'Well you should, Jill. Any artist as good as you needs a business card. I'll see you later, Jill. I'm going to find that wife of mine and drag her back here for a picture.' And he was off, cigar smoke billowing in his wake.
A quiet couple with a pigtailed little girl had been standing patiently to one side. They stepped up to her. 'We'd like you to do Tammy's portrait,' the wife said.
'I'd love to do a portrait of Tammy,' Jill said sincerely, smiling down at the freckle faced seven year old. 'Children are really fun, and a challenge. They can't sit still.'
The whole day was like that. One customer after another. It wasn't until the wind came up at three o'clock that Jill realized she hadn't stopped for lunch. She was suddenly ravenous, and starting to get chilled. She started to break out in goosebumps and her nipples were standing out erect beneath her thin T-shirt. She cursed herself for forgetting to bring her sweater. Three raucous hardhat types started to give her a bad time. They were making embarrassing and insulting remarks, and staring at her proudly upthrust breasts with the very visible and erect nipples.
Suddenly Jill caught sight of Jack Dawson coming towards her. But the big man in the cranberry knit jacket was not accompanied by his wife – there was another man with him, a very distinguished looking gentleman who was the antithesis of the cigar smoking tourist. Jack Dawson's companion was a tall, refined and elegantly handsome Latin with an impeccably tailored beige silk suit, light blue shirt with French cuffs and navy blue silk necktie with white polka dots. His whole aura bespoke breeding and authority, and he had the unmistakable smell of wealth about him. Jill gave the pair a grateful smile of recognition. 'Why, Mr. Dawson!' she called out. At that the hard hat boys dispersed muttering epithets under their breaths.
'I brought a friend of mine to have you do his picture. Couldn't get the missus out of them bo'tiques. She needs a supermarket cart to put everything in! Jill, this is Mr. Garcia.'
'Ernesto Garcia, Miss Conklin,' the elegant man offered in a deep and slightly accented voice. He took her extended hand and shook it warmly, looking directly into her eyes in such a penetrating way that Jill had to suppress an involuntary shudder.
'How do you do, Mr. Garcia,' she said a little breathlessly.
'I think we are too late, Jack. Miss Conklin is obviously finished for the day. You look chilly, my dear.'
'Well, yes, I am a little cold, actually.'
'Here, I'll give the little lady my jacket,' said Dawson, starting to undo the gold buttons on his cranberry knit.
'Please. Miss Conklin should not be imposed upon,' Garcia insisted with an air of quiet authority. His eyes never left her face, and he smiled ever so slightly as he spoke. 'Let us see Miss Conklin home. Perhaps we can prevail upon her to do my portrait another time.' And he signalled for a taxi with one commanding gesture. Instantly the Yellow Cab was at the curb before the flustered Jill could protest that she only lived a few blocks away.
Jill sat between the two of them, feeling small and overwhelmed. The suave Latin produced a business card from a snakeskin case. 'Will you be my guest for dinner tonight, Miss Conklin? Jack and his wife will be joining us also, of course,' he asked in such a way that made refusing awkward. Then he added, with a twinkle in his eye, 'You see, I have an ulterior motive.'
Jill was conscious of the feel of Dawson's thigh pressed tightly against hers. She looked up uncertainly at Garcia. 'An ulterior motive?' she echoed naively. Garcia handed her his card.
'Now you can't say 'No,' Jill,' Dawson put in, leaning more heavily against her. 'Mr. Garcia is a pretty important person in the art world. He just might help a young artist like you a whole lot.'
Jill read the card: Ernesto Garcia, Pres. Galeria Garcia, New York, Mexico City, Acapulco.
Jill's large hazel eyes widened. Even from her rudimentary high school Spanish, she knew that 'Galeria' meant 'Gallery' – art gallery. This could be the break she'd dreamed of for so long.
'And be sure to bring samples of your work, Miss Conklin. I'll have Jack and his wife pick you up in a taxi at 8:00… if that's convenient,' Garcia said confidently.
'Y-yes. Eight would be fine, Mr. Garcia,' Jill answered breathlessly. There was something almost hypnotic about the smooth Latin. She couldn't refuse.
The taxi had stopped in front of Josephine's garrish pink house. Jill felt a flush of embarrassment in the presence of a man of obvious wealth as she followed Dawson out of the cab and collected the things he had thoughtfully carried to the door. 'Thank you, Jack. See you at 8:00,' she said cheerily, as she opened the dark wooden door and stepped inside the musty hallway of Josephine's 'mausoleum'.
CHAPTER THREE
The first thing Jill did when she got home was to turn on the electric heater in her bedroom and change into a warm robe. Fortunately, Josephine was out in the garden, so the young girl was spared a boring monologue.
The second thing Jill did was to count the money she had made that day. Sixty-five dollars! This was her best day ever! She looked again at the discreet engraved business card Ernesto Garcia had given to her. A thousand conflicting thoughts were swirling like dry leaves in her beautiful head. She couldn't understand why a man like the important gallery owner would be interested in someone like her, a mere student. It was only then that she remembered Jack Dawson's business card. She had stuck it in her pocket without looking at it. She fished it out of her jeans.
So that's it! she said aloud as she read the card: DAWSON REPRO, INC. Lithography. Printing. Art Service.
The card listed Jack Dawson as President, and there was a Los Angeles address. One question was answered: the curious connection between a worldly and polished man like Garcia and the homespun, almost boorish printer. That had bothered Jill, the incongruity of that association.
Now another thought hit her: she had nothing decent to wear tonight. She checked through the few simple dresses in her closet. Everything seemed so unsophisticated, so terribly 'Kansas City'. Certainly, Merle Dawson was no fashion plate – but her 'career' was homemaking; she didn't need to impress the urbane Garcia, who definitely was an elegant dresser.
Jill glanced at the money still spread out on the bed. In a flash she pulled on her jeans and a heavy Irish knit sweater and went to Ghirardelli Square, to Paraphernalia, where she bought a very hip and sexy crepe dress and some ultra sheer panty hose with seams up the back, very 40's and Dorothy Lamour looking. She found a pair of outrageous red satin sandals with platforms and five inch heels at another shop and exultantly brought her purchases home. She had a quick sandwich and a glass of milk while she waited for the tub to fill, then eased down into the fragrant honeysuckle-scented bubbles until only her graceful neck and beautiful head remained above the bubble-frosted water.
The events of the afternoon flooded back to her mind as she relaxed in the soothing hot tub. She couldn't believe that she had actually been invited to bring her art samples along this evening. Maybe this was the break she'd hoped and dreamed about. At least, she would have an opportunity to have her work evaluated by the handsome dealer, which would be extremely helpful. Only fleetingly did it occur to her that Garcia might have an interest in her apart from her work. Still, that was the sort of thing you read about in magazines – small time artist being 'discovered'. Just wait till Chris finds out about this! she thought smugly. Then she remembered their last night together, and the awful scene in her bedroom, and she was suddenly filled with sadness and remorse. Her angry words echoed again in her mind… Get out, you crude bastard…! I never want to see you again…! You're like all men… All you're interested in is what's between a woman's legs… All you want is a fast fuck…! I hate you…get out…!
She closed her eyes against the pain of remembrance. Why, oh why had she said those things? Chris was the last guy in the world interested in a fast fuck! He had proved that to her over and over again. And she still loved him. She thought now that perhaps she loved him more than ever. But he wouldn't answer any of her letters, and Wendy was strangely evasive about the handsome youth, except to write that Chris was starting mechanics school in the summer.
Maybe she had been too uptight. Maybe Chris was right… maybe she was a… a prick teaser. God! The
