Chapter 5

I shivered and hugged myself. I'd dutifully swum my morning laps, but the dawn of a new day in December, even in Phoenix, Arizona, is no time to sit outside by a swimming pool wearing nothing but a towel.

"Let's take this inside, Mom," I said.

Not long ago, I'd discovered that my mother and I enjoyed sharing a sunrise. It was also our time for serious conversations, a time when we revealed more about our inner selves, our strengths, our weaknesses, and laid these inner selves in the other's cupped hands, trusting that applause wouldn't follow.

We'd just talked about my non-arrangement with Sherry Crane, and satisfied that she understood that situation, Mom had switched topics. She'd wanted to know about Dean Gibson.

"Mom, I know less about Dean than I know about Sherry," I said as we stepped through the patio doors into the kitchen.

"Dig deeper, then," Mom said. "It was three o'clock this morning when Grace came home. I was up worried half-sick, doing my mother hen bit, when your sister came flowing through the door with the gleam of love in her eyes. She ignored my angry questions as if I were mute, or she was deaf, gave me a goodnight hug, and skittered off to bed."

I nodded and said, "I'll have a private talk with Dean today, Mom." I'd planned such a talk with him anyway. I glanced at my mother. Did she have some room in her worry place for some teasing? Yeah, she did. "What should I do? Tell Dean if he touches Grace that I'll neuter him?"

"No!"

I laughed. "Gotcha."

Her face went slack, and then she smiled. "I won't get even, young man. I'll get ahead."

"Gulp," I said feigning fear, which made her laugh. "Mom, if Grace came floating through the door with the gleam of love in her eyes, it was new love. I saw the same gleam when she met another young man named Troy at the Crane cocktail party. She was atwitter, so taken with Troy that she hardly noticed Dean. Grace falls hard and fast, but behind the gleam in her eyes, she maintains a strong grip on reality. If Dean turns out to be a cad, Grace will be fine. Even if he uses her, Grace will be fine. Do you know why?"

"Tell me."

"Because she'll understand she's been used and will drop him without hesitating. Then she'll give her stunning body a shake and a shudder and move on with the rest of her life without looking back at Dean Gibson, or any other man who uses her." I grinned. "Regardless, as you suggested, I'll dig deeper into Dean Gibson's personality."

I painted with acrylics in my garage studio until Grace called me to lunch. Dad was at work, and Mom was out showing office space to a client. Lunch was simple: soup and sandwiches.

"After three in the morning, huh?" I said to Grace while trying to look miffed. I couldn't maintain the subterfuge and grinned.

She glared at me and said, "It's not what you think."

"Ah, you've added mind reading to your many talents. What am I thinking?"

"That Dean and I tested the sofa bed in the studio."

"The idea must have crossed your mind last night for you to put it in my mind this morning," I said and took a bite from the ham and cheese sandwich on my plate. After swallowing, I said, "Mom must be working half-asleep today. She greeted you at three this morning and shared a sunrise with me four hours later. She said you came through the door with the gleam of love in your eyes, and if I'm not mistaken, I detect a good bit of glitter still hanging around." I chuckled. "Does the gleam of love have a half-life like radioactive material?"

"Stop making fun of me, little brother."

"You're reading me wrong. If I'm making fun of anyone, it's Mom. She is such a mother hen."

Grace laughed. "Yes she is."

"Tell me about Dean Gibson. After last night, you've spent a thousand times more minutes with him than I. Was I wrong to ask him to share studio space with me?"

Grace shrugged, an arousing gesture. She wore a t-shirt, and her dusky nipples tented the thin fabric. They were darker than the white cotton shirt, so I could also see a hint of their texture and color. Form, texture, and color: three important tenets of my art. I saw form, texture and color in everything my eyes took in, but I've gotta admit that these tenets of my art rarely excited me sexually like the hint of my sister's stiff nipples.

She gazed into the distance and said, "I like his eyes." Then she shook herself and laughed. "Which tells you nothing that would help you know if he'll make a good studio-mate or a bad one. My guess is the former. He's very impressed with your work. He says your ability with the tools of painting far exceeds that of any art student at the university. He added that he's a competent painter, but that he'll never be your equal, not with paint and canvas. Dean's true love is photography, Brent. To his mind, Ansel Adams is the greatest artist of all times, not Rembrandt or Michelangelo."

I frowned. "Which means he'll want to put a darkroom in the studio."

