CHAPTER NINE
NATHAN
“That three hour drive better be worth it,” Josh says, staring up at the mansion.
We’re standing outside a sprawling estate that belongs to Mr. Simmons, a well-known collector with a penchant for rare art. The building looms with an old world charm, brick facade, although the presence of overgrown weeds and visible disrepair makes it clear the house isn’t being well taken care of.
“I suggested we take the jet but you hate flying,” I remind him.
It’s a good thing too because using the jet would have meant getting my father involved and I’d rather he’s not made aware of what it is I plan to do here. At least not until it’s all over. Josh walks over to stand beside me as we wait for someone to meet us out here. I called ahead so I’d been expecting maybe some of the help to welcome us. It’s usually customary with huge houses like this to at least have a butler.
When it becomes clear no one’s coming, Josh clears his throat. “Should we knock on the door?”
“I suppose.”
“This place gives me the creeps. It’s like one of those haunted homes in horror movies where the characters get trapped and there’s an axe murderer chasing them around. No one ever survives axe murderers.”
I quirk an eyebrow looking sideways at him, my expression unamused. He offers me a small nervous smile before walking up the steps to the house. He grabs the brass knocker on the door, pulling it down twice. The sound echoes and two minutes later, we hear the telltale sound of footsteps approaching. An old man steps out of the house, possibly in his late sixties with gray hair.
“Ah, you must be the gentlemen that called this morning,” he says, walking forward with the aid of a wooden stick. “I’m Mr. Simmons.”
I close the gap between us so he doesn’t have to strain himself too much.
“Yes sir, I’m Nathan Wolfe. This is my assistant, Josh Fields,” I say.
“Nice to meet you both. I’m sorry for making you wait out here. I had to lay off all my staff some time ago and now I’m the only one left in the house. Come in, come in.”
When I glance back at Josh behind me, he mouths ‘axe murderer’ with wide eyes while pointing at Mr. Simmons. I roll my eyes. Dumbass .
Inside, the atmosphere of the house is hushed, silent.
“You never did tell me exactly why you’re interested in from my collection, Mr. Wolfe,” the old man says as he leads us towards an area at the back of the house. “Is there a particular piece you’re here for?”
“We’re here to discuss the acquisition of a rare painting we’re believe you’re in possession of,” I say choosing my words with care.
I don’t mention it outright yet. I need to fish around, figure out just what Mr. Simmons motivations are, what he could be interested in. Negotiation involves understanding the person on the other end. It’s like playing chess. A battle.
Mr. Simmons gestures for us to follow him into a private gallery room. The space is dimly lit, with carefully arranged spotlights accentuating several framed canvasses. We stop at the entrance into the room and he turns to face us, brown eyes glittering with the satisfaction of a man that’s seen a lot of the world. He stands tall despite the walking stick which tells me he’s not a man to be underestimated.
“We’re here. My favorite room in the house. I don’t usually allow private viewings of my art pieces but my daughter insisted. She said you’ve helped her before and she owes you a favor.”
“Her company was in trouble. Our company helped her to stay afloat,” I inform him. “It’s what we do.”
“That’s good then. You know I haven’t seen my daughter in ten years. I was surprised when I got that call. You must have really wore her down into agreeing to call me.”
His frosty relationship with his daughter is none of my business, I simply cashed in on a favor owed. But what he’s just said has made it clear that while his daughter’s request may have got us in through the door, it’s not going to help us in getting what we want.
“Now are you going to tell me which piece exactly you’re here for?” he questions, eyes fixed on mine.
“There are rumors that you’re in possession of a piece from the Phantom collection which was auctioned off a very long time ago. Is that true sir?”
I watch as the old man’s face changes, his expression growing detached.
“My Phantom isn’t for sale,” he states, just as I’d been afraid of.
But we didn’t drive all the way out there just to quit at the first stumble.
“I understand it’s a rare painting sir but I’m prepared to offer a very huge sum of money if you agree to the sale.”
His lips thin, “You don’t understand, young man. That painting means too much to me. I can’t part with it. It’s too special.”
