Sisoban O'mallory
Copyright© 2019 by qhml1
Chapter 1
I was bored.
I was among a group of people I didn’t know, celebrating the marriage of two people I had no history with. They looked happy and in love, but then so did I when I got married.
Left to my own devices, I slipped away among the trees. I had to hand it to them, this part of Ireland was beautiful, pastures divided by stone walls, stately mountains rising above the glens and fields, groves of trees and quaint villages, it looked like what it was, a perfect place for an outdoor wedding.
I was here, wait, why was I here again? Oh yeah, my sister and mother thought it would be a good idea for me to get away for a while. I think they shipped me off because my divorce became final the same day my now exwife’s engagement announcement hit the local papers. Afraid I might do something inappropriate would be my guess. Then again, I’m pretty sure she never dated anyone until after we separated, but it didn’t take her long to fall in love again. I hoped he didn’t bore her.
That’s why she said she left me. I wasn’t boring, exactly, she was just bored with me and our life. Not enough excitement for her. We’d been married for thirty months.
Well, at least she was upfront about it, one discussion and she was gone the next day. I didn’t try to talk her out of it, offer extravagant things to keep her with me, swear I’d change. I just let her go.
It kind of pissed her off that I didn’t appear to pine for her, and she confronted me two weeks later with a little mini-rant. “Don’t you miss me? I thought you’d at least try to fight for me.”
Again I pissed her off because I didn’t act upset. She jumped me in the neighborhood pub we used to frequent, and while it wasn’t filled with friends, exactly, most all there knew us.
“Why did you think I’d fight for you, Wendy? Who would I fight, anyway? You made your decision, didn’t try to talk to me about it before you made it, gave me no clue you were unhappy, you just left. Say I convinced you to come home, what happens six months down the road when I’m gone on a job and you get bored again? And you know, now that I’ve had time to think about it, you kind of bore me too. Alright, to be honest, you bored the shit out of me. All your conversations for the last few months started with the word me and ended with the word me. When there stopped being an us I kind of tuned you out. Besides, you went to the art gallery opening with James Broad, and the steeplechases with Howard Kennedy. Doesn’t sound like you were sitting around pining for me now, now does it?
Know what conclusion I’ve reached? You didn’t really want to split up, you just wanted a time out to explore other options, then come home to a humbled and attentive spouse. No, I think you were right when you moved out. Goodbye, Wendy.”
Most around us grinned, and a few actually laughed. In a fit of rage she threw her drink in my face and stormed out. The owner of the bar just smirked and threw me a tee shirt with his logo on it. I washed my face, put on the shirt, and went back to the darts tournament.
Once word got out, I was amazed at the number of women who wanted to console me, cheer me up, or just plain screw me. I stayed away from most, using my brooding, introspective artist persona to it’s maximum potential. It made them want me more, and two weeks before the divorce was final I slept with three of her closest friends. I could have done most of them, but these were the only single ones in the bunch. I gave them heartfelt thanks, and little charcoal sketches I made of them, all nudes. They insisted I sign them with a personalized message. Who knows, maybe they’ll be worth something some day. I heard she screamed when they showed them to her on their phones during her engagement party.
The icing on the cake was when I sent them a wedding present, which they opened in front of the bridal party. My one act of inappropriateness. It was a large painting of Wendy, nude, in a not so ladylike position. My note was for her husband. “I thought you might like this, I know I have no use for it any more. Look at it years down the road, when her looks go, or she fattens up, and remember the hot woman you married.” Wendy tried to throw champange on it, but her new husband, always a pragmatist, knocked the flute from her hand. Seemed he thought it might be worth holding on to, as an investment.
Shit, I forgot the descriptions, didn’t I? All right, Wendy was five seven, blond hair, green eyes, great lips, with a 34B bra size, a twenty-four inch waist, and 36 inch hips, held up by a very attractive set of legs. Combined, she was a very nice package.
