Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
The Palliser looked like money. Old money. Leather-bound money. The kind of money that wore cufflinks and got decent-looking hair plugs.
The lobby hummed with soft piano and the dim lighting made everyone look gauzy. Thank the heavens for Shar and her little black dress. If I would’ve shown up in anything from my wardrobe, I would’ve looked like someone who wandered in off the street looking for a sunday school class.
Logan’s reaction when he picked me up was still playing on repeat in my mind. The slight part of his lips, the quick blinks. I was more prepared since I’d already been blindsided by him in a suit at the breakfast.
Now he walked beside me, suit jacket crisp, hair neat except for one rebellious wave that kept falling onto his forehead.
Upstairs, the ballroom doors stood open, spilling out jazz music and chatter.
Inside, chandeliers glittered over linen-covered tables and servers carried trays of champagne flutes, offering them to all the guests.
Norman glided through the space, greeting everyone.
He found us seconds after we entered. “Crystal. Logan. Excellent. Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Norman ushered us across the ballroom before I could even get my bearings. A donor I vaguely recognized from the breakfast at Douglas nodded at Logan with thinly veiled awe as we passed.
On a side table near the stage, set discreetly but intentionally beneath spot lighting, hung a large painting.
Thick, bold strokes of crimson and navy blues were scraped into geometric motion.
At first glance it looked abstract, but then I caught it.
The ghost shape of a hockey player mid-stride, the suggestion of a stick, the arc of ice spray.
“Isn’t it something?” Norman said, nodding toward the painting.
“It’s . . . ” I slowed and leaned in to the canvas. “Yes.”
Norman had shown me this piece last week. The artist, Olivier Bridet, worked out of Montreal. He used palette knives and varnished pigment. Called it “Kinetic Bodywork” and was doing a series on Canadian sports icons. Trying to capture motion through texture and geometric patterns in space.
I couldn’t believe I’d never seen his work before, but he’d apparently refused to consign or display in galleries. The painting in person was mesmerizing, constantly forcing my eyes to sweep in a wide arc instead of stick to the center.
Norman looked pleased. “And this is why you’re here. We need to secure Monsieur Bridet for the opening.”
What? My stomach twisted like a pair of leggings in the dryer. I thought all of the artists were already on board. And how the hell was I, a college student, supposed to attract an artist at that level?
I reached out for Logan’s hand. He turned to me, his eyes widening. Absolutely necessary.
The table he led us to was at the front, right next to his board members and the artist’s full display. I had no doubt we were about to meet Olivier Bridet himself.
But I couldn’t think about that because as we approached, a woman with a blond bob turned to greet us. Alice Kemp.
Her pearl earrings glowed under the chandelier. Her camel coat draped over her chair like a magazine cover. She smiled warmly when she saw us, her eyes flicking to her son with affection.
And then her husband, Logan’s dad, turned around. His hand on the small of her back, smiling at Norman like the friend he thought he was.
All I could see, the image flashing in my head, was Alice’s mouth on Norman’s, her hand on his jaw, the familiarity, the intimacy.
I wanted to throw up.
“Hey.” Logan leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I didn’t know you’d both be here.”
She squeezed his arm, beaming. “We wanted to surprise you.”
She was giving a lot of surprises at the moment.
Logan clapped his dad on the back as my insides folded themselves into origami.
“Logan Kemp.” A thin man with a tidy beard, wire glasses, and a French accent pushed himself to his feet, interrupting any chance for introductions. He clutched his wine glass like it was a microphone. “I didn’t think I’d get to meet you tonight.”
Logan dazzled with a smile. “Hey. Nice to meet you, Mr. . . ”
“Bridet. Olivier Bridet.” He reached out for a handshake. “I’ve been following you for years. Even before World Juniors.”
Logan stiffened almost imperceptibly. I felt it more than saw it. Some tiny hitch in his breath, a fractional tightening of his jaw.
“You were magnifique last season,” the man went on. “What was it—eleven points in seven games?”
“Four,” Logan corrected gently. “Two goals, two assists.”
“Yes! Yes, that’s right.” The man snapped his fingers, delighted with himself. “And the faceoff percentage. What was it, seventy-six percent?”
“Seventy-three.” Logan’s smile grew a little tight at the edges.
