Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Mandy
Okay, maybe I don’t hate him anymore.
At least not as much.
Now it’s hate with a smidgeon of respect and, to be honest, curiosity. This Seymour is not the man I’ve grown to despise so much and with such passion.
This Seymour is different, yet the same.
This Seymour gave orders, without the sneer or the condescension. And I chose to play along.
And now, I’m naked, in the middle of a lake, staring up at the most beautiful landscape I’ve ever seen.
I already know I’m going to paint it. For the first time in ages, I want to feel the brush in my hand and watch the strokes of color appear across the canvas.
I want to see, bit by bit, the scene come alive as I see it in my head.
I’m inspired.
I want to cry, because I never thought I’d feel it again.
Now, I know it’s there, just packed under the stress of life. I take in another breath and let everything go. I think of nothing except the bright night sky, the way the clouds drift across the universe; the moon, like the all-knowing eye in the sky, seeing everything.
When I slipped off my sundress and underwear, I’ll be honest. I felt pure terror, like there were peepers in the trees. I felt vulnerable. Every ounce of me didn’t want to do it, wanted to demand he drive me home.
He had stripped first and was in the water, swimming away, not looking back, and I knew he wouldn’t. He said this was about trust.
Something about the way he took charge at the gallery, the way he talked to my friends and didn’t back down. The way he ordered me about. I liked it. I didn’t have to think about anything. I didn’t have to worry or stress. I felt cared for.
Is it a turn on?
Absolutely.
Especially when I saw his naked backside. Okay, I admit. I didn’t follow all the instructions. It happened too fast, and then it was just a flash. But enough of a flash for his backside to be seared into my mind.
Maybe that’s why the entire swim has been a sensual experience in a way. Feeling the complete trust. The water, cool and slick on all parts of my body. The air is charged. I feel charged.
I spread my arms out in the water and just float. I let it all go. I think about nothing but the sky above me, the air I’m breathing, and the water surrounding me.
We could have been there for hours when I hear his voice. “Time to swim back. You go first.”
I move through the water, fully aware of Seymour and his nakedness as I swim past him and take the lead. I’ve been a swimmer my entire life. I’ve even swum across the lake a few times. It surprises me when I feel the first cramp in my side.
A gasp escapes. I struggle for the first time.
Then he appears, within seconds. He’s right in front of me. “Hold on to me. We’re almost back.”
I hesitate for a second, but it’s instinct to cling to a life raft. I hold on to those strong, muscular shoulders.
He moves fast now; the water rippling around us. Probably so he doesn’t have to be so close to me. The pain in my side fades. I’m slightly humiliated at cramping in the middle of the lake. Like a newbie.
It’s like he reads my mind.
“It happens. Don’t worry.”
We’re almost to the dock when he stiffens under my touch. Like I’m hurting him. Then I remember, he can’t stand me. He did something nice for me, but it’s only me who feels like the air is charged with electricity. He’s made his intentions perfectly clear.
At the dock, once I’m holding onto it, he gives another order. “There’s a towel. Do you need help onto the dock?”
“No, I can make it.” I feel like this is a test. Like do I check and see if he’s looking? Or do I go ahead and shimmy onto the dock? And trust him.
I choose to trust him.
Soon, I’m in a towel that is also a robe. I put in on, and let him know. I give the same respect and close my eyes. Of course, I’m tempted to peek, but trust goes both ways.
His phone dings.
He’s in a towel robe. “I’ll be right back.” A minute later, he returns with what looks like takeout food. He sets it up on the dock.
Holy smokes. It’s from Beachside Java. It’s grilled cheese, sweet potato fries, and a thermos of hot chocolate. My heart twists, it jumps. I can’t remember the last time someone took care of me like this. Sure, my friends pop in. We go to dinner. But this is different.
We eat in silence. I savor every bit. The hot cocoa takes away the chill from being wet in the night air.
“Did it work?” he asks.
I know what he’s talking about right away. I forgot about tonight and Darren Meade having a heart attack during our big event as soon as the cold water hit my skin. I let go of it as I floated on my back and stared up at the inky darkness with diamonds of lights shining down on me.
