Second Choices

By Jenny Grover

"Sometimes it's nice to have something that's provenance you don't know." So says the sensual and mysterious art lover, Loveena, to up-and-coming painter Blake Thompson. When mild-mannered Blake shares a painting studio with his best friend, the brilliant, self-destructive Augustine Grange, they continually learn new things about themselves, their friends, and each other. But can their friendship survive the losses and changes life throws at them And can Blake find the tenderness and stability he seeks with Loveena

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257346530

Book preview

Choices

]>

1

Vibration of Stars

Black paint flowed in glistening, thin lines from a tiny sable brush point -- W. Blake Thompson. Someday, he thought, the W. should probably go, but whenever he thought that, he always reconsidered immediately. It looked rather stylish, that W, the way the last arm of it extended in a ribbon-like serif. Style was important, and it had been his trademark signature for years, forever it seemed, the only change being the slow evolution of his handwriting from a naïve, optimistic, careful script into the more cynical adult drawl it was now. An ash dropped onto the paintspattered studio floor and the merest hint of thought came to him once again that perhaps it wasn’t wise to smoke around all that turpentine and copal. It was just a risk he was willing to take, and he wasn’t too foolhardy about it, he didn’t think. The window was open a crack for ventilation. Besides, had he ever seen a photograph of Jackson Pollack without a cigarette? Then he realized he had -- when Pollack was actually painting. He took a final draw and stubbed out the butt in the sooty ashtray on his taboret, letting out a puff of laughing smoke as he thought back to Jeopardy a few nights previous, how Alex Trebeck had informed the clueless participants that the item that had been airbrushed out of US stamp designs in recent years, including Jackson Pollack’s portrait, was a cigarette. That was one of the ironies of this country, Blake thought. Reality was airbrushed out and fantasy was thrown in everyone’s face as being realistic.

He glanced down at his watch. He should be meeting Summer soon. He pulled off his paint-streaked wife beater undershirt and baggy, army green pants, also color-splashed and bearing tiny burn holes, and draped them over a grey metal stool as he walked, wearing only his boxer shorts, toward the deep sink with its chipped enamel. He scrutinized his hands, the stubborn black stains under his nails, and dipped them in mineral spirits before going at them with a nail brush. Citrus cleaner followed, and then hand lotion. Satisfied enough, he turned to the doorless closet the rented warehouse room afforded and took out the crisp white shirt and dark suit and tie he had brought with him. A drawstring bag yielded dark socks and black leather shoes, and he wiped his feet well before he put them on. He often painted barefoot, not caring as he worked if he stepped in blobs of paint, but that didn’t mean he wanted to carry any wet paint with him into his good clothes. He cinched up his belt and lit another cigarette before locking up, and as he switched off the light he noticed how the chemicals were drying the skin on his fingers, despite the lotion. He would have Summer give him a manicure this weekend. She seemed to enjoy it, and the warm emollients she soaked his hands in before cleaning and trimming his nails were soothing. It had been some time now since she had given him one.

As he got in the car and started it up, he pulled down the visor and opened the lighted vanity mirror, raking his spiky, platinum hair back with his fingers. He noticed that dark roots were just beginning to invade. Perhaps a new dye job was in line for the weekend, as well. He flipped the visor back up, put his lights on, and turned up the radio before pulling out of the gravel parking lot. It had been a good day, a productive day. Finishing the painting left him with that suspended feeling of fragile accomplishment -- happy to be finished, never sure it really was finished, unsure of just what to start next or how to start it. But for tonight he was content to be on his way to a nice dinner and a few drinks with the woman he loved. At a stoplight he reached deep into his pocket for his ring and slipped it on his finger. What a whirlwind weekend that had been, the glitter of golden Vegas, the hot, spangled nights and sun-drenched days, the risk, all propelling them towards a little chapel. They had to wait over an hour while those ahead of them rushed smiling through breathless nuptials, and the collar of his buff linen suit scratched through the sweat on the nape of his neck. The cold blasts from a vent in the ceiling fought with the heat he had brought in inside his clothes, and the profusion of flowers in every tiny room gave an almost funereal scent, but then he looked at her, the love in her eyes shining like sun off sweet water, her tiny figure hugged by a pastel floral, sleeveless dress. She was like a cool, fresh breeze to him, a breeze he wanted always blowing through his life.

Or at least she had been. That had been two years ago, and since she had taken a job as a paralegal at Blois, Jones, and Rusker she had become increasingly busy, and increasingly cool towards him. He reasoned that she just needed a break, a nice vacation. Now that he had finished this commission, perhaps after the gallery opening coming up in Los Angeles, he would have the time and money to whisk her away someplace nice.

