Golden Child, Chapter Two (standard:other, 5109 words) [2/2] show all parts
Author: Sare	Added: Nov 12 2001	Views/Reads: 2639/1969	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Kendall recalls her first big sale and how she and Victor first met.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

favourite mug.  She got the sugar dish and the milk and set them on the 
counter, then poured herself a glass of apple juice and swallowed her 
birth control pill, a vitamin C, an Echinacea, and a zinc capsule, then 
thought a moment and took a Tylenol as well.  Waiting for the kettle to 
heat, she cut a piece of bread from the loaf and put it in the toaster, 
but waited until she unplugged the kettle before pushing down the lever 
to toast the bread.  As she drank her tea and ate her toast, she tried 
to decide what she would add to her painting today in class, and also 
decided that she would tell Jill that she and Victor would take her and 
Eva out for dinner tonight. 

“Kendall?”  Eva’s voice came from the bathroom, and she sounded scared. 
Kendall abandoned her tea dregs and rushed to the bathroom door, which 
was closed. 

“Eva?  Is something wrong?” 

“Can you come in?”  Kendall opened the door and went into the bathroom. 
Eva was sitting on the toilet, her underpants and pajama bottoms in a 
heap on the floor at her feet. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Eva looked up at Kendall with tears in her eyes.  “I-  I-  I had an
accident...” 

“Oh, honey, that’s okay.” 

“No...” 

“Yes, Eva, it really is okay.  I’ll go get you some clean panties,
okay?” 

“Don’t tell Jill?” 

“I won’t tell Jill.  We’ll put your panties and pjs and sheets in the
washer, and she won’t know.” 

“Are you sure?”  Eva’s face was the epitome of agony and embarrassment. 

Kendall smiled gently and kissed her little sister on the forehead. 
“I’m sure.  Here, do you want to have a quick shower?”  She reached 
over and turned on the shower, setting the spray to a temperature and 
pressure that would be appropriate for Eva.  “Get in, I’ll be right 
back with your panties and your towels.  Okay?  Don’t get your hair 
wet.” 

“Okay.  Thank-you, Kendall.” 

“Oh, honey, you’re welcome.”  Kendall went into Eva’s room and stripped
the sheets off the bed, leaving Eva’s teddy bear under the blankets 
against the pillow.  She gathered up the sheets, grabbed a clean pair 
of panties and the towels for Eva, and went back into the bathroom.  
She picked up the discarded pajama top, and the wet bottoms, and headed 
out to put them in the washing machine.  Of course Jill would guess 
when she saw the laundry, but Kendall knew that she wouldn’t say 
anything to Eva. 

After Eva had been washed, dried, and dressed, she sat eating her toast
while Kendall gently pulled her long blond ringlets into pig tails and 
secured them with ribbons. When Jill came into the apartment at ten 
after eight, she heard the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen 
and when she looked in, she saw that Eva had almost managed to coax 
Kendall’s short, straight dark hair into a ponytail and was trying to 
tie a ribbon around it, laughing when she lost her grip.  Jill smiled.  
She loved to see Eva and Kendall having fun together this way.  She 
heard the washing machine running and guessed that Eva’d had another 
accident.  She shrugged.  As long as Kendall knew about it and was 
taking care of the problem, it was none of her business, and she 
intended to stay out of it.  No sense making the little girl feel any 
worse than she undoubtedly must. 

When Jill came into the kitchen, she made sure to admire Kendall’s
hairstyle, asking if she’d had it done at a salon.  She pretended not 
to believe that Eva had done it, and Eva squealed in delight.  Jill 
shooed Kendall out of the kitchen, advising her to hurry and get 
dressed, or else she’d be late.  She agreed to drop Kendall off at the 
art school on her way to take Eva to her school. 

