Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Seymour
Of course, I noticed her right away.
As soon as she walked into the Lakeside Inn. It’s hard to miss her with that bright blue hair. That’s it. It’s just the hair.
It’s not the brilliant color of her dress or the way she walks—with a little sway, all innocent, not like she’s trying to seduce all the men in the room.
It’s not the perma-smile, even if small, that’s on her face, like she’s always thinking about something funny, and everyone wants a jolt of that dopamine.
And it’s definitely not the freckles.
Those same freckles that when up close and personal, say in a tiny bathroom, that bring out the color of her eyes. It’s like they lure you in, saying, Trust me.
Then I had to keep talking with Alexander, like I hadn’t been distracted.
Grace and Barrie join Mandy at her table, and seeing Grace sends a pang of regret through me.
My treatment of her during my time on the Klein Active Apparel board had been unnecessarily harsh.
Our rivalry dated back to high school, and I’d fallen into old patterns, being needlessly cruel with my words and actions.
But that’s who I’d trained myself to be. The shark who could smell blood in the water. I’d learned to unsettle people, to knock them off balance and undermine their confidence to get results. That’s the world I somehow found myself in.
I’m not sure I want that anymore.
Haven’t wanted it for a while. But I’m stuck. Word spreads. One more desperate business owner asks me to join their board, to help them turn things around. At least with Lakeside Gallery, there’s no bad blood. No clear villains that I can detect.
I redirect my full attention to Alexander, remembering my mission.
Tonight I need to employ all my persuasive skills to convince him to hold an event at the gallery.
The idea has taken root gradually, but now I’m certain, bringing in an artist of his caliber could revitalize the gallery in one fell swoop.
You might wonder about this artist, Alexander. I’ve mentioned him before. He’s from this area. His work is absolutely amazing. He takes famous historical figures from New England and creates a Picasso-like portrait. It’s different. It’s fascinating. And it would be successful.
I need to pull out all the weapons from my arsenal to convince this guy. Diana has mentioned that so far, he’s refused her requests.
There is a lull in Alexander’s rather graphic tale about his latest bedroom conquest, giving me the opening I need. “Tell me about your art.”
His jaw drops slightly. “Seriously, you want to talk about art and not our women? Surely, you have them lining up.”
It takes everything I have to hide my disgust at his words.
It’s like looking at a fun mirror at a carnival, where he uses his success and money to get women, and I can’t stand the fact that I haven’t had a real relationship, because of my success and money.
I want to ask him. How do you know what’s real?
How do you know the relationship is genuine?
Except, I already know the answer.
He doesn’t want real or genuine. He just wants them in bed.
Though he could probably get women, anyway, without wealth or success.
He’s handsome in his own right. A polished kind of handsome.
His aquiline nose and firm jaw line are something a woman would drool over—or so I’ve heard.
Same with the electric blue color of his eyes.
And the way he styles his reddish blonde hair just accentuates his good looks.
“Yes, I do want to talk about it. I have one of your paintings. I love it.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine.”
“I thought most artists love to talk about their artwork?” Given his ego, I’d expected him to jump at the chance to expound on his genius.
“Oh, I do. But I also love to talk about women.” He smirks, swirling the vodka in his glass. “What do you want to know about my line of historical portraits?”
Now is the time to implement my strategy. Stroke his ego, get him talking about himself, make him feel important enough that he’ll agree to an event here. Maybe dangle the promise of money or women. Whatever motivates him.
“I’d love to hear the origin story behind the concept, because it’s so unique.”
Alexander slams down his vodka shot, the glass hitting the bar with a sharp crack.
“I’ll put it to you this way.” His blue eyes lock onto mine, suddenly intense.
“You’ve got money. We’re in the same league, you and I.
When you go in for the kill, or suddenly know exactly what to say to get what you want, or when you’re lying awake in the middle night or taking a shower and inspiration strikes—where do those ideas come from? Can you tell me that?”