“Yes,” I say quietly, my heart still thrumming, the charge between us obvious to me. Is it hate or attraction? Maybe both? “How often do you do this?”
“Whenever I need to.” He hesitates, like there’s a lot he wants to say. I doubt I’ll ever know his real thoughts.
We eat the grilled cheese and fries in quiet companionship. It’s the perfect balance of gooey cheesiness and crisp toast. Yum.
“Tell me about your art.”
Usually, I choke up. I don’t like to talk about my art. I’ve talked about my art in the past and been burned. “I paint landscapes.”
“They’re amazing. You’re talented.”
His words settle over me, like a blanket on a chilly night. The warmth fills me up and spreads. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“I have a feeling you don’t hear that enough,” he says.
“Tell me about your art?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what you do is a kind of art. It takes skill and experience when you handle a struggling company and help it thrive and succeed.”
He closes down, almost like I do when asked about my art. I see the shift in his body, the look on his face. I see the pain and the hurt. I might not recognize it if I hadn’t experienced the ultimate betrayal. If I didn’t see my pain written on his face, even if briefly.
“It is a skill set.”
That’s it. Except, I can’t be mad, because I didn’t really answer his question either. Aren’t we supposed to trust? Will trusting him help the gallery succeed? Will we work better together?
“Fine.” I sigh. “I paint landscapes, because it’s safe. I can earn an income with them, between that and the gallery. But I’ve struggled for a while with motivation.” Right, five years of struggle. “It’s a hard place to be as an artist. Confidence gone. The so-called muse, non-existent.”
“That’s tough. You’ll make it through. I know you will, because you care. Just give it time.”
I hope he’s right. We continue to talk. It’s comfortable. Easy. The conversation becomes more spread out until I rest my head on the back of the chair and let my eyes fall shut.
I must have dozed off, because I’m startled awake with Seymour right there. His face, his mouth inches from mine. There’s a moment and I might be imagining the whole thing where I want to give him the order. Kiss me. Throw me down on the dock and kiss me senseless.
“You’re okay. I’m going to pick you up and put you to bed.”
“What? But—”
He places a finger against my lips. Yup, the electric charge is still there just waiting for a spark. “No arguing, remember? You can sleep here tonight.”
The exhaustion is there, wanting to suck me back into sleep. He picks me up and cradles me to his chest. I use that time to stare at his face, now vulnerable. Again, curious. What’s his story? I feel like there’s a lot there no one knows about.
He tucks me into the bed and kisses my forehead. “Good night.”
I wake in the morning with a jolt. It takes a minute to realize where I am and to remember the evening before. All of it.
I’m in Seymour’s bed. At his private boathouse he tells no one about. We skinny dipped the night before, a complete act of trust. Then I remember how he stiffened in the water just because I was touching him. Does that mean the tenderness and the care were real or not?
I can’t tell.
Or am I just an investment?
There’s a note by the bed. “Board meeting at noon. Your car is in the driveway. Breakfast on the counter.”
It’s an egg and cheese sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. I eat it on the drive home where I shower and dress for the board meeting, which I can’t help but be nervous about. Maybe I need a naked swim in the lake every night to destress.
My worst fear is that, after last night, Diana won’t give us the chance for the next two events. I’m willing to beg. Point out that she promised us two more events before any final decision is made.
I walk into the room upstairs, the last one to arrive. Diana, Stephen, and Lilly are there. My gaze finds Seymour, but he doesn’t even look at me. Not even a nod of hello. Of course not, because then he might need to reveal he’s human. No one would guess anything about last night.
Probably exactly how he wants it.
Diana starts the meetings, starts with the bad press in the papers. “Some writers are calling it bad luck. Others question the pressure artists are under today.”
Lilly Smith, my favorite board member, because of her quirky artist’s way about her, speaks up. “I think we just lie low for a bit. The news these days comes in like a rainstorm and out just as fast. No one will remember by our next event.”
“It’s definitely not helping the gallery,” Stephen says. “Maybe we should postpone the next couple of events.”
