated the office. “No, not that table. There’ll be glass all over it. Go on into the office.” She followed him and quickly cleared the top of the desk.

Vos pulled a tablecloth out of one bag, snapped it open, and let it settle onto the desktop. “I thought you’d enjoy what our chef’s been experimenting with for now and the fall.”

He pulled out two sets of flatware, dishes and wine glasses, a Thermos, and two square plastic containers. From the Thermos he poured a delicious smelling light-brown soup with wisps of foam on top. “Chef Jon calls this wild mushroom cappuccino,” he explained as he handed a cup to her. “It’ll be on the menu this fall when the mushrooms are available at a better price.”

Amanda took a taste. “Oh, Drake, that’s to die for.”

Next he plated a spinach and sautéed scallop salad, which he explained was on the menu now. He added crisp rolls and placed the plates on the desk before positioning a folding chair across the desk from her. Last he brought out a bottle of pinot gris from the bag, removed the cork, and began to pour the wine.

“I don’t drink at lunch,” she protested as she put her hand over the top of her wine glass.

He pushed her fingers away with the neck of the bottle and poured a small amount for her. “Make an exception. This is a fabulous wine, nice body, tastes of apples and pears. You’ll love it.” He picked up his glass and toasted her. “Here’s to our relationship.”

“Mmm, it is good,” she said after she sipped. She took a forkful of the salad. “So, you want to talk about the lease?”

“Lunch first, business second. We can talk about it after dessert.”

“Dessert, too? I’ll have to go home and take a nap.”

He regaled her with bits of local restaurant gossip while they finished the salad and soup, after which he brought out a container of perfectly frosted, miniature chocolate cupcakes. “Cupcakes are becoming trite, I know, but I love them as a little bite of chocolate after a meal.”

“Nothing made of chocolate will ever go out of style with me,” she said as she took one from the container and ate it in two bites.

“I brought enough for you to share with your studio mates.”

“If they’re lucky.” She picked up the last few crumbs of cake with her forefinger, which she licked clean. “Yum. Okay, now — business. What do you want to talk about?”

He poured the last of the wine into his glass and sat back in the chair. “The extension you gave me of Tom Webster’s lease is about up and I was wondering what you plan to do about it.”

“What I want is for us to reach an agreement so you can continue to run your restaurant. What do you need to make that happen?” She took a second cupcake from the container and nibbled at the edges.

“A good deal. I was wondering if we could extend the current lease for six months. After that, you can up the rent at regular intervals by whatever it takes to reach market rate over a three-year lease.”

“That doesn’t sound unreasonable. Let me review the old lease and talk to my accountant. I know things are tough for restaurants right now. I don’t want to make it hard for you.”

“Do you have the old lease here? We could look … ”

“It’s at home.”

“Oh, you have a safe there, too?”

“No, why would you think I have a safe?”

“There are two safes at the restaurant. I figured anyone who’d have two in a commercial property she owned would have one at home.”

“I knew there was one there. Tommy must have put the other one in.”

One of Amanda’s studio mates stuck his head in the door of the office. “Amanda, something weird is going on with one of the kilns; it’s heating up too fast. Can you … ?” He stopped, his face registering the lunch scene. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay. We’re finished.” She got up and headed for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I see what’s going on, Drake.”

“It’s okay. Take your time. I’ll just clean up here.”

When she returned from checking the kiln she found Drake looking through the cupboards along the wall behind the desk. “Can I help you find something?” she asked.

“Just looking for a plate to put the rest of these cupcakes on.”

“There’s nothing up there but office supplies. What you want is here.” From a cabinet along the opposite wall she pulled out a plate and handed it to him. “Thank you, from all of us but especially from me. That was the best lunch I’ve had in ages. I’ll call my accountant this afternoon and get back to you about your lease as soon as I talk to him. If he says it’s a reasonable approach, which I imagine he will, I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers.”

“I appreciate the positive response. Not that I expected anything else from the best landlord in Portland. Please come in for dinner soon. If you give me some advance notice, I’ll even join you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“You don’t have to go to all that trouble, Drake.”

“It’s no trouble. You’re not only the best landlord but the most beautiful one. It would be my pleasure.” He kissed her on the cheek again, this time lingering a bit longer.

• • •

In spite of the wine and gourmet lunch, Amanda’s afternoon was productive. That is, until she got one last phone call. It was from Margo Keyes.

“Amanda, have you hired a lawyer yet?” she asked.

“I have but I don’t think he’s heard anything back from Kane’s attorney.”

“Well, you might want to tell him Kane’s been trolling the DA’s office trying to get one of us to bite on his claim there’s intellectual property theft going on under our noses. He says we’re not doing anything about it because the thief is a prominent artist who’s being protected. It doesn’t take a mental giant to figure out who he’s referring to.”

“Oh, dear God. The point of hiring an attorney was to keep this under control. It’s not working. What am I going to do? My reputation can’t take too many hits like this. This will ruin me.”

“Kane’s reputation is the one at risk here. Call your lawyer. He’ll tell Kane’s lawyer to get his client under control.”

