Chapter 1
Chapter One
Mandy
It was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday at Lakeside Gallery until he walked through the door.
All wonderfully normal until Seymour Black’s presence disrupted my carefully ordered world.
I love working here, surrounded by local art and blessed with quiet moments between visitors.
The gallery has this inherent New England charm.
Creaky floorboards that sing under your feet, quirky rooms with unexpected angles, and windows that frame the lake like living paintings.
Each space tells its own story, which makes it perfect for customizing themed exhibits.
The days here are a study in contradictions.
They fly by when I’m lost in the art world, arranging new pieces or discussing techniques with visiting artists.
But they crawl when my fingers itch to be holding a brush instead of a clipboard, when I’m dreaming of my own studio and the half-finished canvas waiting at home.
Sometimes I catch myself sketching on sticky notes during slow afternoons, guilty little moments of creative rebellion.
I should probably talk to Barrie about promotional strategies.
She’s worked miracles with Beachside Java’s foot traffic.
Their morning rush makes our visitor count look pathetic in comparison.
But those thoughts scatter like startled birds when I see him striding across our freshly polished floor like he owns the place.
Seymour Black.
Every gorgeous, infuriating inch of him.
I shouldn’t notice how his thick black hair falls just so, or how his jawline could cut glass, or how those green eyes with their impossible gold flecks seem to see right through a person.
I shouldn’t catalog the way his tailored suit hints at the athletic frame underneath, or how he towers over everyone else in the room with this effortless command of space.
But I do notice. And I hate that I notice.
I’ve seen how he operates. During the murder investigation with my brother Scott and Grace, Seymour’s true nature came through crystal clear.
The way he looked down his perfectly straight nose at everyone, how he dismissed people’s ideas with a mere arch of his eyebrow.
That natural sexiness he exudes might work on other women, but I know better. The insides don’t match the outsides.
Born into wealth and blessed with looks that belong on a magazine cover—it’s cosmically unfair.
Not to us, mind you, but to him. Having everything handed to you on a silver platter does something to a person.
It’s like watching a beautiful painting fade over time, losing its vibrancy until all that’s left is a hollow shell of what could have been.
Some small, traitorous part of me wants to feel sorry for him. Living in some massive house somewhere alone, keeping everyone at arm’s length with his cold demeanor. But I squash that sympathy like a bug. Compassion for Seymour Black is a dangerous road I refuse to travel.
A touch on my arm yanks me from my thoughts. I stiffen, ready to unleash the speech I’ve been mentally rehearsing since Seymour walked in. “Just because—”
The words die in my throat. It’s not Seymour at all, but Darren Meade.
My face performs an Olympic-worthy gymnastics routine, transforming from righteous indignation to professional pleasantry in record time.
I smile and smile and smile some more as Darren stands there, stroking his carefully cultivated mustache.
That thing isn’t just facial hair. It’s a prop in the one-man show that is Darren Meade, Famous Artist. Everything about him is calculated, from his “eccentric” personality to the way he throws money around like confetti at a parade.
It would be almost impressive if it wasn’t so exhausting to witness.
The worst part?
His wealth doesn’t even come from his art.
That’s the gallery’s worst-kept secret. He donates enormous sums just to secure his shows, but his actual paintings.
..well, some of my elementary school students show more promise.
Not that I’d ever say that out loud. The gallery needs his money too much for that kind of honesty.
Teaching those kids’ art classes is my joy, even though Diana and the board keep hinting that it’s not profitable enough.
But I do it anyway. Maybe because I see myself in their eager faces, in their uninhibited creativity.
Or maybe because I would have given anything to have someone believe in my artistic dreams when I was young.
Darren’s throat-clearing pulls me back to reality. His dark eyes rake over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. The fact that he’s old enough to be my father makes it even worse.
“Yes, Mr. Meade. How can I help you?” My voice comes out professional, practiced, hiding the way my stomach turns when he steps closer.
He draws himself up, attempting to look dignified despite the coffee crumbs nestled in his mustache. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from mentioning them. “Yes, one painting needs to be moved.”
“Oh?” I try to keep the defensiveness from my voice. “We followed your instructions about grouping the pieces.”
And I’m good at this part of my job. Excellent, actually.
Each painting needs to breathe, to have its own space while still connecting to the pieces around it.
It’s like composing a symphony with colors and shapes instead of notes.
The flow from one piece to the next should feel natural, inevitable.
Even working with Darren’s unique style, I’d managed to create something cohesive.
He gestures toward the blue room with a flourish that belongs on a community theater stage. “Shall we?”
As we walk, I feel pressure on my lower back. His hand, warm and presumptuous. It’s not a professional touch; it’s possessive, intimate. My skin crawls beneath my blouse, but I force myself to keep walking. The monthly donation he makes would cover my salary twice over.
The blue room is usually my sanctuary. The pale walls remind me of early morning skies, and the window seat is perfect for sketching on quiet afternoons. But now it feels smaller, and I’m trapped between Darren’s ego and the corner.
I step sideways, putting distance between us. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy critiquing my work.
“I’m not surprised some of the placement is wrong.” He sniffs, managing to look down his nose despite being shorter than me. “One really shouldn’t expect much from amateurs. The gallery should hire more established artists.”
I suck in a breath at the insult, then feel the air and the energy sag out of me.
He keeps talking but his voice becomes white noise.
His words have a way of opening old scars, old wounds.
Deep ones that run far in my past and new ones that appeared in the past five years.