I’m six feet even, a hundred seventy pounds, in pretty good shape because I worked out, a lot, because of my job. I’ll get to that later. Brown curly hair I wore a little too long for Wendy’s taste, and a short, full beard. I had blue eyes, and was told by one woman I had very pretty hands, with long delicate fingers. Not how I would have described them, but it helped get me laid, so I agreed. The size of my equipment? Why should that matter? Suffice to say, I was happy with it, and that’s all that mattered. Besides, not one of my lovers ever complained about it, or laughed when they got their hands on it. Oh, and I’m Damon Dawes.
Wendy came from money. Not megabucks, but her parents were very comfortable. I was upper middle class at best, but by the time we met I was pretty well established and was doing all right.
What did I do? I was a professional artist, and a pretty good one. A good many people thought so, people with money they wanted to give me.
I wasn’t one of those garret dwelling, straving in the name of my craft type of artist. Screw that. I liked to eat. I wandered into what I do by accident. I had a friend in college that loved his boxer, so much she was pretty much a constant companion outside of school. I had to do a project for class, so I chose his dog and did a formal painting of her. I got an A, and he was thrilled beyond words when I gave it to him.
He took it home and hung it in his old room. His parents were so impressed they moved it into one of their formal living rooms, and talked about it. I was just about to graduate, with no work prospects, when one of their friends called, wanting to know if I’d do a portrait of his horse. Of course, not having anything to do, I agreed, and showed up at his farm the week after I graduated.
His horse was a champion Appaloosa, unusual because he was chestnut with white spots on his rump. He really was a magnificant animal, so it was fairly easy. I did about a dozen sketches of him standing, walking, and galloping, and took about a hundred pictures. It took me four weeks of concentrated work before I got the image I wanted. He was in his pasture, galloping, and I captured him with all four feet off the ground, tail streaming out behind him.
It was half lifesize, the biggest canvas I had ever worked with, but you could see every detail, the flare of his nostrils, the dust beneath him, the shine on his hooves, the curve of his neck, his muscles rippling underneath his skin. I was very nervous when I presented it to him. If he didn’t like it, I was out of about a grand in materials and four weeks of my life.
He surprised me by crying like a baby, and his wife was stunned. I wasn’t much of a businessman back then, and I had no idea what to charge. Once he calmed down, he grinned.
“You know, I had quotes from some artists up to fifty thousand, and I don’t believe any of them could have captured his essence any better. I’m going to take advantage of you young man, and give you ten...” His wife cleared her throat just then, and he grinned. “fifteen thousand. Fair enough?”
Fifteen grand for four weeks work? Hell yes I thought it was fair. His wife smiled. “My husband is a very good businessman, young man, something you need to learn in order to have a successful career. I want you to paint a portrait of my dog. I’ll pay your five thousand for it, and add six business lessons from us as a bonus. Deal?”
Another five grand for a dog? How much money did these people have, anyway? In the end, the business lessons were worth far more than the fee.
I painted her springer spaniel, and once a week for a month and a half I had dinner with them, and three hours of instruction in his study, from both. Chelsea, it seems, was a lawyer before she became a society Grand Dame, and between them, I learned to negotiate my fee up front, get a clear contract stating the length of time it would take me, and a guaranteed payday covering materials if they didn’t like the finished product, and I retained it with an option to sell while I did another. Very wise advice in the long run.
They became good friends, and I stay at their estate a few weekends a year. I painted their granddaughter at her Christening as a gift, the light from the stained glass hitting her head, forming a colored halo, and gave it to them. Chelsea swooned back into the sofa, freaking me out. When she gathered her wits again she cried for five minutes, before trying to kiss my face off. Then she called her daughter and her husband, demanding they come, immediately. To say they were stunned was an understatement. The mother cried, and her husband, the diplomat with the stiff upper lip, had tears leaking down his cheeks.
The second year of our association, Chelsea called, demanding I meet her without Henry knowing. She handed me a group of pictures. “Can you do it? I want it lifesize, and I want to be able to present it to Henry for his birthday. You have four months.”
I worked sixty and seventy hours a week on it, destroying the first in a fit of rage because it just wasn’t right. The paint was barely dry when I delivered the final product, and she insisted I stay the weekend so I could be there when she presented it to him.
