Jealousy Spins out of Control

California's mountains and mezmerizing surf are the surrounding background for a gorgeous contemporary home and glass art gallery attached by a half mile walkway. A well known painter, Phillip Waring, lived there with his family and worked passionately in his magical gallery. It served as a flowing fountain of masterpieces created from his own life for many years. Now it is remnants of a love nest for art, a memory palace for ghosts.

Phillip had raised his daughters, Anita and Alice, after his beloved wife, Ariana, died giving birth to a stillborn son. As grief stricken as he was, he had been a wonderful Dad. He gave them attention when he wasn't working and claimed to love them equally.

They had a nanny, Sibley, who was joyless and bland. Phillip had hired her on a day he couldn't cope anymore and someone recommended her. She managed to fool him into thinking she was a competent nanny and the girls really didn't know they deserved more. They had Taz, the wonderful chef that ended up babysitting until Phillip realized Sibley wasn't right for her position. Taz taught them to cook, bake and more importantly, to love others.

The huge kitchen was simply a joy filled playground. Ariana had planned it and used it when she was alive because she loved to cook and be with her girls. It had been built like a classroom with the middle wall sharing ovens and burners that faced both sides. Taz could watch the girls bake cookies as he prepared crabmeat appetizers on the opposite side. He had bakeware for both sides and dishes just as there was a fabulous dining room for sixteen and then a family breakfast area where they ate most of the time.

One daughter, Anita Marie, was a child both a camera and paintbrush loved. Phillip painted her constantly from babyhood with her mother through adulthood. The other daughter, Alice Suzanne, was a quiet girl that read a lot, didn't like to play outside and seldom smiled. School was a "nightmare" according to her. She dated little although she was very attractive, and hid in the background. After graduate school, where she studied psychology, she lived with her famous Dad. She claimed to enjoy helping him catalog his work.

The truth is Ariana and both daughters, were caught in the spider web of Phillip the Master Artist. He would never mean to harm them but their lives revolved around his.

Phillip Waring was in a class of oil painters so special that his name often brought instant recognition with other artists. His brush stroke technique was unique, each painting appeared to have been intimately designed for that person. He was also well loved for an engaging personality and a quick wit when he taught and lectured.

Galleries showed his outstanding paintings of Big Surs' shoreline and other breath taking scenery in California. He was commissioned for portraits of wealthy individuals and families. He was sought after when an article appeared in "The New Yorker" praising his techniques and testimonies about how his paintings brought forth emotions in the owners. Two people claimed they had been healed by observing the undesirable physical effects of illness on their likeness so, they began to eat healthier and felt they looked better.
Phillip's comment on these observations was.
"The mind is a curious thing."

Many who commissioned portraits swore personalities of individuals were seen in the art. Most were flattering. Phillip denied any special insightful abilities.
He was slightly sarcastic.
"I simply paint what I see and there are no refunds."

There was a standing joke that he was stealing souls. The same used to be said of photographers when cameras were new frightening gadgets. Phillip worked the idea into his lectures to get a laugh. His reputation grew. Requests came from well known people in the entertainment business. He had to turn down work constantly.

There had been one showing of the ‘Anita paintings’ that were awarded with tremendous acclaim. Collectors offered large amounts for the entire collection. Phillip firmly stated they “were not for sale” at any price due to sentimental value.

It was an unbelievable shock to his admirers when he died suddenly at sixty from a pulmonary embolus. A blood clot in the lung had traveled to the heart causing cardiac arrest. His causal friends and customers were shocked but he had given up jogging and his stationary bike.

He had told Taz "no more salads, I will eat what I enjoy, by God!" He was one hundred pounds overweight but still a good looking guy that didn't look his age. Women still enjoyed his bed.

What most people did not realize was he had a mild stroke one year previously. His cardiologist had been monitoring him closely. His blood pressure was out of control and medications were not helping. He was warned of stress but that is a difficult emotional factor to control.

Phillip seemed to know he needed to tie up loose ends and make the most of time with Rosie, his love affair with California's scenery and life's sexual amusements. Plus he loved steaming pasta with Taz's various alfredo sauces, wines, pasteries and desserts. Then there were the homemade pizza pies Taz made.

The memorial service was attended by fifty invited colleagues, friends and his "girls". He requested to be cremated and his ashes spread on the lake by his studio. A Rabbi spoke along with his daughter Anita and fellow artist, Lee Sebring. All were moving eulogies with memories and loving humor. A harp solo by an gifted friend was a magnificent ending for an accomplished artist and great man.

Phillip's other daughter, Alice, became hysterical.
She threw herself down, her movements appeared like a seizure. She screamed the entire time incoherently and had to be helped away from the service and then sedated. At the age of thirty, she was emotionally fragile, having lived with her father all of her life.

The sisters, Anita and Alice were planning to spend the afternoon in the studio carefully cataloging, packing and dividing their Dad's art.

The studio, separate from the house, is stunning with field stone walls and windows. It overlooks majestic mountains with a rainbow lake. It is a painter’s dream. Anita fondly recalled times there with her Dad, watching him meticulously paint. He was so calm, smoking his pipe, sipping a cup of coffee and then asking her advice about the colors of the lake, sky, clouds, even rocks. He always took a break so he could hear about her day, school activities and friends.

There was no way to anticipate the next hour of panic and terror.
The sisters entered together through the kitchen downstairs.

Anita went to get a drink from the fridge.
“Do you want anything, honey?”

Anita was grabbed with brute strength from behind.
One arm was around her neck and the other encircled her arms.
The can of soda smashed to the floor.

