TUESDAY TALES - FLOWER

 

Welcome! This week our word prompt is "flower". I have more from my quirky story,  tentatively titled "The Painting." When you're done, hop on over to read the excellent stories by the other authors. Find them HERE. 

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You’ll never see that painting,” her mother said.

“And I doubt you’ll see a grand for your share, either,” her father added.

“Aren’t you two cheery optimists,” Sandy said.

“We’re realists,” Florence said. “He’s not going to give that up to a Jew.”

“Your mother’s right. He’ll accuse you of holding him up for money. Of being a money-grubbing shylock. Then he’ll keep the painting and stiff you.”

“You don’t know that,” Sandy said, shifting slightly in her seat.

“Mark my words,” Ed said, nodding.

“Any man with three names – can’t be good.”

The pilot came on the loudspeaker and family conversation ceased. Her parents’ words echoed in her head. What if they were right?

“As long as I get the painting, I don’t care what he thinks of Jews.”

“That’s what they said in Nazi Germany,” Florence mumbled.

“Ma!”

“Same idea.”

Sandy pulled a book up on her phone, but her mind kept going back to that morning at the art show. Mr. Reid Carpenter Clark reeked of money. Sandy knew expensive clothes when she saw them. After all, her family had been in the “rag” or garment business for two generations.

And the way he tossed around a thousand bucks, like it was nothing, meant either he was a phony or had money. She suspected the latter. His hair was perfectly cut, his nails trimmed. The only thing missing was a flower in his lapel. If he hadn’t glared at her, she might have considered him handsome.

A man with three names who smelled of money, probably old money, hinted strongly, of antisemitism. By age thirty-seven, she’d developed a sixth sense about these things. As a single woman, she had to evaluate guys quickly. Get where they were coming from.  

Sandy wanted to get married, but to a Jew. Not that she’d admit that to her mother. Marrying a Christian would kill her parents. She smiled to herself.

“Cause of death? Daughter marrying out of the faith. Sandy Katz, you’re under arrest.”

  She’d valiantly pursued finding a nice Jewish man but failed. Now thirty-seven, she hadn’t given up, but a bit of skepticism had crept in.

So the question about probably antisemitic Mr. Reid Carpenter Clark wasn’t if he was an eligible bachelor, but would he turn the painting over to her? She chewed her lip. A text from said Christian art lover interrupted her thoughts. 

   Returning to NYC tomorrow. Let’s discuss sharing the painting. Unless you want the thousand.

She replied.

Don’t want the money. Where do you want to meet and when?

He replied.

Thursday. Dog run. Riverside Park at 72^nd. 1pm sharp.

She said,

Fine.

Share the painting? How do you share a painting? She raised her eyebrows. Mr. Reid Carpenter Clark couldn’t be all bad if he owned a dog, could he? At least he didn’t disappear. 

That's all for today. Thanks for stopping by.  

Tuesday Tales - Mouth

 

Howdy do! Welcome to Tuesday Tales. This week we have the beginning of the story from last week. I shared a snippet of context. This week, I share a snippet of the beginning. The story is tentatively titled, "The Painting." I hope you enjoy it. When you're done, bop on over to read the wonderful pieces by the other Tuesday Tales authors. You'll find them HERE. 

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 “Hi! It’s me! I’ve come back for the painting. The one titled “The Front Porch”. Remember?”

The man with his back to her turned to face her. He had a pleasant face. One could almost call him handsome. His brow was furrowed. He frowned. “Who are you?”

Ignoring his remark, Sandy stopped in front of the woman. “Do you remember? I paid for it yesterday.”

The woman’s face colored. “Oh my gosh, yes. I do remember. There’s a little problem, though. It seems my husband also sold the painting.”

“What?” Sandy didn’t understand.

“It’s my fault, really. I didn’t mark it sold before I went to the ladies’ room. I mean, who knew someone else would come along that quick and want it.“

“He sold it to me. I paid cash. So the painting is mine,” the tall man said.

“Who the hell are you?” Sandy asked the man with he big mouth.

“Reid Carpenter Clark.” He nodded, but did not extend his hand.

“Sandy Katz.” She frowned. “The painting is mine.”

“Actually, she did pay for it first,” the artist said.

“But I paid cash. Credit card?” he asked, looking at Sandy.

“Yes. So?”

“It won’t clear until Monday. Therefore the legitimate payment is my cash. And the painting is mine.”

“That’s a whole lot of double-talk, Mr. Clark. I’m not buying it.”