Their farm house was huge, and it was full that night, many staying in one of the twelve bedrooms or the three bedroom guest house. I cleaned up pretty well, and Chelsea was often at my elbow, intorducing me to everyone, many of them movers and shakers in our state, and particularly the young, unattached women. It was her mission to get me married off. So far it wasn’t working, and let me tell you, the woman did not take failure well.
After about an hour, she tapped her champagne flute, getting their attention. “Friends, honored guests, thank you for attending Henry’s birthday party. It isn’t often we help someone reach the sixty year mark. I really hope I have everyone of you here in ten years, to celebrate the next milestone.
I thought about it as it it approached. What could I give a man who has everything he wants and the resources to get anything that strikes his fancy? It had to be personal, but more important it had to be grand, to show how much I loved him. Please, follow me to the barn.”
She latched on to Henry’s hand and we all made our way down to the barn. His barn was a showcase, paneled stalls, with brass fixtures and running water in every one, and an indoor training ring, surrounded by a balcony fitted with plush seats, so one could watch in comfort. She kept the ring dark and had the guests sit on one side. Then the lights came on, to show her standing in front of the painting, hidden by drapes.
She didn’t need to raise her voice, the natural acoustics of the ring made her words easy to hear. “My dear Henry, you are my life, so I struggled to get you a gift that would show the depth of my love for you. Aside from me and our children, there is one thing you love above all else. So, I hope you like this small gesture, given with all the love I have. Happy birthday, my darling man.”
The drapes fell to the floor, and the painting, bathed in spotlights, seemed so real it looked like they would trot forward. A lifesize portrait of Henry, dressed in a tweed jacket over a white shirt loose at the neck, wearing jodhpurs and high boots, with a small brimmed fedora on his head, astride his appoloosa. The crowd gasped, and if hadn’t been for his children standing close, I believe he would have collapsed. I grinned and slipped out of the barn, happy I had pleased them both.
I caught holy hell from both the next day. “You should have stayed! Everyone wanted to meet you, and some had work they wanted you to do.”
“Yesterday was your night, a celebration of love and life. I refused to trivialize it by talking business. I have to go in a few hours, off to Florida to paint a greyhound. Happy birthday, Henry.”
Chelsea hugged me as I stood from putting my suitcases in my car, and handed me a check. I glanced at it, having presented her with a bill for materials and nothing else. I literally almost soiled my pants when I looked at it. A hundred thousand dollars! “I can’t...”
Chelsea laughed. “What did we teach you about contracts? If you don’t have one, the buyer can pretty much pay what they want. This is what I think it’s worth. If it’s any consolation to me, one of our guests said he had a similar portrait done, not nearly as good or on such a grand scale, and he paid over two for it. I got a hell of a bargain. Take the check, with my thanks.”
By now, I was making killer money with very little overhead. I paid my parents back for my college education, and gave them a round the world cruise for their thirtieth anniversary. I added it up after five years. I was averaging about half a million to eight hindred thousand a year, hitting a million one year. I paid taxes of course, that put a dent in it, but I had hired a good accountant, and I could write off travel expenses, materials, lodging, and studio rent when it became necessary, so it was less painful than it could have been.
My reputation was growing, to the point I had to refuse work because I just couldn’t fit it in. I got a big boost when one of the portraits I did, of a young woman and her horse riding Steeplechase, got national attention. I caught their image, just as he landed from a large jump, and it made the cover of a magazine. She was stretched out over his neck, and his rump was still in the air. Sports Illustrated used it to help push the upcoming summer Olympics. I didn’t get any money because I sign all rights away when I sell, but I did get an interview for the magazine, featuring some of my better work, the crown being Henry and his horse.
I bought a house. Not one of those palatial places I often work at, but a nice four bedroom house in the country, an old farmhouse on twenty acres, with few neighbors. I was rarely there though, still living the existence of an gypsy artist. But I knew it was there, and when I got to the point where I didn’t have to travel so much, I intended to look for a nice woman and settle down, maybe have a child or two. I didn’t meet many single women in my travels, except at parties put on by the magnates I worked for. Even then, they were usually a bunch of entitled little bitches, except when they got into a ‘fuck the artist’ contest. The first vibe I got that was going on, I disappeared.
