Patchouli For Christmas by Bren Christopher

Chapter One
     
    “But do you have anything like…I don’t know…one of those Norman Rockwell things?”
    “No.” The voice on the other end of the speakerphone spoke with the exaggerated patience of a serious artiste . The superior tone made Michael’s jaw clench, and that made his head hurt.
    He persisted anyway. “How about something with some bright colors? If it’s not exactly Christmassy, then at least sort of, um, Christmas ish ?”
    “I don’t think that’s a real word. And no.”
    Michael rested his elbows on the desk and cradled his head in his hands as he tried not to groan out loud. “Maybe,” he said weakly, “a nice landscape?”
    “I don’t do that dime-store crap. I paint the state of the world. Dark, stormy nights. Floods. Abandoned houses and polluted, dying lakes. Despair.”
    “Listen, Mr. Kendrick—Jude, isn’t it?—do you mean it’s all like the painting in your grandmother’s study? The black rock in the ocean?” Michael stared at the painting on the wall of Mrs. Kendrick’s office. Angry streaks of lightning crossed a black sky above a lone rock thrusting upward from violently crashing waves.
    “You’ve seen it? One of my better pieces, I have to say. Yes, it’s pretty representative.”
    “And…uh…she knows this?”
    “Of course.” There was a pause, and then, as if in an effort to sound reasonable, Jude added, “I could do the really depressing stuff. Starving children, torture scenes…”
    Michael listened in horror. He was supposed to get paintings from this guy for a damned holiday party?
    To his relief, Jude continued, “But that’s too real for me, you know? If I did that, I’d be jumping off the roof on Christmas Eve. Sometimes I just do splashes of color to, like, represent the chaos. Yeah…” Jude’s voice turned thoughtful. “That’s a good name for a new one—Chaos—slap on some carmine and black. Maybe some cadmium yellow…” The voice trailed off. With an abrupt, “Gotta go, man. The muse is calling,” the phone clicked.
    “Wait! I need to… Ah, damn it.” Michael stabbed at the phone to end the call. Now that was just rude. Rude Jude. Despite his annoyance, Michael couldn’t help a little snicker at his own cleverness.
    Then he groaned and slumped forward until his forehead rested against the satiny wood of the cherry desk. He breathed in the scent of some expensive polish. It smelled a little like almonds. It smelled a lot like money. The money of his best client, who expected him to obtain paintings from her precious grandson to decorate her annual Christmas Eve party.
    She’d been satisfied enough with his work the previous year to give him some referrals and to call him to plan the event again. But this would be the last time she called him. It would be the end of expanding his client list through her socially prominent friends. Maybe the end of his business. He squeezed his eyes shut. Definitely a headache coming on.
    Drama queen . Doug’s favorite term to call him when his brother thought he was overreacting. Hard as he tried to hang on to his bad mood, a spark of amusement forced one corner of Michael’s mouth into a slight smile. Doug would be back from his accounting conference soon, and they had an appointment to go over the books later in the week. He’d get a kick out of hearing about the dilemma. Decorate a holiday party with a bunch of angry, depressing paintings.
    He sat up and ran his fingers through his fine hair in an attempt to smooth it back into place. None too soon, as he heard the thump of Mrs. Kendrick’s cane as she made her way down the hall. Straightening his tie, he rose to greet her.
    “Mrs. Kendrick.” He took her arm as she entered the spacious room and helped ease her onto the couch that ran along one wall. He sat beside her. “The arrangements are going well. I’m finalizing the schedule with the musicians tomorrow.”
    She nodded. “And did you talk to Jude? I haven’t seen him in a couple