Why don't you come down to L.A. with me? he suggested, taking a sip of wine as they waited for their dinner to arrive. We can stay a week, if you can get the time off.

I can't. We have a trial set for that week.

You can't even come down for the opening?

Blake, that's a Friday night. I can't take off that Friday. I've already told you that.

Well, it was just a thought. I thought maybe you could rearrange your schedule or something, he scratched his ear distractedly. So, how is the Brinkman case going?

Fine.

You think he's guilty, or not? He eyed her seductively, as though plying her with a pick-up line.

You know I'm not supposed to discuss the case, she reminded him, with a cool, direct look.

Come on, not even a hint just to me?

Not even you. Now don't ask me again. She tucked a stray wisp of golden hair behind one ear, with its tasteful, simple, silver hoop earring. As she straightened, he watched her ecru blouse pull tighter across her bust and wished she would loosen one more button, but she remained as she had looked at the office.

Personally, I bet he's guilty as hell, he drawled, but I just watch the news. And I bet your scum of a boss Rusker wouldn't be representing him if he weren't, he was thinking, but wouldn't say aloud in front of Summer. He hadn't the stomach to listen to her defend that snake.

That's for the jury to decide. She looked out the window onto the inky street. He hated it whenever she spouted some stock answer like that.

Despite warm, sweet wine, a lovely, buttery seafood dinner, and Blake's attempts at lightness and romance, Summer remained cool and detached, and after driving home in their separate cars, the businesslike manner of her changing out of her work clothes and into her night clothes and a heavy robe, declaring how tired she was, told him it was useless courting any physical favors.

Saturday afternoon he began bleaching his hair, as he had for years now, but he was never confident that he wouldn't miss a spot in the back, so he called Summer in to help.

Blake, isn't it time you stopped doing this? she sighed, pulling on plastic gloves to work the noxious solution through his hair.

I thought you liked me blond. Anyway, I like it. He leaned his head over the sink, feeling the cold gel ooze along his scalp.

I do, or I did. It just seems kind of frivolous and childish at this point. And anyway, I'm tired of fooling with this mess and smelling it. She hit the fan switch with her elbow and the motor roared awake.

Well, never mind then, he snapped back. I'll get someone else to do it next time. I just want to look my best when I interview for the Compton commission.

She pulled off the gloves and tossed them in the trash before turning to walk out. Maybe, she shot over her shoulder as she left, your best would be for you to grow up and just be you without all the fuss.

Grow up? he shouted out the door after her. "You're telling me I need to grow up?" He heard a door slam. Maybe it was just as well. If she'd stayed around to argue, he knew how it would all go. She would start in with isn't it time you got another teaching job? Something fulltime and secure and respectable, and you could still do your paintings. Isn't it time you started keeping normal hours? The fact of the matter was, he was happy working the way he did. He hated teaching. He wasn't a natural born teacher. It was difficult and forced and made him nervous. Students complained that he mumbled. The relief he had felt when he had finally been able to quit teaching, even on the side, had been like having a heavy yoke removed from his shoulders and the blinders taken from his eyes to let the full view of life back in. Why on earth would she want him to give up the kind of life that allowed him to paint, to think, to create to his fullest? She had once loved that he was an artist, that he lived outside the box of the normal working world. It had seemed romantic and exciting to her. She had said so! Now, it was a problem. Everything seemed to be a problem. It had started with the goatee, which she had managed to get him to pare down to a jazz dot, which he refused to shave off. Didn't people want the person they fell in love with, the person they married, to stay basically the same? He wasn't happy about the chameleon act she had pulled, turning from light, cheerful, girlish Summer into sharp tongued, money sniffing, suited woman-pillar. The timer went off and he stepped into the shower to rinse the dye from his hair and skin and be free of the sting of ammonia.

And I wish you'd get a smaller, more sensible studio, and then you could get rid of that deadbeat friend of yours, she continued that night as she dumped spaghetti sauce from a jar into a saucepan.

Deadbeat? Are you calling Gus a deadbeat?

He can't seem to make the rent payments on time.

Once. I floated him a loan once for the rent, while he was waiting for Lucy Baldrich to get around to paying him for her daughter's portrait. And as soon as he got paid, he paid me, and as soon as he got his next commission in, he paid me for that month and paid ahead for the next. I'd hardly call that being a deadbeat. Yes, he was scraping by for a while, but that was mostly before you even knew him, and he's doing alright now.

Well, I still think you should get away from him. The pasta started to boil over and the water hitting the burner hissed and sputtered. He heard a loud click as she turned off the burner switch.

He's my friend, and he's a good friend.

He has real problems, she turned to face Blake with a frowning brow and a snide curl to her lip. And if you don't watch it, he'll drag you right down into them. Mark my words.

Were you going to give me a manicure tonight? he changed