Then I met Wendy.
And believe it or not, I met her at a party hosted by Henry and Chelsea. I wasn’t actually working for them at the time, but they heard I was nearby, called me up, and invited me, so I went. Network, network, network, the touchstone of any business.
She had on a thin summer dress, modest enough, stopping just above the knee, with a square cut top that hinted of her cleavage without actually showing it. Wendy was with three friends, also in sundresses, none as modest. One was so thin it was easy to tell it was all she had on, and the others weren’t much better. She looked miserable.
I casually strolled by, and their slutdar clicked on, at least for her friends. They smelled an eligible male, and went into hunt mode. Chelsea saved me, taking my arm and introducing me, Susan so and so of the Hampton so and sos, Heather social climber of the Westchester social climbers, Patty Fruitcake of the California Fruitcakes, and Wendy Hart, daughter of a local businessman. She was the only one who gave me a smile and decent handshake, the others leered and locked down on my hand, almost forcing me to pry their fingers off.
She seated me with Wendy, and her parents. Her father asked what I did, and when I told him I was an artist he lost all interest in me. Her mother, though, knew who I was, and gushed about the Sports Illustrated cover. I was a little embarrassed until I noticed Wendy listening closely. She gave me a card with her number on it at the end of the night, and though it had been fairly pleasant, I doubted I’d call.
She never gave me a chance to decide, showing up at the studio I’d rented and inviting me to lunch. If I had been working I would have declined. I probably wouldn’t have answered the door, but I was at loose ends. I’d finished the painting, and I did my normal post painting procedure, waiting three days before looking at it again, to see if I could detect any flaws or see a possibility of change to make it better. I once held a painting for two weeks, because something just didn’t feel right. Then I noticed what my brain was trying to tell me, I’d made one hoof black, when it was actually mottled black and browns. I painstakingly repainted it, and presented it to the owner.
I hd a surprisingly good time at lunch, and agreed to join her at a gallery that Saturday night for a showing, collections by three different artists.
The gallery date was kind of fun. One artist was just awful, a personal opinion reinforced because he hadn’t had an offer on any of his work. The next wasn’t that bad technically, but his work just didn’t appeal to me. He had already sold two, confiding in us he’d made eight thousand so far, so happy he was giddy. The third must have had a following, and he was so full of himself it was unreal. It was like he was the reincarnation of Dali, Picasso, and Monet, all rolled into one. He was holding court, and little critic wannabes and pseudoexperts were fawning all over him. He had sold one, and I looked at his prices, wondering why he thought they were worth so much.
One man noticed my look and grinned. “I take it you aren’t impressed?”
I grinned. “I have no opinion. I’m just here because my date invited me.”
Wendy was looking a little too smug, and before I could stop her she told him I was also an artist. His interest peaked.
“Paint anything I’ve ever see?”
“I doubt it. I don’t do this kind of work. I just dabble.”
The artist heard us, and was miffed he’d lost some of the limelight. “What do you paint?”
“Animals, mostly.”
He couldn’t look more condescending. “Oh, you really are a dabbler. Why don’t you leave the serious stuff to people like me and not interfere?”
I couldn’t help grinning. “Sage advice. I believe I will.”
He got even more pissed looking, thinking that in some way I was making fun of him. Wendy had wandered out to the lobby while this was going on, to get more wine, I suppose. What she’d actually done was pick up one of the magazines lying about. She had a triumphant smile on her face when she returned, giving the magazine to the critic. “See that? My boyfriend painted it.”
He looked at the cover, then me, and opened it to the article. He grinned. “You really are Damon Dawes! You know, I’ve seen some of your work in private homes I’ve visited over the years. I was always keen to meet you. Your eye for detail is exquisite. Tell me, how long did it take you to finish Henry on his horse?”
The artist was getting pissed. “Enough! Stop fawning on the man, Stan. He’s not even a real artist.”
