Reclining Nude in Chicago Read online

  Reclining Nude in Chicago

  Fifi Flowers

  Champagne Girl Studios

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  Copyright © 2013 Fifi Flowers

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Design by Once Upon a Time Covers

  Painting by Fifi Flowers

  Published by Champagne Girl Studios

  www.ChampagneGirlStudio.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  www.AtelierdeFifiFlowers.com

  WARNING: This book contains sexually explicit material and is intended for adult readers only.

  Other Books by Fifi Flowers

  A Window to Love, (Book 1, Windows Series)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Fifi Flowers

  Bonus RNIC Short Story

  About the Author

  Fifi Flowers Book News

  Acknowledgements

  Time to say “merci” to a few people…

  A big thank you to all of my readers, family and friends that continue to encourage me and push me to write more and more books for their reading pleasure!

  Ma Maman, thank you for everything… this has been a tough year and I don’t know what I would do without you… I love you!

  Gigeebelle, thank you again for reading chapter by chapter… I apologize for keeping you in suspense… but as you have told me… it was worth the anxiety!

  Lilah, thank you for making me laugh when I wanted to cry… your “special” input was very helpful. Sorry that I tormented you with constantly with teasers!

  Rosee, Gloria, and Kim thank you for reading my book… your corrections and opinions were greatly appreciated!

  Ruthie, thank you for your guidance with my first novel… it made writing this one easier and a true pleasure!

  Once Upon a Book Cover, thank you for once again making my artwork look FABuLOUS!

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the French Post-Impressionist artist

  Henri-Émile-Benoît Matisse… my favourite artist…

  you are a part of my life every day!

  Chapter One

  Sunday morning, sipping a strong cup of coffee at my favourite neighborhood cafe after way too much bubbly the night before; I perused my tablet. Alone. Only two weeks ago I was sitting here with my last asshole. Sorry, but that is the best word to describe the men that had darkened my bedroom door in the last few years. The latest one was playing on my mind. No… I wasn’t in love with him, but I had grown accustomed to our routine. Undoubtedly, not a good reason to stay in a relationship. Anyway, the more I sat and looked around at other couples I realized I needed to find a diversion. A new story to sink my teeth into… yes… that was exactly what I required. Reading various emails and newsletters announcing upcoming art events around the world, a Matisse exhibit caught my eye. Set to open in a couple months; I quickly composed an email to the editor of one of the magazines I wrote for regularly. I truly loved that these writing assignments took me to art exhibits around the world. This one was set in Chicago. Boy oh boy… did I ever have memories of that city… but that’s another story.

  After writing a few college essays and term papers about Henri Matisse, I fell in love with his artwork. Anytime I could find a special exhibit of his work I was online purchasing museum tickets and plane tickets; if travel was necessary. I was enchanted by his bold choice of colours, patterns and his odd juxtaposition of objects. His art was definitely a major mood elevator for me. He made me want to run off to the South of France, Nice specifically, grab a paint brush and paint from an apartment balcony by the sea. Once I tried my hand at reproducing a Matisse painting and quickly realized that creating art was not to be my lifelong career.

  Just as I was finishing my poached eggs and fruit, sipping my last cup of jo, I received a message from my editor. Simply put, he wrote, “It’s a go!” For a magazine editor he was a man of so few words, but he was brilliant. I first met, Herman Straiton, right after I graduated from college at a career expo. I won’t lie; I was drawn to him immediately. He was G-O-R-G-E-O-U-S! Yes, all caps are needed to describe him. Herm was obviously aware of his affect on all women, and he was quite practiced in the art of deflection. As the young, hopeful, female writers queued up to meet him, batting their eyelashes, puffing out their assets, he nonchalantly handed them each a brochure and moved them along. I sat back and watched; fascinated. Or maybe I should say fantasizing. How wonderful would it be to work with that man? I imagined strutting into his office, setting my proud piece of work on his desk and then standing behind him, looking over his shoulder with my full breasts pressed into his back as he praised my article. Better yet, the idea of climbing into his lap, wiggling my bottom… My fantasy was cut short with his gruff but soft voice, “May I help you?” I can’t believe that that was over five years ago and I was still happily doing freelance assignments for him. He was still extremely attractive, but he is and was at the time I met him; very married with four children.

  Requesting a doggie bag for my untouched streusel-topped, cream cheese muffin, I paid the check and strolled through a few shops before heading home. If I was going to be making a trip to the Windy City… Chicago, I wanted a few new accessories to add to my eclectic wardrobe. I didn’t follow trends, like my job title, the word “free” was enlightening and how I lived much of my life. Maybe that was why I could never keep a man. Something to think about, but not today. No. Today I filled my life with new treasures which included funky ballerina slippers, a light weight coat and a slinky evening gown in hopes that I would be invited to the Matisse exhibit gala. A girl must always be prepared!