“Where do you both live?” Burt asked.

“Manhattan,” they said in unison.

Burt raised his eyebrows. “Good. Makes this easy.” He walked behind the tent for a moment, returning with two bills in his hand. He handed it to Sandy. “Here you go. A hundred bucks.” Then he turned and slipped the other in Reid’s hand. “There. Now you’ve each paid a hundred for the painting and you both own it. Now you two can fight it out or whatever. We’ve got to finish setting up Sweetheart, give them the painting,” Burt said.

She handed it to Sandy. Reid put his hand on it, too.

“Let go. It’s mine. I bought it first,” Sandy said.  

“No.”

“Would you two please take that over there? We don’t want to chase customers away.”

“You’re the ones who got us into this mess,” Reid said.

“Look, I don’t want to call security. You look like a rich man. Offer her a grand for her share and take the painting home.”

“What makes you think I’d sell my share for any amount of money?”

That's it. Thanks for stopping by. 

TUESDAY TALES - APRIL 16 - BUTTON

 

Welcome! Today I'm trying something different. I'm taking a small break to throw out something I've been working on for a new book. I'm anxious to get your feedback. What do you think? Does this character intrigue you? Is he real? Interesting? Would you want to read his story? 

The setting is her art studio where she's using him as a model for a book cover. He's 45 years old, just the right age to portray the hero of the book. This is what's going through his mind as he's posing for her. 

He's an old money Christian and she's a second-generation American Jewish woman. They are not dating and have had a contentious friendship tenuously drawn together over the love of a particular painting they saw at an art show. 

The snippet is a little longer than usual and I apologize for that. Please let me know what you think. And be honest! 

PS. I know it's a lot of telling and not much showing. I will editing in the showing after I nail down the scene. 

When you're done, hop on over to the other authors. Find them HERE. 

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 He watched her gaze travel across his shoulders and down the open front of his shirt. She adjusted the opening to be just so, not exposing too much of his chest, but just enough for the picture. When she drew her lower lip between her teeth his eyes were drawn to her mouth. Then he noticed a slight pink creep into her cheeks as her gaze rested on his chest.

He didn’t want to notice those things about her. He’d been perfectly content for 45 years not noticing much of anything that didn’t pertain directly to his life. He’d ignored most of the world, especially the little nuances of women. He'd kept his focus on his life and the things he needed to button up to get through his day. And that’s all.

But not now. Now he noticed. He noticed her, everything about her. How she styled her hair and what clothes she wore. He noticed how tight her blouse was, emphasizing her tempting but forbidden breasts. He noticed that her eyes shone in a different way. Was that desire? Was it lust? He had no clue because he’d never noticed it in a woman before.

Oh he wasn’t a virgin. Quite the contrary. But sex had always been kind of a bargain, a reward for treating an attractive woman to an expensive meal or a night at the theater. Kind of bought and paid for in a subtle way totally acceptable to society. But not with her. He’d never ask her to dinner or the theater, and even if he broke every rule of his and his family’s, she wouldn’t go with him anyway.

No. Sex had never been about a willing look on a woman’s face. It had always been about him making a subtle pass and either getting the green light or getting turned down. That was it. Quite cut and dried. But not with her. With her nothing was cut and dried. She threatened his sense of the world. With her it was about emotion, raw emotion. He saw it in her art. The way she sometimes followed the rules and other times took liberties. He burned with jealousy that she could be comfortable taking liberties while he never dared to step out of the box that had become his life. Why should he? He’d been content with his situation. He lived an extremely comfortable life, one that everyone else on the planet would envy. But not her.

She laughed at his rigidity, his conservative values and ideas. Laughed, like he was some kind of clown or something. And she’d questioned him, relentlessly until he felt unsure, unsure of his own ideas and of what was right and proper. She was never proper and she didn’t care. And it made him mad.

He raised his gaze to hers and saw something flit through – was that desire? No, he was delusional. He was the enemy, the Nazi waiting to throw her in a prison camp. No, she’d never desire him. At that moment, though, he could swear she did. Then he felt heat come to his own cheeks because he desired her. Wanted her in a way he’d never wanted a woman before. All hot and sweaty, earthy, and primal. The feeling shook him so that he suddenly felt unsteady.

“Are you all right? It’s hot in here. I'll open the window,” she’d said.

Hell, what was wrong with him wouldn’t be fixed by opening a window. Nope. He’d done it. Crossed over the line. He wanted her with every fiber of his being. The forbidden fruit. What the hell was he going to do now?