Stan laughed. “Oh, he’s very much a real artist, with a growing reputation and a loyal following. More importantly, he gets paid very well for his work. Tell me Damon, how much work do you have lined up right this minute?”
I saw no reason to lie. “About fifteen months. But please, this isn’t my show. Let’s put the focus where it belongs.”
Stan grinned at the offended artist. “Hear that? Fifteen months. And would you care to guess what the going rate is for a life size Damon Dawes portrait is? A hundred thousand minimum. He’ll probably make more next year than you will off your art in your entire lifetime. Who’s the real artist now?”
The artist was really pissed now, ranting that it was people like me that trivialized his profession. “It won’t be long, you hack, before you’re reduced to doing pictures of dogs playing poker.”
I just smiled. I had a request from four men, all lifelong friends, to immortalize their dogs just that way. A Boxer, an English Bulldog, an Australian Shepard, and a Doberman. They each wanted the same portrait, personalized by having each dog holding the winning hand in their protrait. Twenty-five grand apiece, and I could do one in about a month in my spare time, since they didn’t want lifesize.
“Wendy, I think we should go now.” I thanked the gallery owner, and he embarrassed me no end by having me autograph the magazine. I did it just because I knew he’d display it, and business was business.
She tried with a straight face to apologize, but it didn’t work. I asked her to refrain in the future. A lot of my success was word of mouth references from some very rich people, and most like the idea that I was unknown by the masses. Besides, I didn’t think I could handle a flood of social climbers because I happened to be the ‘it’ thing of the month.
She grinned, and told me it was too late. Her Aunt Martha wanted a picture of her minature Highland Terrier, as soon as I could do it. It pissed me a little. “Fine. Tell her I’ll contact her in about eighteen months, when I finish what I’ve got going on now. If she can afford my fees, I’ll be glad to discuss it.”
That’s the first time I learned Wendy didn’t take no very well. Let’s just say the kiss at the end of the night was a frosty brush on the cheek, and I think she was surprised I wasn’t disappointed. She talked it over with her friends, especially the older ones. Her aunt gave her the best advice she never took. “Be careful there, Wendy, artists, writers, anyone with some sort of creative profession tend to live in their heads a lot. Especially the successful ones. I dated a sculptor once, even talked him into doing a nude of me. But he wasn’t the most social person, and trying to mold him into what I wanted was like herding cats.”
“Did you dump him?”
She looked sad for a minute. “No child, he left me. Said I was smothering him and he couldn’t take it any more. Sadly he was right to do it. Let me show you something.”
It was a two foot bronze, of a woman leaning against a tree trunk. You could look at the face and tell without a doubt it was her aunt. Of course, she was nude, and he had captured her down to the erect nipples and riot of pubic hair. If you had to describe her expression, ‘sexual afterglow’ suited best. She grinned. “He’d just finished making love to me against that tree, and snapped a picture. Four months later he gave it to me, as a parting gift. My husband hates it, and hated when we would run into him in social situations. He was always kind, though, and I would go into a funk for days afterwards. I cried like my heart was breaking when I read he’d died in a car crash, the victim of a drunk driver, because it did, a little.”
She looked sadly at the sculpture before smiling. “What I’m trying to tell you, honey, is if you want him, be prepared, and never, ever, try to make him something he’s not. It hardly ever works for average people, but with an artist, you’re doomed from the start.”
Her aunt told me about it later, when I finally got around to the portrait of her dog. Too bad she didn’t listen.
I didn’t see her for a month, working on a portrait of a pig, a national champion boar. It was actually a lot of fun, the pig was mottled shades going from jet black to pure white to vibrant reds, and I put a wicked gleam in his eye, matching the one I’d seen when they presented him with a sow to breed. I have to say, unless you like hard core sex at the most basic level, it wasn’t much to watch. The customer was pleased, and tried to talk me into doing one of him breeding a sow, and a portrait of the sow later with his piglets. I declined.