  Loaded with several shopping bags, I returned to my quaint 1920s Hollywood apartment in an old, tree-lined residential area dotted with charming architecture. My unit was in the front of the building, off of an overgrown yet well-groomed courtyard with a beautiful Spanish-tiled water fountain in the center. The shrubbery reminded me of an English cottage garden with cabbage roses, pink Jasmine vines and Jacaranda trees. The smells were intoxicating and wonderful and I often threw open my multi-paned encasement windows to perfume my lovely abode.

  My one-bedroom apartment was quite spacious and that was a good thing since I worked from home. The living room had a built-in bookcase with a desk incorporated on one wall but I rarely used it. I preferred to write and research sitting at my dining room table or on a chaise lounge outside on my private terrace. And of course some days I did, in fact, type articles on my laptop wearing lounging pajamas while in my bed, propped up by several fluffy pillows. Oh… the perks of self-employment.

  Dragging myself out of bed the next morning, I padded into my kitchen and made a full pot of coffee. It was time to get the ball rolling and con
tact the curator of the upcoming Matisse exhibit. First, I armed myself with questions and filled my empty stomach with the delightful pastry that was calling my name. Grabbing a cup of coffee, I wandered out two French doors off of my dining area to an outdoor black and white striped, market umbrella covered table. Opening my tablet, I began my list. What angle was I going for? I preferred to write my museum exhibit articles with a twist. Anyone could write down the obvious; dates, the times, the location, the artist name, etc, etc. No, I wanted a different perspective. Maybe I would ask where the paintings originated. How were they acquired from private collectors? Were there any unusual circumstances?

  Satisfied with my elaborate list of questions, I logged on to the Chicago Art Museum site and searched for information about the Matisse exhibit. Writing down all of the basic information, I then moved on to find out who was the curator of this special showing. Unfortunately, the site did not provide me with the name of the person in charge. The only names listed were the various museums collaborating and which bank was funding the exhibit. Unsatisfied, it was time to make a phone call or two… hopefully not more.

  Have you ever called a museum? Actually these days it didn’t matter whom you called, it was certain that there would be a recorded greeting on the other end of the line. Push one for directions; push two for dates and times; push three to purchase tickets… on and on it went and of course there was not a number assigned for the curator. It appeared that the operator was my only option. No, a person did not answer immediately, but lovely classical music was provided and it was my favourite Beethoven piece; Moonlight Sonata. I was hoping that was a sign of future success. When a human being finally greeted me, I still wasn’t sure if it was really breathing; the tone of her voice was on an even keel, and quite emotionless. Laughing, I asked, “Are you alive?” The person on the other end wasn’t amused and I thought, “Oh no, wrong way to start a conversation.” Clearing my throat, I inquired the name of the person curating the Matisse exhibit and asked if I might be transferred to said person. As luck would have it, I was informed that that information could not be given out but the operator was kind enough to connect me with the museum business office. At least that pointed me in the correct direction. After speaking to a less than cheerful secretary I was turned over to the curator’s voicemail. I was getting somewhere!

  Oh, how I appalled leaving messages on voicemail. I would’ve much rather been able to email or text a message. With written messages you could think them through and no one heard you hem and haw and stammer your request. I was about to hang up, call back and request an email address, when I decided what the hell just spit it out already. I can’t tell you what my exact words were but thankfully they were enough for me to receive a returned phone call.

  Later in the evening, I answered my phone to a deep, masculine voice inquiring if Julia Van Rothfelder was available. With the little hairs standing at attention on the back of my neck and goose bumps on my arms, I said, “This is she.” I must tell you, that was not the first thing that came to mind when asked if I was “available.” Had I not been waiting to speak to the curator I might have answered, “What did you have in mind, big boy?” Yes, I was a bit tipsy. I had already had a couple glasses of wine, if you were wondering.

  The very manly voice then proceeded to inform me that he was the curator of the Matisse exhibit and asked how he could be of assistance. His speech was eloquent and well staged. If you told me I was listening to another recording I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. Just what I was not looking forward to; an uptight, pompous robotic creature. I could only imagine what he looked like: Old, tall, thin, nerdy, thick-framed glasses, and wearing a suit with a bow tie. For some reason I actually thought I would be dealing with a woman resembling Gertrude Stein. Laughing to myself, I realized the robot had spoken.

  Apologizing to the curator, I informed him that I was a freelance writer for a magazine called Art World Today. I was interested in interviewing him about the upcoming exhibit and I would like to meet with him in person. I preferred face to face rather than phone or email interviews. I thought it was important to observe the demeanor of the interviewee. I liked to see their body language, their enthusiasm… or lack of. I wasn’t sure he would have any, but still this was the way I liked to conduct all of my article research; if possible.

  Hoping he would quickly agree to our meeting and I could return to my bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, my plan was suddenly dashed. The curator had mysteriously come to life and was intent on questioning me. Rather abruptly I might add.