"Yep, under the loft where the northern light you need won't interfere with the controlled light his photography requires. Your individual needs and uses for the space shouldn't conflict." She paused to sip some iced tea. "The apartment is set up and stocked, little brother. I did my job last night, and Dean helped. I came home at three in the morning because setting up and stocking that apartment took that much time."

"Okay, I hear you, but you can't say that he didn't kiss you."

She blushed. "No, I can't say that."

"I'm sorry, Brent," Dr. Crane said. "Sherry isn't here. She left this morning."

I'd called the Crane residence to arrange a time to give them the watercolor landscapes I'd painted for them, and yes, the paintings were an excuse for me to speak with Sherry. I ached to see her again.

"When will she return?" I said. "I'm asking because I'd like to deliver the watercolor landscapes I promised the two of you."

"I don't know. She owns a retreat in the White Mountains. She did say she'd be back to spend Christmas Day with me."

To say that I was disappointed would be a gross understatement. "Please tell her to call me," I said.

"I will, but it's likely that I won't be able to pass on your message until she returns."

I wanted to ask a thousand questions. Instead I said goodbye and ended the call. Was Sherry alone at her retreat or with someone? Was our wild fuck a brief interruption of a love affair with another man that she'd started before our luncheon, an affair that she hadn't ended yet? I wasn't conceited enough to believe she'd fled the city for the quiet solitude of a retreat to think about us, but the thought crossed my mind. Our time together had affected me greatly, but it would be foolish of me to even think that Sherry felt the same upheaval in her life from some impromptu sex on a kitchen table. She was sophisticated and worldly, a conqueror of men. She wouldn't sneak away to avoid me. Would she?

"Rules, Dean. We'll need some rules," I said.

We sat in the studio apartment. I sipped chilled IBC Root Beer in a non-frosted mug. Dean chugged from a can of Pepsi.

"I agree," he said.

"No parties," I said.

"Agreed, unless it's one we plan together."

I nodded a silent agreement to his altered rule and said, "Are you a slob or a neat-freak, or somewhere in between."

"In between but a little toward the neat-freak end of the scale."

"I'm slightly off center toward the slob side. If I get too sloppy, say so, and I'll clean up my act. If you get too compulsively neat, I'll say so, which means you'll need to relax a little and go with the flow."

"That sounds workable," he said.

"Next item," I said, "and this one is touchy. The sofa you're sitting on is also a bed. I live with my parents, but I'm sexually active. I'll be using that bed for more than taking a nap, and my sexual preference involves women in their twenties. A woman that age screwing a sixteen-year-old is against the law, so I'll need your promise that my relationships, should you learn of any, will remain a secret."

He nodded. "That's a promise, Brent."

"Thanks, but my sexual preference isn't our only problem. If I'm not mistaken, you and my sister might become lovers. If that happens, don't use that bed."

He shook his head. "I can't make that promise. I will say this. If we use the bed, you'll never know."

"Fair enough, and I'll try not to flaunt my secret liaisons, as well."

"I'll be installing a darkroom," he said.

"Grace told me. I don't have a problem with that. Under our gentlemen's agreement, if you go away for any reason, I'll expect you to restore the space to its original condition."

"Of course," he said. "Some construction is involved, which means noise and a mess for about a week, maybe a little longer."

"No problem. I won't start moving my work into the studio until the first of the year. I'm in the process of completing twelve acrylic paintings for a one-man show in San Diego in February. Those paintings should be finished by mid-January, but I'll start my transition to oils here at the studio before then."

"Besides a darkroom, I'll be building two changing rooms, and a modeling platform, and I might need to beef up the electrical system for the lighting I'll need. I want to be a fashion photographer, Brent." He grinned. "I hope long-legged, beautiful models wandering in and out won't be too distracting."

I chuckled. "I'd like to give you an unequivocal no on that, but I can't. I'm serious about my work, Dean. If what you do affects the volume or quality of my work, I'll ask you to find a new studio. With that said, I'm not opposed to a three-month trial period. By then, we'll both know if sharing studio space is workable."

A darkroom. Changing rooms for models. Upgrading the electrical system for hot stage lighting. Flashbulbs popping. Long-legged, sexy women strolling in and out of the studio. Dean and Grace fucking on the sofa bed.

Perhaps sharing my studio with Dean wasn't such a good idea. It wasn't the money, either. Not that I was sneering at saving half the rental and utility costs, but my main reason for sharing had been the possible companionship of another artist. I was a high school student who didn't relate to the other students. I needed some friends. Everyone needed friends. I had none, and I'd just figured out that Dean wouldn't even partially fill that void in my life. He'd be Grace's friend — lover, too, probably.