Kendall headed into her room to get ready while Jill washed the
breakfast dishes and coaxed Eva into drying them.  Then they all got 
into Jill’s Honda and sped off to school.  In the car, Kendall told 
Jill and Eva that she would be taking them out for supper that night, 
and that Victor might be joining them.  Eva responded excitedly but 
Jill was quieter, although obviously pleased. 

Kendall was the first to be dropped off, and she kissed Eva as she got
out of the car, and told them, “I’ll be home to pick you up at about 
five.  See you then, have a good day.” When she got into the classroom, 
she was about twenty minutes early.  She got her stuff ready at her 
easel but instead of starting to work on her painting, she went down 
the hallways of the school to Victor’s office.  When she got there, his 
door was ajar, and she could see that he was alone.  She crept in 
quietly and closed the door softly behind her, then went up behind him 
and put her hands over his eyes. 

He jumped slightly, startled, but then he laughed, and reached up to
touch the backs of her hands.  “Good morning,” he said.  He moved his 
hands up, over her wrists, lower arms, over her elbows and up her upper 
arms to her shoulders, and then up over her neck to hold the back of 
her head, pulling her down for a kiss.  She pulled her hands away from 
his eyes, and they kissed. 

“Good morning,” she replied when she had pulled away.  “I told Eva and
Jill that I’d take them out for dinner tonight.  Want to come with us?” 


“I doubt Jill would appreciate me joining you.”  Far from being ignorant
of it, Victor was quite aware of Jill’s disapproval of him and his 
relationship with Kendall. 

“She may not think you and I are an ‘appropriate’ couple, but you know
she likes you.” 

“Where do you want to go?” 

“I don’t care...  Eva likes that place down on Yonge, that ‘Pickle
Barrel’ place... That would be good.  Do you want to drive?” 

As they spoke, Victor was gathering the things he would need to take to
class, and Kendall had perched on the edge of his desk.  Now he came 
over to stand between her knees, coming up close to her.  She wound her 
arms around the small of his back, and they looked at each other. 

Victor said, “If you want me to, I would love to come.  Of course I’ll
drive if you want.”  He kissed her gently.  “Now go on into class, I’ll 
be there in a minute.” 

She kissed him again, hopped off the desk, and left as silently as she
had entered, leaving the door ajar behind her as she went.  She 
returned to the classroom and picked up her paintbrush, getting her 
paints ready.  The way this school was set up, the students from the 
lower levels (mostly teenagers on scholarship from the local high 
schools who were trying to build portfolios for college and university, 
or hopefully to get into one of the degree credit programs here), could 
get part-time jobs cleaning up the classrooms, closing paint jars, 
washing paintbrushes and palettes, and making sure that the janitorial 
staff could clean the classrooms (wash the floors, etc.) without 
disturbing the paintings or making it difficult for the students to 
come in the next day and start painting again.  The money they earned 
could be paid out to them or put towards their considerable tuition 
fees. 

Each easel was labeled with the name and code of each student (Kendall’s
read “KENDALL MAYFAIR CLARKE, KMC21”), and each student had a palette, 
a tin of brushes, and their own set of paints, in Kendall’s case all 
jumbled on the table next to her easel, and all labeled with their 
code.  Every night, the cleaning students tightened the lids on all the 
paints, cleaned and dried all of the brushes, made sure each table was 
cleaned and that each item was put back on the table where it had been 
found.  Kendall knew that there were six students assigned to just this 
room, and that it took them over an hour and a half to clean it. 

Kendall was one of the few who truly appreciated the work of those
students.  Once a week she left a twenty-dollar bill in an envelope on 
her table, addressed to the boy assigned to her area.  She knew she 
would be lost without him, and without the one she had hired to do the 
same thing in her studio three days a week. 