Since when did he not enjoy bragging about himself? He squeezed my hand, and I looked over to see Norman, watching the interaction like a hawk.
Then I understood. It wasn’t me who was supposed to clinch this contract. It was Logan.
“And the penalty kill,” Bridet continued. “Textbook perfect. I remember yelling at my television, ‘That’s how it’s done, that Kemp knows the position!’” He grinned, clearly expecting Logan to laugh.
Logan acquiesced, but Bridet didn’t stop there. “It’s been a joy watching your career since then,” he said, clapping Logan on the shoulder. “Remarkable. Though I’d much prefer you play in Montréal.”
“Thank you, that means a lot.” Logan turned to take two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, and Bridet finally turned to me. “You’re very lucky. He’s a true gem.”
I smiled, my mind whirring in the background. What was Logan supposed to do with this? How did Norman expect him to turn this into a gallery sales pitch?
Norman steepled his fingers, gaze sharp. “So. Logan. Tell us how you got to this point. Competition in hockey is cutthroat.”
Logan chuckled. “Yeah. You have to be a little obsessive, I think.” He glanced up at Alice, and she nodded in agreement.
“From the very beginning, Logan was always driven,” she said. “Always aiming higher than the child next to him.”
“He didn’t settle,” Logan’s dad added. “If you can give ninety percent, you can give one hundred. Why stop short?”
Logan chuckled, his jaw still tight.
His dad continued, “Principles and work ethic. Excellence is excellence.”
Alice picked up the thread without missing a beat. “He delivered, always. Never complacent. Never lazy. Even when he was sick, he’d insist on practice.”
“Remember the flu tournament?” His dad chuckled. “He knew he’d set the wrong precedent if he sat out.”
Did he know? Or was he told? Logan didn’t seem to be enjoying these anecdotes nearly as much as they were. He wasn’t basking in the praise. He was enduring it.
“I know a little of ambition,” Bridet murmured, taking another sip of wine.
Logan’s hand was ice cold. I saw my opening, and took it. “That kind of work is inspiring. But I think it also comes at a cost.”
All the heads turned toward me. I swallowed hard and continued.
“Like you said, the competition in hockey is fierce. How many young players have the work ethic but never get the opportunity? It’s the same in the art world.
That’s what’s so beautiful about what Norman’s doing with this new collective.
He’s giving a stepping stool to artists who may not have the natural connections or resources that some of us do.
” I met Logan’s gaze. His eyes were fixed on me, and I hoped I wasn’t crossing any lines. I ran my thumb over his wrist.
“Like you, Mr. Bridet. You’re opening up new possibilities in kinetic art, opening our minds to a new way of presenting movement.
But the first time I saw your work was because of Norman.
I didn’t know it existed.” My heart sped up.
This was the moment I would likely kill my chances of working in the Calgary art world.
“I realize parts of the consignment and display process are problematic for artists, but I hope you’ll consider making your work more accessible.
Young artists like me need to see what’s possible.
We need more Logans in the world to inspire us. ”
I picked up the champagne glass Logan had set in front of me and took a sip. The bubbles popped on my tongue, giving me something else to focus on besides my trembling fingers.
Logan looked at me then, and something flickered behind his eyes. He dropped my hand and slipped his arm around my waist, pulling me close. His warmth enveloped me, and I let out an involuntary sigh of relief.
What was happening between us? Logan wasn’t anything like I expected based on Shar’s description of their relationship. He was attentive and kind. That surprise he pulled with the Outlaws? I’d never been treated more like royalty in my life.
But Shar’s words clanged in my head like a church bell. I don’t want you to get hurt.
Bridet tapped his wine glass, his brow furrowed. “I can’t say I’ve ever considered that.”
I had to remind myself what our topic of conversation was. What had I said that he hadn’t considered? Something about making his work more accessible?
A woman who’d been silent until that moment spoke up.
“I agree wholeheartedly. There’s too much gatekeeping in this industry, and the old guard is dying off.
” She shrugged when Alice frowned at that comment.
“It’s true. We need new blood and we’re not going to get it if the barriers to entry are too high. ”
The woman put out a hand toward me, and I shook it. “Alison Kerr. Glenbow Museum.”
So, this was who Norman was talking about the other day. I liked her already. “Crystal MacMillan.”
Norman’s eyes gleamed, turning the attention back to Bridet. “I’d love to discuss options for a feature in December . . .” He closed in, and I sank into Logan.
