“So, the artist is a real pain in the ass, huh?”
Gen was glad for the change in topic. “Oh, yeah. He needs special yogurt and special sheets, and he can’t be bothered to go online and order the crap he wants because he wants me to be his goddamned personal assistant.” Gen shook her head and bit into her egg white wrap. The eggs were steaming and fluffy.
“Can you just tell him no?”
Gen considered. “Yeah. I mean, there’s nothing in his contract that says I have to run errands and buy sheets for him. The deal was for transportation to and from Cambria and lodging while he’s here. But if he’s not happy …”
“Then he’s not going to take you along for the ride on his art success gravy train. When it happens,” Kate finished for her.
“Well … yeah. But it sounds bad when you say it like that.”
“Oh, it’s not,” Kate assured her. “Thinking strategically is just business. So what are you going to do?”
Gen shrugged. “I guess I’m going to buy some goddamned organic sheets and drive them out there.”
“Ooh. Maybe you’ll get to see Ryan again.” Kate waggled her eyebrows.
Gen had to admit, privately, that the thought had occurred to her. “Hmm? Ryan?” she said, as though she had no idea about whom Kate was speaking.
“Oh, drop the act. You’re not fooling anybody,” Kate said.
Gen’s shoulders slumped. “He’ll probably be out … oh, jeez, I don’t know … birthing calves or something. Or … or … checking the back forty. In movies, ranchers are always checking the back forty. I’m going to bring sheets to the asshole artist and I’m not even going to get eye candy.”
“Hmm,” Kate said.
“What?”
“Maybe there’s a reason you’ll have to run into him.” She sipped her coffee. “Let me think about it.”
Chapter Eleven
Kate did think about it, and the idea she came up with was for Gen to bring Kendrick the sheets and then deliver the old sheets, washed and neatly folded, to the main house to give to Ryan.
“But couldn’t I just put them in a closet at the guest house?” Gen had asked, not unreasonably.
“You could, but then you wouldn’t get eye candy,” Kate said.
Gen calculated that her best bet for finding Ryan at home would be to go after dark. Did ranchers work after dark? Could they even see the cows? If it was calving season, she supposed he might be busy in the barn. She imagined him having to shove his arm up inside some poor cow to turn a calf around, and inwardly winced. Sure, it was possible she still might miss him. But an evening visit would be her best bet.
She sent Alex, her assistant, to the Pottery Barn in San Luis Obispo to buy organic sheets. She thought of having him take the sheets to Kendrick and bring back the others so she could wash them at home, but she didn’t know if Alex—a guy who wasn’t known for his diplomacy—had the necessary people skills to smooth over whatever the hell it was Kendrick would be upset about this time. So she left him in charge of the gallery and went out there herself.
When she knocked on the door of the little guest cottage just after six p.m., nobody answered at first. She was just about to conclude that Kendrick was in the old barn painting—a happy thought—when she heard feet shuffling just on the other side of the door.
He opened the door looking bleary-eyed. His hair was askew, sticking up in various directions from his scalp. He was unshaven, with a shadow of stubble covering his chin. He was wearing nothing but a drawstringed pair of pajama pants, his bare feet looking somehow sad and vulnerable.
“Mr. Kendrick?” she said tentatively. His pale chest looked somehow shrunken without the fortifying cover of a shirt.
“Oh. Genevieve. Hello.” He scratched absently at one elbow.
“I brought the organic sheets you requested,” she said, holding up the neatly folded pile of linens. “Is this a good time?”
“A good time?” He said it as though he were working out the translation from Sanskrit.
“Yes. A good time to bring the sheets. I thought I’d just put these on your bed and collect the old ones. Is this a good time?”
“Oh. I guess so.” He stepped back to let her in.
“You might want to …” She gestured vaguely toward his chest. “Just put on … you know. A shirt.”
He looked down at himself as though he hadn’t noticed he was missing one. “Oh. Of course. Just a second.”
Kendrick went into the bedroom and closed the door. It gave Gen a moment to survey the condition of the guest house.
The little dining table was covered with empty food containers and crumpled pieces of sketch paper. The kitchen counters held drinking glasses, forks and spoons, an empty granola box. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood next to the sink. The floor was littered with discarded clothing.
A moment later, Kendrick emerged from the bedroom wearing a white T-shirt and a rumpled pair of khakis. His pale, innocent feet were still uncovered, the toes sprouting a meager crop of hair.
“Okay. You can do the sheets now.”
Gen ventured tentatively into the bedroom and found more chaos. Clothing, more crumpled sketch paper, empty cups with a dark residue of coffee shadowing the bottoms.
She changed the sheets, made the bed neatly, and came out into the main room, holding the used sheets in her arms. They smelled faintly of whiskey. Gen wondered whether he’d spilled some of the Jack Daniels on the sheets, or whether it had simply emitted from his pores.
She felt a low rumble of panic in her belly. This wasn’t good—wasn’t good at all.
“Mr. Kendrick?”
“Oh, just call me Gordon.” He waved an arm dismissively.
“Okay. Gordon. Um … Why don’t we have a seat on the sofa and chat for a little bit?”
She looked over at the sofa and saw that it was buried under dirty clothes, used towels, and other detritus. She set the sheets down on the coffee table and cleared off the sofa.
When they were sitting, him slumped and foggy, her perched primly on the edge of the cushion, she proceeded carefully.
“How are things going out here, Mr. Kendrick? Gordon,” she corrected herself.
“Oh, fine,” he said. He seemed to have barely heard her.
“Really? Because … Well. It looks as though maybe you’re having some difficulty.”
He looked around the little house and blinked.
“How is your work coming?” Gen ventured.
His gaze fell upon a pile of crumpled sketch paper on the coffee table. He rubbed at his forehead with one hand.
“My work is …” He trailed off and shook his head.
She reached out and picked up one of the crumpled pieces of paper between two fingers. “May I?”
He waved a hand to gesture his assent.
Carefully, she opened the piece of paper and smoothed it on her lap.
The paper was a jumble of pencil marks, slashes, swirls, hints of geometric shapes.
“Is this an idea for a new abstract?” she guessed.