Kendall herself had never been in a position to do what they were doing.
 She had been in college studying creative writing, and painting at 
home in her parents’ basement, when that first painting had sold.  She 
had been taking it from the house to the framer’s to have it framed 
when she had been stopped by a man in a black trench coat, wearing dark 
sunglasses.  He had asked to see the whole painting and, shrugging, she 
had held it up to him.  It was a painting of the recent eclipse, in 
dark violets and golds, and she had been planning to give it to her 
sister Natasha for her birthday.  But the man on the street offered her 
eleven thousand dollars for it, and she just stared at him.  “I’m not 
an artist,” she’d told him.  “I’ve never sold any of my paintings 
before.  I just paint what I think is beautiful.” 

“I just bought a new house,” said the man, “and I want to see all of
your paintings.  I want to buy this one, the offer of eleven thousand 
still stands, but I want to see the rest of your paintings.  Here is my 
card.  Call tomorrow and have my secretary arrange an appointment for 
me to see them.  You can bring them to my office, or I’ll come to your 
studio.  But I want to see them.” 

Kendall had taken the business card, turned around and gone home.  Her
father had recognized the man’s name, and had called his lawyer to have 
a check run on the man.  When the lawyer had called back the next 
morning, he told them that not only was the man good for the eleven 
thousand, he said, but he could probably manage eleven million without 
batting an eye.  He urged them to let him come to the meeting as well, 
as he wanted to keep Kendall’s options open.  He reminded them that the 
man probably had friends who would buy from her as well.  Kendall 
called and made an appointment for the man to come to the house, and 
spent the morning setting her paintings up on easels in her studio.  
She was brimming with nervous energy.  Her mother rushed about upstairs 
making tea and coffee and setting out desserts. 

When the man had arrived, he’d greeted them all politely, accepted a cup
of coffee and some desserts, and was escorted by Kendall, her father, 
and the lawyer down the stairs and into the basement.  He’d taken one 
look at the paintings piled around the room, thirty of them at least, 
and said to Kendall, “Which one is your favourite?” 

She had pointed to the one in the near corner, where the light from the
small window made a spotlight.  It was a painting of Eva, two years 
old, wearing a violet and ivory dress, her golden ringlets in a halo 
about her head, with soft feathery wings behind her back.  Kendall had 
taken a photograph and turned it into a beautiful painting.  The man 
had asked, “Who is the little girl?” 

Kendall had answered, “She’s my sister.” 

The man said, “I will pay you twenty thousand dollars for a copy of that
painting, and I will give you eleven thousand each for seven more of 
your choice, along with the eleven thousand for the one I saw 
yesterday.” 

Kendall’s father’s lawyer said, “You’re offering her $108,000 for eight
paintings and-” 

“And one copy.  That’s right.”  The man looked at Kendall.  She looked
at her father.  Her father looked at the lawyer.  He looked back and 
forth from the man to Kendall. 

Kendall’s face was frozen in shock. 

Kendall said, “Why do you want only a copy of the painting of Eva?” 

“Because I could never take something from you that is so important to
you.” 

“You can buy the paintings.” 

The man smiled and withdrew his checkbook.   “This is a certified check
for one hundred and ten thousand dollars.  The extra two thousand is 
for you to buy painting supplies.  Also,” he said, withdrawing another 
card, “I have an empty apartment in one of my buildings which you are 
welcome to have to use as a studio, at no charge.” 

Kendall’s father’s lawyer opened his mouth to object, but the man beat
him to it.  “No binding contracts or anything silly.  She’s free to use 
the space as she sees fit.  Whenever she thinks she has a painting I’d 
like, she can call me and then bring it to me.  No unannounced visits 
or commissions.  She paints what she wants, when she wants, and what 
she sells is up to her as well.  In the meantime, here are the business 
cards of eight or ten friends and associates of mine who would like to 
buy some of your paintings.  No obligations.  None of them know your 
name, and I won’t tell them how to find you.  If you want to sell to 
them, you call them.  They will pay prices similar to mine.” 

Kendall had stared at the man, who looked to be in his early forties. 
“Why are you doing this for me?” 

The man had stared back at her, bewitched by the expression of confusion
and awe on her face.  “Because your paintings are beautiful.” 