“I’m not so sure Mr. Kane has anything to lose here. But I’ll call my attorney. Thanks, Margo. I appreciate the heads up.”

“And don’t worry about this. Let the lawyers work it out.”

Yeah, let the lawyers work it out, Amanda thought as she punched in the number for her attorney. But if they can’t, I’m going to solve my problem myself. Whatever that takes.

• • •

Like most art venues, The Fairchild Gallery was closed Mondays. But on this particular Monday, Liz Fairchild was at the gallery hanging a new show. She could have tried to hide but it was hard to conceal an almost six-foot tall body topped by a mane of dark brown, henna-highlighted hair. Particularly when the body, dressed in an oversize white shirt and black leggings, was atop a ladder in front of a floor-to-ceiling display window. Eubie Kane found her by merely looking in from the street.

Liz wasn’t particularly happy to see him. She sold his work in her gallery but he was a pain-in-the-ass to deal with. He was probably there to complain about something — again — or maybe to confirm the rumor she’d heard about him approaching another gallery to represent him. Whatever his reason for being there, Liz knew him well enough to know it would take him forever to get to the point.

As she feared, once Kane was admitted to the gallery, he wandered around, stretching his long legs and arms like a runner after a jog, rambling on about art, artists and galleries and the need for artists to be free to take advantage of the few opportunities offered them.

Liz listened for a while and then lost patience. “Look, Eubie, I have a show to hang. Let’s cut to the chase. What is it you want?”

“Okay, okay. I want you to release me from my contract.”

“So, you’re giving me the required two months notice?”

“No, I want out now.”

“Why would you think I’d release you now when you have your first solo show with me next month? A show I’ve already paid large amounts of money to advertise in a half-dozen publications.” Discussions like this made Liz wish she hadn’t given up smoking ten years before. Nicotine would have rendered Eubie a lot more tolerable.

“But I have a better opportunity, a chance to be in a real gallery, to be part of their annual emerging artists’ show that all the critics review. But they won’t sign me because I have a contract with you.”

Liz wasn’t sure whether she was more annoyed by his whining or his insults. “Honey, offending the person you want the favor from isn’t a particularly effective way to get what you want.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “So, the rumor’s true. You went to The Woods Gallery and asked for representation.”

“I’m willing to give up the solo show, if you’ll release me.”

“Either you’re not listening or there’s an audio problem in here that I never noticed before. So maybe if I write it, you’ll get it.” Liz took a marker, grabbed a scrap of paper from the floor and wrote in big, black letters, “Not only no but hell no.” She handed the paper to him saying, “You signed the contract. You live by it.”

He snatched the paper from her hand, ripped it in two, and crammed it into the pocket of his overalls. “You’ll be sorry you crossed me, Liz. I’m about to make my mark on the art world in Portland and you’re gonna regret you didn’t play ball.” Kane attempted to storm out the door but discovered he had to wait for Liz to unlock it, taking most of the drama out of his exit.

Not five minutes after the young artist left, Mike Benson knocked on the door. This interruption Liz was happy to see. Mike was her temporary help while her regular staffer was off on an extended holiday.

“I thought I’d see if you needed anything for the new show.” He stopped. “Hey, what happened? You don’t look so happy.”

“I’m not. One of my artists was here trying to worm his way out of his contract. He pissed me off.” She shook her head. “But I’m glad you dropped by.” She picked up a shipping box from the floor. “Will you finish uncrating these paintings while I make a couple of quick phone calls to see what I can do to get this thing with my artist settled?”

“Sure. I’ll uncrate, you hang, and maybe you can get out of here at a decent hour.”

“And I can buy you a late lunch.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got plans later today. Hot date.” He grinned.

In the back storage area, where what she laughingly called her office was located, Liz made her phone calls. When she returned to the gallery, the paintings were all uncrated and unwrapped, but Mike was gone, without telling her he was leaving, without asking if there was anything else to be done and leaving the front door, with her keys still in the inside lock, open. Young men, of whom she was inordinately fond under social circumstances, could be amazingly annoying under other circumstances, Liz thought. She mentally shrugged her shoulders and got to work hanging.

By the time she drove home a couple hours later, it was pretty clear that her day had sucked. First, there was Eubie Kane. Next, the painter from Arizona whose work she was hanging had sent different paintings than the pieces he’d promised, not all of which worked with the theme she’d planned for the show. Last, there was a gold bracelet missing from her jewelry display case. She wasn’t sure who made her angrier: Kane, her featured artist or her new hire, who had to be the thief because she’d seen the bracelet in the case when she’d gone to make her phone calls but it wasn’t there when she came out. As soon as she found the item missing, she’d called Mike. When she got voice mail, she remembered he’d said he had a hot date. She left a message saying she needed to talk to him urgently.

Halfway home she thought about dropping by his house and leaving another message but realized she didn’t have his address with her and she didn’t have the energy to go back to her gallery to get it. She drove to her home in southwest Portland, put on a mix tape of her favorite golden oldies, poured a large Bombay Sapphire gin on the rocks, and stewed about her day. She wasn’t sure Mike would show up for work again but if he did, she was going to raise hell with him.