Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
I spent the weekend at my parents’ house, and by hour three I remembered exactly why I both loved it and needed long breaks between weekends home.
The MacMillan household didn’t have an “off” switch. The thermostat was permanently two degrees too warm, the TV was always on, even if no one was watching it, and someone was always cooking something with every pan we owned.
My mom threw open the door before I even killed the engine on Rob’s truck. “There she is!” She gave me a hug then pushed back to inspect me. “You look thin.”
“I’m exactly the same as I was last time you saw me.”
She shook her head, then dragged me inside with one arm while simultaneously yelling, “Doug! She’s here!”
The kitchen was already a battlefield. Pans everywhere, two cutting boards in active use, my mom’s holiday season apron dusted with flour. My dad sat at the table reading a newspaper. Hence the discovery of my relationship with Logan.
He stood when he saw me. “Hey, kiddo.” Then, without missing a beat, “We need to discuss this Logan fella.”
“Oh my gosh,” I groaned. “Dad—”
Thankfully, Mom deposited a plate of food in front of me, and even though I wasn’t especially hungry, I dug in to avoid that conversation.
Lisa showed up twenty minutes later. My older sister, the golden child, still wearing her nursing scrubs.
She dropped her bag on the counter, eyeing my plate before giving me a hug. She stepped back and frowned. “Seriously?”
I whipped my head toward the fridge. There it was. The Calgary Herald photo of me and Logan front and center. Paired with my kindergarten handprint turkey Mom always pulled out in the fall.
I covered my face. “Please remove that.”
“No,” Mom said. “I need it for scrapbooking.”
Lisa leaned over the island, chin in her hand. “So. Tell us about hockey boy.”
And that pretty much described my first three hours at home. I dodged, deflected, and said things like “We’re just working together” through all the cookie baking and Christmas decorating.
By Sunday evening, I was packed and tucked into the freezing truck for the drive back to Calgary. Mom crammed six Tupperwares into my hands. Three soups, two pasta dishes, and something that might have been a taco meat?
“Take the garlic bread too!” Mom shouted from the garage. “You need carbs!”
“I have carbs!” I yelled back.
“Not enough!”
_____
I arrived at the gallery warehouse early Monday morning since my regular class was canceled due to my professors unfortunate allergic response to shrimp pasta the night before.
The last of the construction trucks were gone. In their place sat neat stacks of polished floor panels, ladders shoved into corners, and coils of extension cords.
Inside, I stopped dead. The walls gleamed with a fresh coat of crisp white paint, and the track lighting was installed, half the heads already angled toward imaginary canvases.
It didn’t look like a warehouse anymore. It looked like a gallery. My gallery.
Norman was already striding across the space with a clipboard, talking to three contractors at once.
“Electrical. That corner needs another buff. The southwest panel is warped—replace it. And can someone please fix that outlet?” He pointed, waiting for a response.
When he didn’t get it, he waved me over like I’d materialized precisely when he needed me.
“Crystal. Good. Exhibition sequence today. Start with the emerging artists’ alcove.
We’ll see Alison Kerr at the Palliser. I’ve got a meeting with her before the reception, and I want a preliminary concept board. ”
My pulse fluttered. This was a thousand percent better than slashing boxes. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“And pull the MacIntyre Foundation file,” he added. “Cross-reference this proposal language with our education plan so we don’t repeat anything. Or promise anything insane.”
Donor proposal language? He trusted me. The realization made me heady.
I set my stuff down and dove in. I spent the morning ricocheting around the gallery, sketching exhibition flow on tracing paper, labeling plinths with a Sharpie, reviewing lighting angles for both dramatic effect and donor-safe visibility, building the student-engagement binder for the Douglas partnership, and prepping printouts for the meeting with Alison Kerr.
By noon, I felt larger than life, until I realized I’d forgotten the MacIntyre file. Hopefully Norman was still in his office because I didn’t have a key.
I approached, noting from down the hall that the door was propped open, and mentally prepared for a search. Was it a green folder or blue?
I was about to push the door open when I froze.
Norman was in the room, but it wasn’t him who stopped my heart in my chest. It was the woman he was kissing.
Alice Kemp.
Logan’s mother.