A muscle in my jaw tightens.
“I understand it’s very special to you sir, but is there any chance, anything, I could offer that would make you consider parting with it?”
“No,” he replies without giving it much thought.
I exchange a glance with Josh, he shrugs, his expression blank. The old man is being difficult which is really not what I need right now. I’d been expecting some reluctance but the look on his face is firm, stubborn.
I decide to go out about through another angle.
“You live here alone,” I start. “Who takes care of the paintings and the house?”
“I have a caretaker come in once a week. Other than that I make due. I won’t be here long anyway. I’ve lived in this house my entire life. I intend to die here as well,” he says, sounding broken somehow.
An entire life lived just to end up alone? Sounds bleak.
“What happens to the paintings once you’re gone?” I ask, deciding to be blunt.
Some people need a push in order to be logical.
“Probably be buried with them,” he replies gruffly. “Regardless, they’re mine and none of them are for sale.”
I feel a surge of anger and irritation. It’s pretty clear I’m not going to get anywhere with him. Before I can press further, the old man’s gaze shifts towards the door.
“If that’ll be all gentlemen, then permit me to ask you to leave. I’m truly sorry you came all the way here for nothing. If I’d known you came here for the Phantom, I would have asked you not to bother.”
“Wait sir,” Josh says, stepping forward, “Would it be alright if we could at least look at the painting? We’re already here and it would be a shame to go back without at least getting a glance at it.”
I look at him surprised that he thought to request that. But he keeps his gaze on Mr. Simmons who appears to be thinking it over. Finally he nods.
“Alright then. Come in.”
He leads us further into the gallery. The paintings are carefully wrapped, clean. It’s pretty clear that he’s devoted a lot of time to them. The painting we’re here for is mounted at a corner in the far back, covered by a white cloth.
“I keep it covered because it tends to make me feel a lot of things. Mostly heartache. The artist…he or she was brilliant. To be able to convey so much with paint and brushstrokes. It’s amazing,” the old man states, his voice heavy.
“You have no idea who the artist is?” I ask in a low tone.
“No one does as I’m sure you know. The Phantom collection was auctioned off nearly 15 years ago. 11 pieces, each of them different and yet also with the same signature. It was hard for me to acquire this one but I knew I had to have it after one look.”
My throat tightens and I can feel my heartrate quickening.
“Which of the Phantom pieces is it?”
“The Phantom House,” he replies right before he unveils it, letting the cloth fall to the ground.
I suck in a sharp breath. The painting before me captures an old weather mansion shrouded in twilight. Its crumbling facade is rendered in cool muted blues and grays, while streaks of amber and gold hint at the dying of a once vibrant day. There’s an almost tangible sense of melancholy and mystery in the painting. The house seems less a physical building than a vessel of painful memories and a future that’ll never bloom.
“It reminds me of my home. My life actually,” Simmons explains sadly. “I spent most of it chasing beauty and art. I ignored my family and now all I’m left with are these paintings and a home that continues to echo with a loneliness I might as well have created myself.”
Josh steps toward the old man, placing a hand on his shoulder, “I’m sure that’s not true sir. You still have time to make amends.”
He shakes his head, “It’s too late for me, son.”
I’m not paying much attention to their conversation. My eyes are still fixed on the painting. Its delicate brushstrokes and vibrant yet melancholic hues, sends a shock of recognition straight to my core. My hand twitches. I feel a sudden urge to reach out and touch he canvas. For a suspended moment, the present blurs.
“ You like this one, don’t you, sweetie?” she asks, her bright smile almost blinding. She’s standing in front of the easel, her apron covered in paint. There’s some red paint on her cheek as well.
My brows furrow as I look at the painting she’d been working on.
“ It looks sad,” I tell her, my 10 year old brain trying to understand the significance of the painting.
Her expression becomes far off, like she’s somewhere else, her mind trapped in an endless state of pain.
“ That’s the point, baby. It’s meant to be sad.”