The man, Kendall, her father, and the lawyer had gone up the stairs,
Kendall still clutching the cheque and the card with the studio address 
on the back.  They stood a moment at the door, the man politely 
thanking Kendall’s mother for the coffee and complimenting the dessert 
and their home.  Then he had turned to Kendall.  “One last thing.” 

Kendall stared at him.  “Yes?” 

“I’m offering you a full scholarship to my art school, to begin at level
two in September.  I’ll have my secretary send you an application 
package and the necessary documentation.  If you choose not to come, 
that’s fine, but I hope you won’t.” 

Kendall had stared at him again, her jaw slack.  “That’s where I knew
your name from!” she’d exclaimed.  “Victor Allen of the Allen School 
for Fine Arts!” 

Victor had smiled.  “One and the same.  Please consider attending in the
fall.” 

“Oh, I will!”  Kendall had said, her face spreading into a smile.  A
full scholarship! 

. Kendall was jolted out of her memory by Victor’s arrival in class.  He
walked into the room, and conversation ceased.  Brushes were picked up 
and loaded with paint, and in the space of just a few minutes, 
concentration was thick in the air, almost tangibly so.  Victor began 
his rounds, as usual, but Kendall wasn’t painting.  She sat down on the 
chair beside her table, rested her chin in her hand, and returned, in 
her mind, to that summer when she was nineteen. 

She had applied to the art school and received, along with her
acceptance, confirmation of her status as full scholarship.  She had 
gone to the studio and painted the walls herself, mostly violet (her 
favourite colour) with large patches of cream and gold.  She and her 
father had built shelves along  two of the walls, and she’d had a field 
day in art supply stores across the city, buying easels, paints, 
brushes, canvasses, and, from a school that was closing down, huge 
floodlights.  Her mother had participated by making curtains for the 
huge windows, letting Eva dip her hands and feet in violet fabric paint 
and walk and crawl all over the cream-coloured material.  The curtains 
had been presented to Kendall as a surprise, wrapped in a box with a 
big bow.  Her mother had called it a “studio-warming” gift, and had 
given the package to Eva to deliver.  Kendall had allowed Eva to help 
her tear open the paper, and had burst into tears when she saw the 
curtains covered with Eva’s tiny hand- and footprints.  When the 
curtains had been hung, Kendall had looked about the room and smiled, 
satisfied.  She had a summer job in a lawyer’s office, and had only 
Friday afternoons and weekends off.  She had spent hours in the studio 
that summer. 

Twelve more of her paintings had been sold to Victor’s friends.  Victor
had taken her and her parents out for dinner.  Eva had been toilet 
trained.  And meanwhile Kendall painted frantically, more so because 
her new surroundings were inspiring her.  As she continued to grow 
older and more mature, her paintings too became more mature, and 
infused with a sensuousness that made her mother blush when she 
examined them.  It was a busy summer.  And in the fall, Kendall had 
begun her studies at the art school, in level two.  The program was 
strenuous.  She was expected to go to a painting class for three hours 
a day, two days a week.   She had a drawing class, three days a week 
for one hour, a writing class three days a week for two hours, and a 
general fine arts class two days a week for two hours.  Her schedule 
was hectic.  At the end of each week, she had to hand in one painting 
and one piece of creative writing.  At various intervals she was 
expected to hand in drawings, sculptures, and essays.  Her first year 
had gone smoothly, and she had completed the first half of level two.  
She had returned the second year, still on full scholarship, and had 
the same schedule, except that her painting class had been extended to 
two days a week, for four hours. 

At the end of her second year she completed level two and had moved on
to level three.  Now she had painting three days a week for three 
hours, drawing once a week for three hours, writing twice a week for 
three hours, and her general arts class still two days a week for two 
hours.  The level three program was even more difficult than level two. 
 Her weekly quota had been increased, so that now she was expected to 
complete three paintings and three pieces of creative writing in two 
weeks.  By this time, she was twenty-one years old.  Her parents had 
begun to travel more now that Eva was four years old and in 
kindergarten.  She was old enough to be left alone with the housekeeper 
for brief intervals, although their parents tried not to be away too 
much.  But their mother was often expected to give speeches at various 
charities, sometimes out of town, and their father always accompanied 
her on these trips, driving while she prepared her speeches. 