Yeah, he would like that, wouldn’t he? Convenient. I remember last night and his comment about buying the gallery—and he was going to be my new hero! No, he wants to start a restaurant. I flash him the stink eye when no one’s looking, but I keep quiet. For now.
Actually, I’m freaking out inside, while trying to act professional.
Maybe I should be an actress. I try by the power of my brain waves to send messaging to all of them.
I don’t want to cause a scene, but I will.
I just manage the gallery. I’m supposed to follow orders. Not have too strong of an opinion.
Diana purses her lips at the response, like it’s something she’s considered but didn’t want to bring up.
“That’s ridiculous.” It just comes out of my mouth. “The next event is an entire month away. I’m doing what was asked by really going for it with these.” The next words come out strangled. “We should follow through.”
They continue to discuss the issues, and it’s not looking in my favor. I wouldn’t be surprised if Stephen brought up selling the gallery and cutting our losses. They go back and forth until finally, Seymour breaks into the conversation.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” he says, his tone authoritative, and it does something funny to my insides as I recall last night. Take off your clothes. Float on your back. Hold on to me.
“Yes,” Diana says, listening intently.
“The events stay as planned. I’ll work on them with Mandy until they’re at perfection. We’ll shoot higher, bring in bigger artists.”
“Yes, but part of our mission is introducing artists to the community. Not just the famous ones,” I say.
“How has that been working for the gallery?” he asks, and it’s like a knife he throws at my heart.
“Okay.”
“I’m not saying we give up that part of the gallery’s mission. But maybe we need to shoot for more well-known artists to balance it out.”
“I like it,” Diana states, and there won’t be any arguing about it.
“At the same time,” Seymour says, “I’ll be here every day. I’ll look through every aspect of the day-to-day business to see where it can be improved.”
Great. He wants to babysit me. I’m just not sure I can focus on work if he’s walking around, hovering. Why is a part of me thrilled I’ll see him more often? The traitorous part, for sure.
They put it to a vote and give Seymour complete power to say no or yes to my event planning. Lovely.
Diana motions Seymour and me over to her. She looks at both of us. “I don’t need to tell either of you what’s riding on these next two art shows.”
“Not at all.” If anything, I feel the pressure the most. It’s like the frog in the boiling water. The pressure is just going to keep building and building.
“Seymour, I’m counting on you to work a miracle.”
Gee, thanks. But then I have to admit to myself that the reason he is here is literally to save the gallery.
“How was last night?” Diana asks.
I almost choke on my spit. “What do you mean?”
“Seymour was under strict orders to distract you after what happened. I didn’t want you wallowing or worrying.”
Whoa there. Wait a wooly mammoth second.
Seymour was under orders to distract me?
The whole swim in the lake and the grilled cheese wasn’t his idea?
Truly, he was babysitting me. He followed orders; I cramped his style—literally, then I fell asleep on him, so he let me stay at his boathouse.
He asked me questions, like I was a toddler and he was the parent.
I feel blindsided in the worst way.
He asked me to trust him, and it was all an act. It was disdain I felt from him when I was touching him in the water. He couldn’t stand being near me. He couldn’t stand that part of his job was emotional support.
Which is completely unfair.
I have friends. I could have ordered grilled cheese for myself. Or made it. I could have taken an emotional support bath, with an emotional support glass of wine.
They’re waiting for an answer. I refuse to look at Seymour, because he’ll read me like an art expert reads a painting. I don’t want him to see my hurt. I’ve already let him see enough. What a fool!
I say, “It was fine. There was a full moon.”
“Oh, really?”
“Well, it was close. Just a glimpse before it disappeared.” I wave a hand. “No worries. He did his duty.” He asked personal questions he didn’t really care about. He bought my favorite food. Acted like he cares. You know.
“That’s good to know.” She shakes Seymour’s hand. “Thank you.”
She’s about to leave, and I don’t want to be alone with my babysitter any longer than I have to be. “I’m heading home.” Thankfully, today is my day off. I’m going to need the day to work off my rage. Oh, don’t worry, I know the rage is a cover for the hurt. I know that about myself.
Seymour catches me in the parking lot. “Mandy!”