The memory is vivid and piercing but the scene disappears almost as fast as it appeared in my mind. I hear the clearing of a throat that snaps me back to the present. Josh is still standing in front of Mr. Simmons, they’re both looking at me.
“Are you okay, sir?” he asks.
I nod, forcing my features to slip back into a mask of impassivity. Now that I’ve finally seen it, I have no intention of simply giving up.
“Mr. Simmons, you and I both know that this painting deserves better than being locked up in a room like this. I’m currently working on building a community center in my hometown. I plan to create a gallery in that center. A public one, where people from around the world will come to see art and innovation. The Phantom collection’s a big part of that dream. It’s imperative that you consider selling it to us, sir.”
“How many have you gotten?” he questions curiously.
“At the moment, we’ve been able to acquire five.”
All spread across the world. But a couple phone calls and the right price had the owners ready to hand them over. They’re currently been shipped back to Edenton. This is the first one I’ve gotten to see in person though.
“Five is a lot already, Mr. Wolfe. You don’t need to acquire them all do you?” he asks.
I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
“Am I supposed to take that to mean you’re absolutely not interested in selling the Phantom House?”
“Yes you may,” he answers easily.
I grit my teeth in frustration.
“I think you’re making a mistake, Mr. Simmons.”
“Mistake or not, this painting won’t be sold while I’m alive. Stop wasting your time and leave,” he states firmly.
“Sir,” Josh speaks up, a pleading note in his tone.
I turn around, feeling an ache in my chest at the thought of having to leave without success. The old man is too stubborn to see reason. I can understand his motivations to some extent. He dedicated a large portion of his life to the artwork in this room and now he’s clinging to them in his last days. They’re all he has left.
I can sympathize with his plight but I have my own agenda. And I’m not going to back down. I’ll come back, after figuring out the best way to get the painting,
As we turn to go, my gaze lingers on another painting displayed on the far wall. It looks familiar somehow. Mr. Simmons notices what I’m looking at. He walks over to the painting. We follow.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” he asks, gesturing at the small painting with delicate strokes and vibrancy.
The canvas captures an early sunrise over a gently rolling landscape, its horizon awash in soft oranges, pinks and golds.
“How does it make you feel?” Simmons questions.
Josh is the one to answer, “Warm, like home.”
“It looks familiar,” I murmur, although I can’t quite place it.
“You must have come across the works of Anika Cameron then,” Simmons states, a gentle smile on his face. “She’s the artist responsible for this painting. Dawn’s Embrace she titled it. I find it fitting.”
Recognition flares through me. I remember seeing this when I went through Anika’s catalogue of paintings online.
“Anika Cameron?” Josh questions in a whisper beside me.
I ignore him, fixing the old man with a look and feeling a spark of opportunity, “You’re a fan of her work?”
“Of course. Unlike the Phantom, I purchased this one very recently. It fills me with a sense of hope I thought lost forever. I’ve tried to acquire more of Miss Cameron’s work but she seems to have stopped painting. She went off the grid. I’ve always wanted to meet her in person.”
A slow, calculating smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as my mind whirs. I clear my throat, and address Mr. Simmons, my tone measured and businesslike.
“How about I cut you a deal, Mr. Simmons?” I start. “How would you feel if I could not only get you another one of Miss Camerons’ paintings but also arrange a meeting with her?”
His eyes widen, “You can do that?”
Josh shifts uneasily at my side but he wisely keeps quiet.
“Of course. Miss Cameron is an acquaintance. I’m sure she’d love a chance to meet someone that likes her work so much. Maybe she’ll even be willing to give you a painting to show her appreciation. Perhaps one that’s never been released or sold to the public,” I say, lying through my teeth.
I’m appealing to the collectors’ side of him. He gets to meet Cameron and acquire a new rare artwork in the process.
“And what would you like in return?” he asks, his jaw twitching.
“You already know, Mr. Simmons. I want Phantom House.”
He releases a breath before looking towards Anika’s painting on the wall.
“I’ll consider your request, Mr. Wolfe. If you can get me a meeting with Miss Cameron and a new piece of artwork as well. Maybe it’s time to stop holding on to a reminder of my failure and instead focus on the possibility of hope,” he murmurs with a faraway look in his eye.
