Canvas of Dreams

Empty wall

Taking a deep swig of his whisky, enjoying the burn run down his throat, Mark turns to the front door where a driver is waiting to take him to an uptown exhibition at the Crystal Hotel's gallery. His nerves are rattled and his excitement is running high. Tonight Mark will begin reaching a new height in his art career. He makes enough with the inheritance of the plantation and mill left to him when his father and mother passed but his heart is in the art world. The family business is a passive income to him, it runs well enough, without him having to hover over it, to continue and grow as it had when his parents were still alive.

The gallery is built on the roof of the prestigious hotel, the inner walls are all glass, apart from the narrow concrete pillars and steel beams holding up the roof. The ceiling, painted black, is laced with hundreds of small soft glowing LEDs giving off just enough light to properly illuminate the artwork but not too much as to take away the feeling of being cloaked under the night sky.

The floor, polished black epoxy with crystalline flakes, shimmering in the dim lighting. The gallery in itself feels like a work of art to mark.

"The fall." A lady remarks, standing next to Mark as she reads the title of a pastel piece hanging in front of them. A wilting poppy flower on an open aged and weathered book.

"Isn't that how we all end up anyway?" The lady looks at Mark, holding out a glass of white wine. "Useful and beautiful only till we meet our purpose, then we are left to wither somewhere on a shelf, forgotten. At the mercy of time."

Mark gives her a chuckle. "Here I tried to portray the beauty in ageing. But your take on it sure has much more to it." He takes a sip of the wine. He swirls it around in his mouth before swallowing and then turns back to the painting.

"Beauty in age." She whispers to herself as she takes another deep look at the piece.

Before Mark gets the chance to say another word his phone starts vibrating. "Excuse me but I need to take this." He tells her as he sees the caller ID.

"Mr. Miller?"

"Yes, this is Mark Miller."

"I am officer Birgely. We received an alarm from your residence and dispatched a patrol car to inspect. Do you perhaps have anyone at home that might have triggered the alarm?"

"No, I live alone and don't own any pets I'm on my way now, I'll meet the patrol there" Mark replies in a startled, anxious tone as he immediately cuts the call.

Not bothering to greet anyone he rushes out towards the elevator. In the lobby, on his way to the front door he nearly knocks over the receptionist making her way back to the front desk and then accidently bumps the doorman when exiting the building.

"My apologies Matt!" He calls out as he gets into the waiting car, startling the driver when he barks out the order for him to "step on it!"

Arriving at his house some thirty minutes later, a police officer is standing at his front door waiting for him.

"mr. Miller, Im officer Dan Grissam. Would you mind walking through the house with me to identify what may have been stolen?"

Without a word, Mark takes the lead. Except for the damage done to the door using a tool to gain access everything looks in place. There were some muddy footprints visible on the white tile floor but nothing missing until Mark reached the living room.

A now-empty brick wall waited for him, what felt like a blow to the gut took out the air from his lungs.

"No, no!" Mark calls out in a raised voice, startling Grissam.

"The bastards took her, they took my sketch!"

"Is that all Mr. Miller? Only a sketch?" Grissam asks as he takes notes

"Yes, that's all I notice missing right now," Mark answers as he walks towards the bar to sit down, resting his head on his palms.

"Can you please describe the missing sketch?" Grissam asks.

Mark gets up and moves behind the bar, seconds later he pulls out a file containing photographs of his completed works. From the back pouch, he removes one photograph and hands it to the officer.

"This is it. It has been signed and dated after this photo has been shot"

"Well damn, this is good." The officer remarks as he studies the photo. "Do you perhaps have any idea who might have wanted to break in and steal from you?" He asks Mark.

"No officer. I'm not a very well-known name in the industry yet so I doubt that I would be a target for art theft. I feel like this was just a random burglar who ran out of time."

"Hmm. Well, we will look into this and have some guys look at some pawn shops and places where this kind of goods might end up. Will let you know if we find out anything. You just keep calm and safe and let us know if anything comes to mind that would help." Grissam replies, not sounding very optimistic or convincing as he turns towards the door to leave.

"Good night mr Miller." He says as he gets into his car and pulls away.

With his anger running hot just below his skin, Mark takes up drinking for the night after checking the state of his door locks. When the burglar pried the door open he managed to do it without completely breaking the lock.

The feeling of having his privacy violated in the one place in the world where he should be safe from everything makes the bile rise from his stomach.