I consider his question, noting how he deflects rather than answers. “I would say it’s a combination of previous trial and error. Experiences in the business world.”
“Exactly. It’s not something one can describe. For those of us with raw talent, it comes naturally. It was only a matter of time.”
“Don’t most artists have a muse?” I press.
He laughs, the sound hollow and practiced. “The world is my muse.”
Movement catches my eye as Mandy and her friends stand to leave.
I try to maintain focus on Alexander, but I can’t help tracking her progress across the restaurant.
When she notices us, she visibly starts, the color draining from her face.
The look of revulsion that crosses her features is unmistakable.
Either she truly despises me, or she is realizing she should be working instead of socializing. Though given our history, I’m betting on the former.
After their table is cleared, the hostess moves us to the table they vacated.
It’s a fabulous view of the lake, and I don’t miss Mandy and her friends make their way to beach.
This conversation is going to be impossible when, for some reason, I can’t stop looking at the person who hates me, and I despise her back. I think.
I place my dinner order mechanically, knowing I need to focus on the task at hand. Even if Mandy despises me, I’ve seen how much the gallery means to her. Something unfamiliar stirs in my chest. A genuine desire to help, not just fix another business problem.
“What are you working on now?” I ask Alexander.
He taps his fingers against the table, a nervous tic I hadn’t noticed before. “Too early to share. Talk about it too soon with others and the magic disappears. It’s a real thing.”
“Do you enjoy doing art gallery events?” I already know the answer.
Of course he does. The attention, the free drinks, the women.
Everything I avoid, he embraces as a perk of his talent.
With each passing minute, my opinion of him sinks lower, but I keep my expression neutral.
His participation could save the gallery.
“Yes.” He leans back, satisfaction evident in his posture. “It’s a chance to be inspired. To remember that people love me. It’s like a jolt of caffeine before I head back to paint.”
I hope you’re not thinking I came into this meeting unprepared. I prepare for everything. I did my research, and I know that Alexander Silvano, the name and his work, has been fading a bit. He’s not talked about as much. The paintings go for less than they used to. It couldn’t be better timing.
“You know, the gallery here in town is struggling.” I present the information casually, watching for his reaction.
He dismisses my comment with a wave of his hand. “They’re struggling everywhere.”
Our dinners arrive, and I let the conversation lull. He fills the silence with more stories about himself, which gives me the opportunity to glance occasionally toward the beach. As we finish eating, I know it’s time to make my pitch. I’ve fed him, flattered him, and now need to close the deal.
“Just think,” I pause deliberately to heighten his interest, “how it would look for you if you held a show at the gallery here?” I notice his shoulders stiffen, his mouth tighten, but I press on before he can refuse.
“If we treated you like a superstar coming to town. If you sell your paintings, auction-style, and the profit goes toward the gallery—”
“What?” The word explodes from him. “You mean donate the income from paintings to the gallery?”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Now, here’s where my expertise comes into play.
Alexander, I know your income isn’t what it used to be.
You might need to sell your third summer home.
Or all of them. But if you do this and we bring in the magazines and the paper and work social media and those posts go viral, your name would be associated with generosity.
It would create goodwill. Grassroots. I guarantee you’d sell more paintings in the coming year. ”
“No one can promise that,” he scoffs, but I detect uncertainty in his tone.
“Maybe not. But I’ve seen this concept put to the test. It works.
What would you have to lose?” I settle back in my chair, affecting indifference.
“Those paintings might not have sold anyway. Instead, I can bring in a hungry artist and they’ll be the one with their name splashed all over the internet. ”
I’ve done what I could. Any more pressure would seem desperate. My attention drifts to the beach again, where Mandy sits alone now. I wish I could text her about tomorrow night’s event, but my own rule about phone numbers prevents that.
“No,” Alexander says firmly. His gaze follows mine to the beach.
Recognition flickers across his face. “Ah, I see your upcoming conquest.” He peers more intently at the solitary figure by the water.
