Chapter Eleven
Caldwell
What the fuck just happened? My world came to a halting stop. The worst part was that I couldn’t address those issues since I had a crowd in need of my undivided attention. I had a real business to run and a client that was counting on me to represent him. He had given me the honor of showing his brilliant art and transitioning him into the public eye, eventually. No one even knew…realized or recognized the artist in the midst of his awestruck audience. Briefly, Renaldo Rossellini had, in fact, stood in front of the canvases flipping, mere inches away from Daphne. It was a blessing that he had slipped out before my outburst and Daphne puking in an empty planter destined to be on my outside patio.
The woman I had fallen in love with nearly ruined me. Never ever did I associate Daphne with the Dickhead. The articles she had talked to me about were nothing like the one I had experienced firsthand. And yet, I had invited him…her to the event—wanting D. Chastain to see the new look of the gallery—anticipating…hoping for praise. Finding out that she was behind the vicious words boiled my blood; pissing me off all over again. I didn’t even bother to help her. Instead, I retreated to the outside bar for fresh air and to calm my fucking nerves.
A couple of tropical cocktails later along with schmoozing with my other guests, I walked back inside and Daphne, of course, was nowhere to be found.
Not able to leave or even contact her—not that I was ready to—I helped cleaned up stuff after the last guests departed. Then I had a brief meeting with my business manager and loved his report. The night had been a total success with our headliner’s pop-up show. And the introduction of Ford James, the metal sculptor, to the masses had surely brightened his future. Being linked with Renaldo Rossellini was an amazing deal for Ford and for me and my gallery. I hoped that the critics would see it as a good partnership…one in particular I hoped would treat the evening’s event favorably.
On automatic, I drove in the direction of what had been feeling a whole lot like home. Not that I thought I’d be welcome through the front door, but I couldn’t stop myself from cruising past Daphne’s house where I found two unfamiliar cars taking up space in the driveway. There was no room for me. Not that my car had ever been parked anywhere near her place, only my father’s truck. My anonymous car was a plus when stalking by…making sure that she was home safely. The foreign vehicles I imagined belonging to her sister and, more than likely, her friend Madison. They were probably talking shit about me—some just…and some not.
Putting my car in gear and pulling away from the curb, I went home for the first night in months. Not really my home—I was homeless—but to my brother’s house and nearly got attacked with a baseball bat. Even Ashton knew I didn’t belong there.
“Hey! It’s me!” I shouted, stopping the raised aluminum barrel from coming in contact with my body and cracking my skull.
He immediately asked, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Sighing, I slumped my shoulders pathetically and started walking toward the kitchen, and launched right in with my story as he followed me. Opening the fridge, I grabbed for a couple of beers, used a church-key to pop them open, and handed one to Ashton. Taking a big swig, I moved around to a bar stool and planted my ass to finish divulging my misery. I didn’t like that my own brother seemed to be taking Daphne’s side.
“You know that this could’ve all been avoided. There was no need for a public outburst between the two of you. You haven’t been truthful with her about the fact that you own an art gallery and that you only have minimal knowledge and skills with building stuff—”
I cut him off, “—hey! I learned the same things from Dad as you did. I spent years working for him too.” Sure he had improved and honed far more skills than I had, but I knew the basics. “You’d be amazed what I’ve done over there…at Dickhead Chastain’s house.” I was still a little bitter.
Ashton shook his head at me. “So she slammed something in your gallery. You have some weird shit at times, can’t blame her for telling her true feelings. That old gallery was fucked up in so many ways.” He was stating some truths.
“Not that simple. She attacked me personally saying that I was selling what sells, playing it safe instead of taking in street art, student art… How the fuck did she even get that info?” I questioned myself about that last part as it was always a part that I had wondered. I had asked my ex-partner if he had spoken to the critic but he just brushed me off. Shaking my head, I ran my fingers through my hair, and hung my head.
“Well, I think you need to move past the little things and look at the big picture. You two have done the nasty and she puked on you.” Of course his statement was accompanied with him chuckling.
“Don’t remind me. First you and then her…” I sipped more from my beer bottle.
“Yep, you might be a daddy. Mine was a virus, but her inflated tits that you have been speaking about…” I narrowed my eyes at him. “What?! Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t even seen her since you keep her hidden from me… But, truthfully, it might be a sign of something entirely different.”
It was a definite possibility I thought to myself, recalling one night that I had forgotten all about a trusty condom. The night of the bizarre hail and rainstorm had been wild for a multitude of reasons. Never had I ever played a more interesting drunken game of Truth or Dare that led straight to sex. There was no holding back as it often was between us. Besides that time when we were totally inebriated, we had always used protection.
If Daphne was pregnant, that had to be when it had happened.
“Looks like there’s a possibility with that look on your face.” I heard Ashton say, bringing me back to the present. Instead of reliving those moments that had me wishing that I was with Daphne, I started thinking that I didn’t really know her.
“D. Chastain…Daphne nearly ruined me. I still have the article. I carried it around with me all of the time.” To prove it, I pulled my wallet out of the back pocket of my pants, opened it, produced it and unfolded it:
N-Lite or Elite?
Snubbing the DTLA art community, setting themselves apart with high-end art and patrons, it appears that they should rename the gallery Elite. There is nothing N-lightening about the showroom or the owners. If you’re not willing to drop a cool million, you won’t be welcomed in the doors. That’s right! You will need to make an appointment. Not open to the general public. My prediction is they won’t be open for long, period!
“The dickhead didn’t even bother to write about the art show. How could that be written by my Daphne?” I questioned, shaking my head and crushing the article into a ball with my hand.
“Maybe you need to look at things differently. You should be thanking her. She didn’t ruin you. She saved you from becoming a total art snob asshole like your ex-partner.” Ashton retorted while going to the fridge and replacing our empty bottles with new cold ones.
Part of me knew he was so right. When I first got caught up in the whirlwind that resulted in opening a gallery of my own I was thrilled. The thrill was quickly gone when I was constantly reminded that my ex-partner was the one with the money. His declared entitlement led to my vision slipping away and him turning the space into something he saw in an old movie that had been set in Beverly Hills. I should’ve been happy that it blew up in his face…mine too, but it had always been all about him. Scrambling to not lose the building was all I could think of when he stomped out, taking his money in an attempt to save his reputation.
“I had to sell my house to buy him out.” Thankfully it sold quickly.
“If I remember correctly, you bought that house as an investment so that you could later sell it to purchase your dream home.” He raised an eyebrow at me and I just looked at him without saying a word. “Besides that…you had money from Dad—”
I cut him off, again. “—I wasn’t about to give that prick our family money.”
The truth was that I never planned to take that inheritance money. I wanted to make my own money just as my father had done years ago. I had taken a loan from him for a down payment when I bought my house, but promptly paid him back as soon as I could. He had left my mother, Ashton and me a large sum of insurance money. Ashton had used a good portion of his sum to buy the family business outright. He had insisted that he wanted it to be his completely and I understood that. I always thought that I would let it go to my children—college, weddings, house down payments, things to make their lives easy as my parents had done for their children.
My children…my child…did I have one on the way?