By the beginning of her fourth year, Kendall’s paintings were drawing
prices in the hundred-thousands.  A second portrait of Eva, this time 
dressed in green, with fairy wings and a wand, made close to eight 
hundred thousand dollars.  Kendall by this time had an agent who 
handled all her sales.  In November, just before her twenty-second 
birthday, Kendall had her first gallery show.  The show, in a gallery 
owned by an old friend of Victor’s, sold out, and Kendall made over two 
and a half million dollars, after the agent and the government took 
their shares.  Kendall had gotten an apartment of her own, and had 
flown to Paris for a week in December. 

But then, the third week in January, Kendall’s parents had had their
fatal accident.  Immediately Natasha and Josh had refused 
responsibility for Eva, and Kendall had accepted, opening to the tiny 
girl her arms, her heart, and her home.  While the funeral for their 
parents had taken only a few days, building a strong relationship with 
Eva and helping her to heal had taken months.  Kendall had taken a 
semester off school, with Victor’s support and consent, and had taken 
Eva and gone to Jamaica.  They had stayed there for three months, 
spending all their time together, and when they came back they were 
each almost whole again.  Eva had been put back in school, and Kendall 
had taken on the chores of selling her parents’ home and belongings, 
and choosing a burial plot.  She paid for the plots and the headstone 
with the money from the house, and divided the remaining money into 
three equal parts, setting up a trust fund for Eva and sending their 
thirds to Josh and Natasha.  Natasha had used part of hers to pay for 
her wedding to Blake, and Josh had used his to finish his masters’ and 
Ph.D. degrees at Harvard, and then to start his own business.  Kendall, 
in the meantime, started painting again, hiring Jill to look after 
herself, Eva, and their apartment.  And, in July, she started sleeping 
with Victor. . Once again, Kendall was jolted out of her reverie, this 
time by Victor’s hand on her shoulder.  “Are you okay, Kendall?” he 
asked with concern. 

“Yes...  no... I don’t know.” 

He lowered his voice.  “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Well...” 

“Come on, we’ll go to my office.  You go first, I’ll be right there.” 

As Kendall left the room, she heard Victor telling the class that he
would be in his office, and they should keep working until their ten 
o’clock break.  She stood near the door of his office, marked simply 
“Victor Allen.”  When he came to stand beside her, he unlocked the door 
and let them in.  As soon as they were in the room with the door 
closed, Kendall laid her head against Victor’s chest and silently 
started to cry. 

“Honey!  What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know...”  Standing very still except for the shaking of her
slim shoulders, Kendall cried silently for almost five minutes, while 
Victor held her close.  Suddenly, she stopped crying and looked up at 
him.  “I’m so sorry, Victor.” 

“No, hun, what’s wrong?  There must be something wrong for you to be so
upset...” 

“No, really...  Nothing’s wrong.  I’ve been thinking about when I first
met you, and when my parents died, and I guess I just have a lot of 
extra emotion in me right now...  Maybe I’m ovulating...” 

Victor laughed.  “Oh sure, you can blame things on ovulation, but I
can’t blame it on PMS?  That’s not very fair.” 

Kendall laughed.  “You’re right, it’s not fair.”  Abruptly Kendall
pulled away.  “I can’t stand so close to you,” she said by way of an 
explanation, “I really want you right now.” 

“No sex at school,” Victor reminded her, regret in his eyes. 

“I know.  Let’s go back to class before I kidnap you or something.” 