Four drinks later his phone rings.

"Cheryl?" Mike answers

"Where are you? You just vanished and missed the first night's Auction!" The voice on the other end scolds.

"I'll tell you about it in the morning. I'm coming in to help set up the lots myself." Mark replies then drops the call.

"Who would steal a damn drawing and leave everything else?" He asks himself as the room starts spinning faster and faster. The alcohol has numbed away most of his senses and his balance has been reduced to the point where he's swaying even while sitting still. Four drinks has somehow very quickly turned into a full bottle and the evening came to an abrupt halt for Mark on the barstool.

The next morning a skull-piercing sound painfully bores into Mike's ears. Fighting his eyes open he notices the time on his alarm clock on the nightstand. "How the hell did I get to bed?" He asks himself as another sound calls him to attention.

Outside the house, the waiting driver sounds the car horn. Mark is pulled back to the present. "s**t!" He shouts, grabbing the first suit he could reach from his closet. Dressing while rushing towards the door. "f**k! The damn labels." He calls out to himself when he reaches the door. Turning back to collect the box before running back towards the door to meet the driver.

As the car pulls out of the driveway Mark is handed two small bottles followed by a can of Red Bull. "Here Mr. Miller. I can see, and smell, that you need this today." The driver says as Mark takes out two white tablets from one bottle and a breath mint from the other, only giving thanks after fighting down the first half of the Red Bull.

"Please don't hurry to the hotel today," Mark asks, keeping his head tilted back against the rest and his eyes tightly shut.

"Copy that Mr. Miller. A quick breakfast stop before we arrive?" He asks, trying unsuccessfully to hide his humour.

"No, it's too early for food." Mark suffers a reply.

Today will be the second of three auctions in which only M. Miller pieces will be held up for the bid. To Mark, this is a huge milestone in his career as an artist. He hasn't had too many solo exhibitions before but his work more often than not fetches high prices on the market. This however is a game changer for him. The first night of the auction was for the lower-end pieces and involved more of the general collectors, tonight's auction is an invitation-only event for the high-end collectors but the gallery will be open to all during the day for viewing although some pieces won't be unveiled till the auction starts. The last day of the event will be a charity auction and will once again be open to all.

When the Hotel contacted the gallery whom Mark contracted and asked them to have him display in their gallery opening and provide the pieces for the auctions, neither the gallery nor Mark had even a hint of hesitation to accept. It took six months to arrange everything and Mark even had three of his paintings which he held on to for himself delivered to the hotel. Two small bronze figures and an oil painting he named Lost in Thought.

"We arrived Mr. Miller." The driver calls to Mark as they come to a stop at the entrance to the hotel some forty minutes later.

Reluctantly Mark exits the car. Still angry over the burglary and theft of his sketch. "I will have Cheryl call you when I'm done here." He tells the driver as he closes the car door.

Box in hand he makes his way towards the reception, uncharacteristically making a point to avoid eye contact and conversation with anyone he might come across unless it involves something on his schedule for the day. Mark is better known for greeting just about anyone with a friendly smile, or at the very least, a nod of his head. Even in the last two years when he shut himself away from everyone except his old friend, Trevor.

"Is Cheryl in yet?" He asks the receptionist who greets him with her trademark professional smile.

"Yes, Mr. Miller, she arrived about half an hour ago. Should I get someone to take the box up for you?" She asks.

Before Mark has a chance to reply a voice interrupts him.

"Excuse me, I don't mean to bud in but I'm on my way up to the gallery and would be happy to take the box up for you."

Mark finds himself unable to form words when he sees the face the voice belongs to. Her dark hair neatly hanging over her right shoulder, her emerald eyes glistening like jewels. For a moment he believes he is stuck in a wonderful dream, until his phone rings.

"Mark where are you?!" The voice on the other end barks at him.

Irritance immediately sets back in his mood. "At reception, I'm on my way up."

Forgetting his box on the front desk while making his way towards the elevator still talking on the phone, the stranger takes the opportunity to assist him.

"Miss wait! The gallery is not open to the public for another hour!" The receptionist calls out in vain.

Missing the elevator Mark got in, the stranger pressed the call for the one next to it and impatiently waited for it to arrive.

"Miss hold up! You cannot go up there yet!" The receptionist calls out as she starts sprinting towards the elevators to try and cut her off. She was too late. The elevator doors shut just as she reaches it and the stranger is free to reach her goal.