  “Why do you desire to interview me, Ms. Van Rothfelder? What is your interest in Henri Matisse? Do you, in fact, know anything about the great artist and his body of work? Is this just an assignment for you? Are you passionate about art?” His questions were a mile long and I was not allotted enough time to answer as he moved on to the next. I was listening to the great art inquisition. Suddenly, my blood was beginning to boil. I had never had anyone ever speak to me in this badgering fashion. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I just hang up and admit defeat? Did I need this article? No, I didn’t need it… but I wanted it… desired it. I absolutely adored Matisse and if it meant putting up with Mr. Uppity… well, then I would bite my tongue and comply with whatever it took to get this interview.

  “Excuse me,” I said after clearing my voice, hoping he would stop his line of interrogation.

  “Did you say something?” He asked with an irritate tone.

  I told him that yes, I did, in fact, utter or mumble a word in his direction and if he would be kind enough to let me speak; perhaps I could clear up some of his doubts about having me interview him. Luckily, he remained quiet, so I continued to inform him that I had been an art history major in college and that my emphasis was Post Impressionism and Matisse was my favourite artist.

  “Thank god,” were the only words I heard on the other end of the line after I finished my speech.

  Without thinking and maybe a bit brave or disoriented from the wine, I answered, “You’re welcome.” The robot curator laughed when I attempted a stuttering recovery to my words and he quickly cut me off. He told me not to apologize and that I gave him the best laugh of the day. Drawing a sigh of relief, I noted that the curator’s voice had softened. Hmmm… Maybe softened might not be the correct word. He became a human with true emotions. Our conversation changed in that very instant and I spent the next hour on my sofa with my toes tucked up beneath me and a wine glass in my hand listening to him fill me in on his crazy day at the museum. By the time I hung up the phone, we had set a date, a week from Wednesday, for my trip to Chicago and we exchanged cell phone numbers.

  During the week the curator texted me little tidbits about his daily tasks and frustrations to pull the exhibit together. In turn, I texted back silly messages to his rather serious texts. Not sure how he would respond at first, I bit my lip and waited. To my surprise the man actually used the letters “LOL.” Relieved, I continued our banter in the same fashion. Our once strained and robotic relationship had taken a turn for the better and I actually looked forward to meeting this highly stressed gentleman.

  Throughout our various text messages, along the way, I learned that the curator had a long history or maybe love for Henri Matisse’s works of art was a better term. He had attended several Matisse exhibits and museums that housed the artist’s masterpieces. I was impressed with his journeys to foreign lands to witness his works of art in person. His first exhibit was a Russian exhibit featuring Matisse and a few other artists at the Los Angeles County Art Museum in 1985. Followed by another trip to LACMA five years later to see The Fauve Landscapes by Matisse and his contemporaries. Excited to learn that two years later Matisse’s work would be on display with fellow artist for The Nabis show at the Musée d’Orsay Museum in Paris, he made his first trip abroad with his French class. Later in the same year he took a train to New York to visit the Museum of Modern Art for the Retrospective of Matisse. That profound exhibit contributed to his
desire to become a museum curator, and his studies began. In 2010, he finally fulfilled his dream and was thrilled to work as an assistant curator on the Matisse Radical Invention exhibit. Though he was busy working at his museum job, he did manage to travel to other Matisse exhibit when possible. The last one he attended was a year ago in San Francisco as a visiting curator and was invited to the gala for The Stein Collect Matisse, Picasso and the Parisian Avant-Garde. This new Matisse exhibit opening within two months was to be his first time as the head curator and he was over the moon pleased even with all of the daily headaches.

  I was quite jealous of his many encounters with the art of Henri Matisse but I loved reading his texts and emails about his adventures. I sounded like a Matisse groupie or giddy teenager the way I went on and on with oohs and aahs in my return messages. Yes, I actually typed those exact words to the reserved Mr. Curator. Ha! What he must think of me. Well whatever he thought he had not told me to change my visit to his museum so I continued my unprofessional, girlee comments. I was delighted when he would type “LOL” or “haha” and he spurred me on until one day I thought; perhaps I had gone too far.

  It had been a long day for me; I was so tired I was slap-happy. That will be my excuse. Anyway, I was cuddled up in front of a roaring fire in my fireplace reading a naughty, contemporary, erotic romance. I admit, besides reading many art history and non-fiction books; I loved a good smutty love story every now and again. Just as I was engrossed in a delicious part, my phone chimed. Picking it up, I saw that it was a text from Mr. Curator. Looking at the time, I was surprised to receive such a late message from him. Guess he couldn’t sleep and was texting me over a glass of warm milk. Knowing that he had always been nothing but a gentleman to me, I really should have thought before I texted my reply to his innocent words. “We received an amazing piece of art today. A reclining nude.”