“What the hell!” Anita managed to squeak out.

A rope was then tied around her arms.
The rough twine cut into her arms and droplets of blood stained the floor.
Alice pushed her up against a heavy wooden beam.
She tied Anita as tightly as she could.

“I don’t understand. Have you lost your mind?"
"What is wrong, Alice?”
Anita couldn't remember Alice ever being mean or violent.
She was always the quiet one.

Alice spit, with angry force, in her face.
“No one will ever paint you again!”

Alice walked up the winding stairs to the studio. She was singing like a child, a bizarre version of a nursery rhyme.
"Good Night, Baby Bunting, Daddy's gonna a hunting, he will bring Anita's skin to wrap his baby Alice in."

She poured gasoline over paints, portraits, canvases and photos in her Dad’s studio.
Alice appeared to be an entertained child. She was christening years of her own neglect, as Daddy had celebrated Anita’s life, with gasoline in place of champagne.

The studio was a tribute to her younger sister.
There were oils of Anita as a lovely rosy-cheeked baby on a blanket.

At two, she sat in the sand, her pail filled with colorful shells spilling out. She was very pleased with herself. He had captured the angelic cherub lips, brilliant blue eyes, and head full of golden curls.

The entire collection was a journey of Anita’s life. She was aware of her charms as a beautiful debutante in a silk and velvet trimmed gown that matched the sapphire of her eyes. Her eyes were innocent yet sensual, like she had not yet discovered that secret for herself. She wore a single one carat sapphire and gold necklace from Grandma. Then there was the new college graduate tossing her cap, announcing her success and independence. You could see the glow in the painting strokes.

Then another Anita, as a beaming bride in her mother’s gown, alone with her hands together in prayer, kneeling on a satin prayer bench. Her eyes were different in this, like a doe that has been caught in the headlights of a car.

Anita didn’t like the painting so Dad had another with the newlyweds; she and Ed were gazing at each other with eyes of love. Yet he had saved the other with her frightened look.

Then there is the” Madonna” portrait. Anita looked serene like a new mother breast-feeding her child.
Phillip had captured that look of joy a woman feels as her baby is getting sustenance from her body and there is pain yet joy. Anita is looking down, her hair spilling over the breast with the feeling of love, joy and possession. Rosie's tiny hand is holding Anita's golden hair, like the locks of soft curls on her own head. You can smell nature's perfume on Rosie's head. No one else can do this and her husband may try but that is a sexual act. This is a personal feeling to all who study the painting. This is Phillip Waring's secret to his audience.

Even when their Phillip had died, he was painting Anita holding his granddaughter. Rosie was a miniature Anita and Phillip had captured it.

Alice had told her therapist the so called love between father and daughter was a type of incest. If anyone had noticed, Alice had begun the spiral of depression then. No one would blame her for wanting to erase this abnormal obsession of Phillip’s so called “love” for one daughter.

She was bitter and envious, who wouldn't be? Dad always said he loved both his daughters equally.
Phillip was 'simply inspired' by Anita more.

‘Damn his soul to Hell for ignoring me,’ Alice thought as she meticulously went about her appointed work.
‘What was so wrong with me that I wasn’t his muse?’

Of course, he had never painted their mother either.

“What are you doing, Alice? It smells like gas in here. Can you smell it?”
Anita screamed from downstairs, “You need to come untie me. I will do anything you want.”
Anita continued to plea, ”You know that Daddy would not want you to hurt me, to hurt any of us. I will get you help, honey. Please!”


Anita had wondered why her Dad always painted her. But Dad had never ignored Alice. She had never been an affectionate person with hugs or words but she wasn't as a child either. She had always been a loner, shut up in her room reading, watching TV or daydreaming. Phillip had always tried to get her to join in and go with him places.

What happened in the years Anita had not been around? After Anita had her degree in journalism, she met Ed and they married. Along came Rosie as Ed traveled writing as a restaurant critic.

Maybe Dad had ignored Alice and then she had been the one to care for him. Now all these terrible things were going through Anita’s mind.
Had Alice mistreated him to get back at Anita?

But Phillip’s mind was fine after the mild stroke. He would not have let someone mistreat him. He called Anita frequently and seemed happy. He talked about Alice’s withdrawal and depression but could not get her to go back to a therapist

Now, Anita was soaked in a cold sweat with her heart racing and her mind trying to think how to get out of this.

Alice was really going to kill her.

Maybe her trump card would be Rosie.
Alice loved Rosie, taking her to the shore and playing games, building sand castles.

“What about Rosie? Alice, she loves you. Will you tell her that you killed her Mommy?
You will go to jail,” Anita sobbed, trying to find the right words.

Alice suddenly thought how much she loved Rosie. Just last night she had combed Rosie's straight long dark hair. It was like her own hair. She knew Rosie would love her like a mother in time.

Alice looked over the railing. Everything was spinning.

Suddenly she saw Rosie instead of Anita tied up. The gasoline fumes were getting to her.

“Rosie, honey, is that you?”

Alice appeared drunk as she came down the steps. She was in a panic now.
Anita wisely remained quiet.

Alice kissed the top of Anita’s head. Anita watched her sister’s crazed eyes as Alice untied the ropes and mumbled,
“Run, Rosie, I love you!”

Anita ran for her life.
She was at the top of the steep driveway before she looked back.

The flames were licking the sunset in a horrific image.
She screamed, “No!”
Then she watched, with horror, as Alice set herself on fire.

By Kathie Stehr