If I were honest with myself, that was half the problem. The idea of Grace fucking any man bothered me, an unreasonable attitude, I admit. She wasn't a virgin, or at least I assumed she'd had sex with one or more of her boyfriends over the last few years. Why should Grace and Dean having sex upset me?

Regardless, if Dean made Grace happy, I'd put up with the distractions he'd mentioned — to a point.

I gave Dean his key to the studio and drove away in my pickup truck. It was four days until Christmas. The San Diego show called for twelve paintings. I'd completed seven. Perhaps with some all-nighters combined with some short periods of rest I could finish two or three more. I didn't have anything or anyone else pressing me.

While searching for subjects for microscopic landscapes, I came across bacteria, the building blocks of life. They occupy and are indispensable to every living being on the planet. Without bacteria, life's essential progression would grind to a screeching halt. Current biological theories have also altered our view of evolution as a relentless, gory competition among individuals and species. Life, biologists now believe, does not evolve just through combat. It also evolves through networking. Life forms grew more complex by co-opting others, not just by killing them.

I liked that.

Our planet became fertile and inhabitable for larger, more complex life forms through a planet-wide system of communicating, gene-exchanging bacteria. Discovering the microcosm within and around me changed the way I looked at other living organisms. Knowing that all life on the planet evolved from bacteria, I started to look at living things as communities of former bacteria.

What's more, the microscopic images I found representing bacteria boggled my mind. The forms! The colors! The textures! My mind's eye configured new realities using these building blocks of life, converting them into new communities of bacteria, new images to render on canvas. My mind's eye became a microscope, and like I could envision a completed painting while working with micro-landscapes, I could now see a finished microscopic landscape before applying the first brush stroke to a blank canvas.

I added materials to the paint like sand and ashes for texture, and the creative zone I occupied became frenzied. I worked until my muscles cramped and my eyes felt like they were being scratched from the inside out. Then I'd crash, sleep for a few hours, but even while sleeping I created. When my eyes opened, I rushed back to the canvas, changing the composition, forms and colors to match the painting I'd conceived in my dream state.

"Brent!" someone said.

"Go away!" I shouted as my palette knife ladled and mixed paint directly on the canvas.

"Brent!"

The interloper pounded at the door.

"Brent!"

"God damn it!" I muttered as a brush feathered an unwanted edge the palette knife had left in its wake.

"Brent! Unlock this door, or I'll kick it in!"

I threw the brush to the floor. Stepped back and gazed at the painting.

"Almost," I said and picked up a clean sponge. I'd need more sponges soon. More paint, too. I dabbed with the sponge, dropped it, picked up a wide, soft brush and waved it over still-wet paint with a feather-like touch. I stepped back again, picked up a different brush, hesitated, and dropped the brush.

"Finished."

Wood splintered. The door flew open and slammed against the wall.

"Jeez, Dad, all you had to do was knock," I said.

The sunrise Christmas morning was exceptional, well worth the effort to step outside and watch the birth of a new day. I didn't swim. It was too damned cold, but bundled in some old sweats, I sat in comfort and enjoyed the changing landscape as night became day. I felt rested. After Dad kicked in my door, I showered and ate dinner with the family, and then crashed, sleeping ten hours, a record for me.

Mom joined me. She shivered as she sat at the patio table. The coffee in her cup steamed.

"Merry Christmas," I said brightly.

"Humph." She sipped the hot liquid and swallowed.

"I looked. I didn't see any toys under the tree left by a jolly old man who came down the chimney while I slept," I said.

"You pushed yourself too hard this time, Brent," Mom said.

"I know. I'd planned to concentrate on my work, but my creative juices took control, and I lost track of the days."

"It's not healthy to work for three days without stopping. You need to get a life, son. A life includes more than work. I had to have this same talk with your father a few years ago." She shook her head. "He didn't get it, either. He took up golf."

I nodded and said, "I need some friends, but boys and girls my age shy away from me, which doesn't truly bother me. Their view of life is childish to me. Grace is a friend. You, too, Mom, but the two of you are family first and friends second. I'd hoped Terry would become a friend, but that won't happen. The main reason I decided to share the studio with Dean was the hope that he'd be a friend, but his relationship with Grace dashed that hope. Being a prodigy isn't without its problems, and making friends is one of them."

Mom shrugged. "What do you want or expect from a friend?"

I shrugged. I'd never considered that question.