“Good luck with the locals. I came in to eat dinner with you, but I’m ready to shake the dust off my feet from this town. ”
I slide my business card across the table with practiced casualness. “Thanks for meeting with me. I’ve already had a couple of other artists interested in this opportunity.” The lie rolls smoothly off my tongue.
“Who?” His eyes narrow, the prospect of missing out clearly bothering him.
I shrug. “Sorry. Don’t want to say anything too early. It might ruin the magic.”
Perfect. Leave him wondering. Leave him thinking he’s going to miss out. Hopefully, in a couple of days, he’ll agree to talk further.
It’s a mistake, following her to the beach.
I know it as I cross the street, my shoes sinking slightly in the sand.
First, it breaks rules. I don’t know which one, but I’m sure I could find one if I think about it. Mainly, because it’s me engaging in conversation. And, most importantly, we’ll be alone. Her friends have abandoned her, and she’s sitting by the shore, letting the water lap at her toes.
“Your friends deserted you?” I stand slightly behind her, giving her space.
“Guess so.” She doesn’t turn around, her voice flat.
No sarcastic comeback. No pointed reminder that we’re alone. Something is wrong. “Anything I can do tomorrow to be helpful?”
Still no response.
I miss the spitfire. I miss—no, I crave—the woman who challenged me, who hates me. “Are you okay?”
She laughs, the sound harsh and bitter. Then with a heavy sigh, she stands and turns to face me.
And no, she’s not okay. I’ve never seen her look worse. The sight of her makes me step back. Her face is drained of color, her earlier vibrancy replaced by a deep sadness. Something has happened between dinner and now, something that has stripped away her usual defenses.
“What happened?”
Color floods back into her face as rage ignites in her eyes.
She advances on me, jabbing her finger into my chest. “You are what happened.” Another jab.
“Men like you.” Jab. “You and your stupid rules, thinking you can control women with them.” Three more jabs in rapid succession. “I hate you. I literally despise you.”
Okay, then.
I stand there, absorbing her anger. Something is clearly wrong, but she won’t tell me what. An unfamiliar sensation surges through me. The need to do something, to fix whatever has caused this, though I don’t understand why I care.
She turns and walks away.
“What time will you be there tomorrow?” I call after her.
She doesn’t look back, but says loudly, “Seven.”
She’s lying. The event starts at seven thirty. No way, she’ll show up thirty minutes before it starts. She doesn’t want me there. Well, I’ll be sure to be there at four.
I drive straight home to the family house, tucked away on the mountainside. It’s perfect. It’s private. And nice to have when I have business in the area. Still, the image of Mandy’s distress lingers as I walk through the quiet house.
The sensation nags at me. This desire to know what has upset her, to make it right somehow.
Do I care that she hates me?
No. She isn’t the first, won’t be the last.
I’m here to do a job. Not earn my way to the top of some imaginary like-ability list. I receive recommendations because of the outcomes I produce, not my winning smile and charm.
I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter and head for my private study.
I’ve been avoiding the room since my uncle’s death, when he’d inexplicably left me his art collection.
A series of wooden crates sit sealed, waiting for inspection.
I should at least look through them before discarding the lot. Maybe something valuable lurks inside.
I work through the crates methodically.
Nothing impressive emerges. No hidden Picasso or Manet. Not even a Monet. Just a random assortment of unknown artists’ work, pieces that must have caught my uncle’s eye. I sink into my leather desk chair, disappointed. I’d hoped to find something I could use if Alexander turned me down.
One crate remains.
The wood creaks as I pry it open.
I recognize the style immediately. The enlarged left eye, too big for the face. The shrunken right eye. Malformed lips and off-center nose. Unmistakably Alexander’s work, though not one I’d seen before. The colors are rich and vibrant, the execution brilliant. One of his better pieces.
This could work. I could offer to sell my own piece, showing my commitment to the cause. The suggestion might sway him.
It just might work.