We leave the house soon enough. Neither I nor Josh says anything as we drive away from the Simmons Estate, leaving behind a lonely old man and his heartache.
But the quiet doesn’t last long. I wasn’t expecting it to.
“So… are we going to talk about that?” Josh asks as we drive back into the town.
“Talk about what?”
“What happened back at the haunted house? I feel bad for that old man. You were a bit mean, sir.”
I glance at him, “Really? That’s the first thing you’re choosing to focus on? This is business, Joshua. Sympathy has no place here. Plus, the old man’s infuriating. Did you hear what he said about being buried with his paintings? All the art in that room has to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“They wouldn’t really bury it all with him though, would they?”
“Of course not. I’m sure the paintings will be sold after his death.”
“So why can’t you wait till then?”
“Because I need the collection to be complete by the opening of the center and he’s not likely to pass away by then, is he?” I snap.
He falls quiet for a bit. Then speaks again.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Joshua,” I reply tiredly.
“Anika Cameron is Mr. Cameron’s sister, isn’t she?”
I rub a palm over the side of my face, thinking about my next headache.
“Yes she is.”
“Don’t the two of you have beef or something?”
“We don’t have beef ,” I grit out. Just a mutual dislike and an agreement to stay away from each other. An agreement that’s about to become problematic. “How do you even know about that?”
“Edenton’s a small town. People talk. Everyone knows you two hate each other,” he informs me.
“Oh great,” I say dryly.
“So, how do you plan to convince a woman who doesn’t like you to make a three hour trip to see an old man she doesn’t know? Last I heard, she quit painting. You promised Mr. Simmons a piece that’s never been made public. What if she doesn’t have that? And on the off chance that she does, why would she give it to you?”
My jaw twitches. “Yes, thank you, Josh for enlightening my problems. Anything else, you’d like to add?”
“No, I think that’s it,” he says airily.
I roll my eyes, “I’ll work out something with Miss Cameron.”
“Good luck with that, sir.”
As we drive back home, I insist we do so in silence. I don’t need some obnoxious pop song blasting in my ear as I try to figure out how to convince a woman that doesn’t like me to do me a favor.
I think about how she acted when her sister mentioned working with me on the exhibition. There’s something else going on with her. Something that probably has to do with the reason she stopped painting in the first place.
I was curious before but now, I’m going to find out. Maybe the both of us can help each other.
I ignore the flipping sensation in my stomach at the thought of having no choice but to spend time with Anika Cameron. Because the truth is, I’m not sure I can control the unwanted emotions I feel in her presence.
***
I’m a big believer in never leaving until tomorrow what can be done today. So while a part of me wanted to come see Anika Cameron as soon as we arrived back in Edenton yesterday. It was too late and I’d already delayed having dinner with Kara. So I’m here early in the morning instead.
There’s a doorbell in front of the door to her house. It’s a nice modern bungalow with a welcoming front porch. There’s a mat in front of the front door with the words, ‘Step on me to be transported to Oz’ inscribed on it. It’s cute.
From what Josh was able to gather she used to live here with her sister until Emilia got married and moved out of town. Now she lives alone. I ring the doorbell and wait for her to step outside. It takes a couple of minutes and a couple more knocks on the door. I know she’s in there, her car’s parked out front.
Finally I hear her footsteps and some grumbling on the other side as she walks up to the door. My lips turn up at the sound of her approach. She practically rips the door open, bright brown eyes blazing but the fire in them cools as soon as they land on me.
“Nathan Wolfe?” she says in confusion.
Meanwhile the smile on my face dies as I look at her. She’s barefaced, her eyes bleary and her hair’s in a messy bun. And yet she somehow manages to look incredibly stunning. And then I let my eyes trail down her body. She’s wearing pyjama shorts and a top with spaghetti straps that pushes her tits up. The outline of her nipples is visible through the material of the top.
My throat dries. I swallow feeling my dick grow hard.
This was such a bad idea.