She said, "Make a list that defines what you want and expect from a friend and another list that describes what you're willing to give in return. Friendship is a two-way street, Brent. To get you've got to give."

"I know that."

"Also, you have an advantage you haven't exploited. The way you are, your friends can be any age."

My jaw gaped. She was right! I slammed my jaw shut and grinned. "Mom, you are wonder!"

She giggled, very pleased with herself.

"What happened during my four-day creative surge? Has Grace and Dean's relationship deepened? Did Sherry Crane call? Bring me up to date."

According to my mother, Grace was of two minds regarding Dean Gibson. The young man intrigued her, and his attention gave her ego a lift, but Grace had told Mom that she didn't see herself falling in love with him.

"They're friends, Brent," Mom said.

"Are they lovers, too?" I asked.

Mom looked away from me. "That would be my guess. Grace isn't innocent about sex, Son."

"I figured."

"She's handling the affair well, though. I'm proud of her."

"Sharing the studio might be a short-lived experiment, Mom."

"Don't write Dean off as a potential friend," Mom said.

She'd misunderstood me, so I explained why I felt the shared studio experiment might not work without even considering Grace and Dean's relationship.

"Maybe, but remember, to get you've got to give."

I nodded.

"Sherry Crane didn't call," she said.

I nodded again.

Sherry Crane hadn't called, but I had Christmas gifts for her and her uncle, and I hadn't picked up the written statements from the witnesses to my altercation with Carl Ballard. So, with a portfolio case containing the watercolor landscapes under my arm, I hopped into my truck and drove to the Crane residence. Dr. Crane answered the door.

"Merry Christmas," I said with a grin.

He returned my greeting and invited me in. I followed him to the great room at the rear of his house. He asked if I'd like something to drink, and I selected eggnog from the choices he offered.

"Sit," he said. "I'll get your drink and tell Sherry you're here. She arrived late last night, and I must admit I forgot to tell her to call you."

"No problem," I said.

Sherry arrived before Dr. Crane returned with the eggnog, but she didn't step into the room alone. A beautiful woman was with her. She looked older than Sherry, about thirty, give or take a year. She was a blonde with gray eyes, pale white skin, and a lush body. Her extra long, sensuous neck added an inch or more to her height, which I guessed at five-ten in her bare feet. She wore high heels, though, so when I stood to greet her, she looked me straight in the eye.

Her name was Vivian Kincaid, and it took a while to sink in, but I finally realized that Sherry and Vivian were much more than mere friends. They were lovers, and their love wasn't new.

I gave Dr. Crane and Sherry the watercolor landscapes; Sherry gave me the written statements she'd gathered for me during the Crane cocktail party, and I rose to leave. Dr. Crane walked me to the door.

"I'm sorry, Brent," he said, referring, I was certain, to Sherry and Vivian's Sapphic relationship. He verified my assumption when he added, "During the time they spent together in the White Mountains, they decided to stop trying to hide how they feel about each other."

I nodded. Could Dr. Crane be a friend? Possibly. We had some commonalities: art and Jane Wilson. I forced a smile and said, "I'll live, Dr. Crane. How about lunch next week? And after we eat, I'd like you to see the paintings I'll be presenting in a one-man show in San Diego in February next year."

He gave me a curious look but smiled and nodded. "I'd like that. What day?"

We made a definite appointment, and I drove away feeling a little schizophrenic. My heart was heavy. A future with some sexy liaisons with Sherry Crane was unlikely to nil, probably the latter, but with a little luck, Dr. Crane would become a friend.

I've got to admit, though, that I was more down than up. I felt a loss. Intellectually, I'd known that Sherry and I had no future as a couple, but the intimacies I'd shared with the beautiful woman had made mush out my intellect, and deep down, I'd had hopes.

I'd loved her. Not deeply, but I'd loved her.

Tears misted in my eyes, but I shook off the sadness I felt. Perhaps some long-legged, sexy models strolling in and out of the studio wouldn't be a negative disruption after all.

I made a friend the next day.

I covered one of my paintings in bubble wrap, lashed it down with bungee cords in the bed of my truck and drove to the studio. As I was pulling the painting out of the truck, Agnes Porter walked up.

"Happy holidays, Brent," she said. "Let me put this bottle of wine on the seat in the truck, and I'll help you with that."

"Thanks," I said. Agnes was the sculptor who referred me to Cole that led me to rent the studio. I'd meant to drop by her nearby studio to thank you, but I hadn't gotten around to the chore.