I turned up at the home of Henry and Chelsea, unannounced, just a quick hello since I was passing through. They pressured me until I agreed to spend the night, but I told them I really had to leave first thing in the morning. I was having a very relaxing afternoon, walking the rounds with Henry. He showed me one of his stallion’s offspring, pure white with a riot of black spots on the shoulders and the whithers. She was shining in the sunlight, dust filtering around her, creating a sephia haze. I had my camera out, a compact model I always carried, cpapable of very good resolution, snapping away. Henry just grinned.
I grinned back. “All right, damn you. When?”
“Next year. She should be fully grown then, and her shape will have come in. She’s got a stellar pedigree, by my stud out of Indian Princess. I suspect she will win a lot of awards in the next ten years or so. I probably won’t breed her until she’s four or five, already got the stud picked out, a colt now, but he should be absolutely marvelous when he matures.”
We walked back, talking about the Arabians a neighbor had, and the rare breed he was thinking about getting, part of a conservation program. Horses developed in India, famous for their ears, almost touching in an arch. They were very beautiful animals. He’d be the first on the East coast to have them.
Wendy was standing beside Chelsea when we entered the house, jumping into my arms and giving me a tremendous kiss. Caught by surprise, I almost threw her off, but her lips convinced me holding on would be a better idea.
“Surprise! Aunt Chelsea called, and told me to come over. You don’t mind, do you?”
What was I susposed to say? We had a very pleasant evening, a nice meal and an old movie, one of Henry’s favorites. I was staying in the guest house, so when the movie was over, I called it a night. “I have to leave early, remember?”
Henry grinned when I told him I’d be by now and then to check on the filly, and Chelsea kissed me on the cheek. Wendy looked disappointed, gave me a chaste kiss, and turned away, thinking I missed her smirk.
I woke an hour later to hear her fumbling around, then heard “SURPRISE!”, followed a little while later with a mumbled “what the...”. I thought something like that might happen, so I switched bedrooms, and she jumped into an empty room, wearing nothing but high heels and a smile. I heard her open the second bedroom, muttering, pissed because I wasn’t there. I got up and slipped out on the balcony, jumping the rail and running around to the front, sneaking in while she looked for me. She came out of the third bedroom looking pissed.
You could probably hear her scream two farms over when I grabbed her, picked her up, and rushed the bed, dumping her on it, yelling “SURPRISE!” at the top of my lungs.
I fell beside her, laughing, while she caught her breath. When she did, she gave me a list of words a proper young lady should have never heard, much less utter, strung together creatively, alluding to ancestry, physical appearance, and intelligence level. When she ran out of steam I kissed her.
Suddenly she lost all desire to speak, except in grunts and whimpers. Needless to say, when my alarm went off, we were already at it again. She was extremely disappointed that I had to leave, and got a promise out of me to call her first thing, when I got back into town.
I drove five hours, before giving up and getting a room, calling my client and telling him I’d been held up by unforseen forces, and crashing for ten straight hours.
It was a really simple job, a large white cockatoo, that I captured when his feathers were extended to maximum effect. Four days, ten grand, and I was home. She came over, admired my house, getting a tour that ended in the bedroom. She declared it quite comfortable and more than large enough, so she never left it until I had to leave a week later. She would come over every time I was home, stay until I had to leave, and eight months later I found her already there, with her clothes, cosmetics, and everything else she thought she would need to nest. We lived together for a year before we got married, at Henry’s house, with he and Chelsea footing the bill.
Her father was long gone, so Henry walked her down the aisle while Chelsea beamed. We honeymooned on a private island, a wedding gift from one of my clients, completely alone for six days. We both had nice full body tans when it was over. We moved from the island to an exclusive resort for another four days. I wanted to be there because of the waterfalls they were so famous for, a constant rainbow over them because of the mist. I probably took a thousand pictures. Of course, it had a vibrant nightlife, and almost all the beaches were clothing optional. She looked at me when we found out, and giggled. “Well, now I don’t have to worry about tan lines.” Our suits stayed in our luggage. She, it seems, was a bit of an exhibitionist, loving it when guys would watch her, but she would frown up if any woman gave me more than a casual glance.
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