The constant whispers that I’m not good enough, not talented enough, not enough.
The life of an artist is a rollercoaster. It has its highs and lows. It’s an emotional journey to put yourself out there, to bare your soul through a painting and let others see it. I should be used to it. It’s not the first time Darren Meade has unintentionally insulted me.
The air feels thick, heavy with things I can’t say. I focus on breathing, on the sunlight streaming through the windows, on anything except the voice in my head agreeing with him.
His clammy hand finds my arm again. “My complaint concerns the painting I call ‘Penguins Making Love.’”
I almost choke. The painting in question is a mishmash of Cubism and modern art.
Basically two black blobs surrounded by various shades of white and gray.
Sure, they could be penguins, if you squint and tilt your head just right.
But making love? Why not ‘Penguins Dancing’ or literally anything else?
His grip tightens when I try to pull away. “I’d like it moved higher on the wall.”
“Of course.” I’d agree to anything to end this interaction.
I find a stepstool and go through the process, suddenly uncomfortable and aware of the white pants I’m wearing and how when I raise my arms, it shows more of my butt. The pants are a bit too snug, but I love them and I wasn’t expecting to be on show like a piece of art.
Then I realize I’m wearing underwear with red roses on it. Can he see the roses through my pants? Again, I wasn’t expecting to be in a position where others could see my posterior. It takes about three seconds for the flush to rise into my face.
I carefully reposition the painting about three inches higher. Any more than that and people will walk away with kinks in their neck.
When I step down, Darren is there. Too close. I stumble back, but he’s already steadying me. His hand lingering places it shouldn’t. Did he just...did he actually pinch my...?
I squeal.
Holy grilled cheese, I think he pinched my butt. A squirmy feeling floods through me. This man just needs to leave.
Before I can formulate a response, he drapes his arm around me like we’re old friends. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. One more inappropriate touch and gallery donor or not, he’s going to learn exactly how well my self-defense classes paid off.
“This painting over here also needs a better position—”
“I don’t think so.” The voice cuts through the room like steel. “She’s done moving your paintings.”
Seymour. Of course it’s Seymour.
Darren’s face darkens. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.” He clearly doesn’t know who he’s dealing with, and in any other situation, his condescending tone toward Seymour Black might be amusing.
Seymour steps closer, towering over Darren. “Maybe if you weren’t ogling her like a perv.”
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” Darren’s voice rises an octave, indignant.
“No, and I don’t care who you are.”
Darren bristles, ready to launch into a lecture. I’ve heard it before. His entire resume of his life in the art world. His brush up with famous people. The fact that his work almost made it in New York. Not sure I believe that.
The tension between these two is palpable. I see the worst happening, like a fistfight. This is my job and I need to intervene. I want to punch the perv in the face, but I think of my boss, Diana, and how much love she’s put into this gallery. Bad press and loss of money could mean closing.
I’d be out of a job.
I step forward, but it’s almost as if Seymour knows what I intend to do and he cuts me off, stepping in-between me and Darren. When Seymour speaks, it’s in that low, authoritative tone again, like he could tell the wind to stop and it would.
“Only scumbags fondle women half their age,” Seymour’s voice drops lower, dangerous. “Only dirtbags put women in positions so they can—”
The door opens, and Julie bursts in, her blonde hair windblown.
“I’m sorry I’m late!” Her cheerful voice falters as she reads the room.
Her eyes dart between us, questioning. I try to communicate ‘later’ with my expression and gesture toward the information desk.
She takes the hint, though her concerned glance lingers.
She’s a grad student, an art major, also with dreams of being an artist and earning a living.
That used to be me, hopeful, optimistic.
Seymour’s hand clamps onto Darren’s shoulder, steering him toward the door. “We’ll continue this conversation outside.”
Darren protests with a few huffs, but nobody says no to Seymour Black. Not successfully, anyway.
When the door closes behind them, my legs nearly give out. The tension I’ve been holding seeps into my bones, leaving me shaky. I pass Julie’s desk, mumbling, “You don’t want to know.”
“Oh, I can guess, knowing Mr. Meade.”
Something fierce rises in my chest. “Has he bothered you?” Because gallery donor or not, if he’s harassing Julie too...
“I barely see him. He seems to visit the gallery when you’re working.” She pauses. “Isn’t there a board meeting?”
Right. The informal meeting with Diana and our newest board member. She wanted a meeting to discuss a few things. My hands are still trembling. “I’ll be in the bathroom.”
Once inside, I lean against the door. Yes, I’m hiding.
Yes, it’s pathetic. That’s what my life has dwindled down to.
Not that Darren will come back inside—I don’t think, but I’d rather not see either of them.
I need a moment to process what just happened and the fact that, of all people, Seymour Black came to my rescue.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful to Seymour for stepping in. I’m not. If anything, I owe him a thank you, but I’m annoyed that he saw the situation as me needing to be rescued. I’ve worked with Scott. I know a few moves that could take a man down. I could have handled it. Yes, but did you?
Okay, fine. No, I didn’t.
But only because he’s our top donor. And he’s never done that before. He’s never quite manhandled me like that. Now I’m in a position of showing gratitude toward someone I despise.
I’ll just wait here a bit longer. Eventually, they’ll both leave.
A knock on the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.
I say nothing. Julie would say something. It might be Darren. I hold my breath, hoping he’ll leave.
“Mandy?”
Seymour’s voice. Because this day couldn’t get any more complicated.