“Mmm.  But first-”  Victor roughly pulled her back into his arms and
kissed her hard, the way she liked it best.  “There we go,” he said, 
releasing her, “now we can go back to class.  Maybe you’d better stop 
in the bathroom and wash your face.” 

Kendall nodded, and they left the office together.  After she had washed
her face, she returned to class and began to work on her painting.  
Just after she arrived at her easel, Kendall noticed Joyce Evans 
standing next to her.  “Good morning,” Joyce said, concerned.  
“Everything all right?”.  She was the only one of the other students 
who knew of Kendall’s relationship with Victor.  She was also Kendall’s 
only real friend in the class.  Standing almost a head shorter than 
Kendall, she had shoulder-length blond hair and large, expressive eyes. 
 She was prone to blinding headaches, and had a special talent for 
drawing extremely realistic faces.  She was probably the only student 
in the class who could provide true competition for Kendall.  Her 
painting was in a completely different style, though, and Kendall never 
felt anything but pleased that she was not alone in her status as a 
brilliant student.  Joyce, also, was a scholarship student, one whom 
Victor had discovered on one of his trips several years ago.  Kendall 
and Joyce often chatted about not only their art but their lives; they 
ate lunch together and sometimes went out at night.  Joyce was engaged 
to be married to one of Victor’s friends at York University, and the 
four sometimes had dinner together.  After greeting Kendall and 
ascertaining that she was all right, Joyce quickly returned to her 
easel to continue working on her painting, and Kendall picked up her 
paintbrush and set to work, trying to focus on the task at hand. 

That afternoon, she and Victor rushed to the studio to make love before
taking Jill and Eva out to dinner.  Then the four of them headed 
downtown in Victor’s Jeep, Kendall’s hand clutching his tightly in her 
lap. 

When they returned from dinner that night, Eva had fallen asleep in the
backseat of Victor’s Jeep.  He carried her in, walked Jill down to 
where her car was parked, and came back up.  Kendall wasn’t in the 
kitchen, so he went looking for her, and found her in Eva’s room, 
gently changing her into her pajamas.  When she had finished, she woke 
her to take her to the bathroom, which they managed with only one of 
Eva’s eyes opening.  Kendall tucked her back into bed like an expert, 
and Victor bent down to kiss Eva’s cheek before he and Kendall headed 
out to the living room.  They sat quietly on the couch, watching the 
end of a movie, and then suddenly Kendall jumped up and reached for 
Victor’s hand.  Holding a finger to her lips, she lead him down the 
hall, past Eva’s closed bedroom door, into her bedroom, and from there 
into her bathroom.  She flipped the knobs and started to fill the 
bathtub with warm water.  She added some of her strawberry bubble bath, 
and started to take off her clothes.  Startled, Victor could only watch 
her as she stripped and then stepped into the bathtub.  She looked up 
at him.  “Aren’t you going to come in?” 

Slowly, Victor removed his clothes, leaving them, as she had, in a pile
on the cold tile floor.  He stepped cautiously into the hot water, 
sitting down opposite her and leaning back, his legs crossed.  Unhappy 
with this seating arrangement, Kendall stood, and motioned for him to 
stretch out his legs, then sat down between his thighs, leaning her 
back against his chest and tugging his head down to kiss him over her 
shoulder. “This is the first time we’ve ever taken a bath together,” 
Victor whispered to her. 

“About damn time,”  Kendall replied.  She squirmed against him, loving
the way their wet skin slid together.  They sat that way for about 
twenty minutes, and then the water cooled.  Kendall sat forward to turn 
the taps on again, making hot water rush into the tub.  Victor 
protested weakly, saying they really should get out of the tub, and 
that he really had to get going soon, but Kendall silenced his protests 
without a word.  Turning slowly around to face him, kneeling in the 
waist-deep water and sitting on her heels, she reached down between his 
legs, and smiled at him.  “Ever have sex in a bathtub?” she asked him, 
grinning wickedly. 

“Not yet,” he answered, grinning back, and then he kissed her. 


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