“Thank you,” he murmured when the conversation had thankfully turned away from us.
I played it off, taking another sip of champagne. I’d hoped it would settle my pulse, but it wasn’t working. Not when Alice kept laughing at Logan’s dad’s jokes, all while her gaze kept slipping to Norman.
I had to tell him. I couldn’t keep this in my body, and he deserved to know. But how did you drop a bomb like that on someone? Or . . . was it possible he already knew? Alice did spend a lot of time with Norman, and Logan didn’t seem especially close with his dad. Was it a secret he was in on?
That thought dropped a pile of rocks into my gut. No. He wouldn’t do that to someone, would he? Even if he and his dad had issues, would he keep a secret like that? Knowing how hurtful it was?
“You okay?” Logan asked.
I nodded, pretending to be listening when all I could hear was white noise. I couldn’t eat. I still accepted food that was offered and took small bites, then found opportunities to hide the rest in my napkin. When Logan finally took a break to use the washroom, I snatched my chance to escape.
I ducked into the ladies’ room, my stomach pitching so hard I thought I might faint onto the marble countertop. I braced my hands on the cool sink, willing my breathing to slow. “Pull it together,” I whispered to myself. “You’re fine.”
But I wasn’t fine. And I wasn’t going to make it through the rest of the night unless I talked to Logan. I splashed cold water on my wrists, dabbed beneath my eyes, and straightened my dress.
The hallway outside the ballroom was quieter. Soft carpet, dark wood panelling, low lamps. I caught sight of Logan’s silhouette exiting the washroom and intercepted him.
“Hey, what—?”
Laughter sounded down the hall, and a group rounded the corner. I didn’t want to look like we were hiding or having an intense conversation, so I did the only thing my panicking brain could think of.
I pressed into him, pushing Logan back against the wall and sliding a hand up his chest.
His hands flew to my waist on instinct. “Whoa—okay.”
“Shh,” I hissed. “I need to talk to you.”
His fingers tightened, his confusion melting into performance. He angled his body, dipped his head close to mine, breath warm against my ear. To anyone watching, we looked like two people who couldn’t wait to get a hotel room.
Absolutely necessary?
His thumb brushed my hip through the fabric of my dress, and my pulse bucked.
“What’s going on?” he murmured.
“I’m going to tell you something. I was hoping to wait until later, but I don’t think I can.”
His throat caught. “Okay.”
I swallowed hard, fingers curling against his lapel. “And if you’re already aware, then . . . I don’t know. You better have a good explanation.”
His breathing quickened. “Not loving that, but got it.”
“I saw something,” I whispered. “At the gallery. With your mom and Norman.”
His hand froze. His body went rigid.
I kept my face turned slightly toward his neck, my lips millimetres from his skin.
“They were kissing, Logan.”
No breath. No sound. No movement. After ten seconds, I worried his heart had handed in its two weeks’ notice.
“You’re sure?” His voice was clipped.
“Positive. I didn’t mean to spy,” I explained in a rush. “The door was cracked. I was returning to the office to grab a file. And . . . did you know?”
It was like someone flipped a switch. “No.” His hands slid off my waist. I stepped back, searching his face. His eyes were blank, like a shutter had been slammed down. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Logan—”
“We should go back in.”
I reached for his arm, but he moved away from me.
“No,” he said. Not sharp. Not angry. Just final. “Later.” And then he turned and strode back into the ballroom.
I took a moment, feeling somehow worse than when I’d entered the washroom. By the time I arrived at the table, Logan had already reclaimed his seat. His hands were folded, his face pleasant.
Norman lifted his champagne glass. “I’m glad you’re back. I wanted to make sure you were here for this announcement.”
I didn’t think I could take much more excitement for one night.
Norman waited for the full attention of the table. “We’ll be hosting a private retreat at Banff Springs November 21-23.”
November 21-23. Was that on our contract? I thought back to the document, to the dates Norman had scribbled in. November 21. TBD. This was a pretty damn big TBD.
“Key partners only,” he continued. “Creative strategy, board introductions, a preview of the gallery program.” He looked at Logan, then at me.
“We’ll be conducting community giving opportunities in conjunction with the Blizzard and cultural education sponsored by Douglas.
I can’t wait for you both to participate. ”