Chapter 11 #2
My hands begin to tremble, and I curl them into fists under the table. I know I need to end this conversation before I completely fall apart. Standing on unsteady legs, I force myself to meet his gaze. “Absolutely not.”
He studies me with those piercing green eyes, head tilted slightly as if trying to solve a puzzle.
The scrutiny makes me uncomfortable, and I quickly look away.
“I mean, he won’t do it. He doesn’t do local shows.
Everyone knows that.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it’s better than the truth.
Desperate to change the subject, I gather what’s left of my professional demeanor.
“What about a family fun event? Art lessons and activities. A raffle. Maybe an auction.”
“No way.” Seymour shoots me down. “Family events draw desperate parents looking to entertain their kids. They don’t bring spenders. It will fail.”
Harris pounds the table like it’s a gavel. “Okay, people. I have places to go, things to do. You two will not agree on anything. I have a proposal.”
We’re both silent. “What is it?” Seymour asks, but without waiting for an answer, he adds, “Before we hear it, we should agree we’ll do it. How about it, Mandy?”
My traitorous body responds to my name on his lips. Everything seems personal after last night. They’re both throwing me a challenge. When have I ever backed down from a challenge?
Okay, lots of times, but in this situation, with these two entitled billionaires, I need to step up my game.
“Here’s what I propose. Clearly, you two are oil and water and can’t stand each other. Either that or you two need a night in a hotel room.”
I gasp. Seymour lets out a noise of disgust. Now, the heat in my face is like the sun, burning, red-hot.
“Okay, so not that. Well, here it is. Mandy chooses the artist, and Seymour has to plan the event. Then, for the second one, Seymour chooses the artist, and Mandy plans the event. No ifs, ands, or buts.”
It could work, I suppose. “Do we have any veto power?”
Harris taps his pen on the table. “Not in the choice of artist. But, definitely in the planning of the event. In fact, we’ll change it.
You have to work together on the events, but if Seymour chooses the artist, then Mandy has the final say, if and only if you both honestly consider each other’s suggestions. ”
“I agree.” Seymour says it like we’re done here.
I keep hearing the noise of disgust he made at Harris’s suggestion about the hotel room. That’s how much he can’t stand being around me. How will this work?
Do I have a choice? We need these events to be successful, and this will give some control. And keep the peace between us. “Does this have to be written in blood?”
Harris laughs. “I’ll come up with contracts. You two can sign it. It’s not legally binding, of course, but it will lay out the rules.”
Again, with the rules. Harris knows his friend well.
“Of course, we have to have rules.” I huff. “Fine, I’ll go along with it.” I also want to show that I’m not completely unwilling to take his advice. “I’ll go first, because this can’t wait for signed contracts. I choose the artist, Eugene.”
Seymour nods. “Challenge accepted.”
Seymour has become my constant companion at the gallery, following me like a persistent shadow I can’t shake. Every. Single. Day. My skin prickles with awareness whenever he enters a room, and I hate how my body betrays me with this heightened consciousness of his presence.
Harris trails along with him. Every. Single. Day.
The guy is married and I can’t imagine his wife is okay with him being gone all the time to babysit us.
The two of them move through the gallery like synchronized swimmers, appearing whenever I turn around.
It’s only on the days when Julie mans the front desk that they break this pattern.
Obviously, Seymour doesn’t want to be alone with me.
The realization stings more than it should.
Fine. I tell myself I don’t want to be alone with him either, though my racing pulse whenever he draws near suggests otherwise.
We might have had one moment—okay, a few—tender moments that night at the lake, but it’s as if the midnight swim and our whispered conversation under the stars never happened.
Poof. It’s gone. Like magic. The memory feels distant now, like a dream that fades with morning light, leaving only a hollow ache behind.
It’s like there are two different Seymour Blacks walking the gallery halls.
The one who held my hand in moonlight and commanded me to trust him, and this coolly professional version who barely meets my eyes.
That experience feels like an alternate reality now, a parallel universe where we weren’t enemies, where the air between us held possibility instead of tension.
That was two weeks ago.
When the end of this week arrives, I’m excited.
Not only do I skip out after lunch, but it’s my art lesson with the kids at the community center.
It’s the highlight of my week. Most of the kids want to be there, and kids usually haven’t closed themselves off to their creative side yet.
They’re open to exploration. They’re willing to paint outside the line and think outside the box. I love it.
Another bonus?
I’ll be away from the stifling presence of him.
At the center, I greet each child with genuine warmth, my heart lifting at their eager faces.
I hold my hand up for high-fives, cherishing how even the shyest kids eventually reach up to meet my palm.
Their enthusiasm radiates like sunshine, and I’ve learned to read the subtle signs in their expressions.
The slight droop of the shoulders, the hesitant smiles, the way some hold back while others bounce forward.
Years of teaching have taught me which children need that extra dose of encouragement, that additional moment of attention.
Jerry, especially, tugs at my heart. Every brushstroke he makes, every color he chooses, his eyes dart to the back of the room, seeking validation from his father.
But his dad remains fixed to his phone screen, oblivious to his son’s silent pleas.
I watch Jerry’s small shoulders slump a little more each time, his hopeful glances becoming less frequent but no less yearning.
Week after week, the same painful dance plays out.
Jerry creating beautiful art, desperately wanting to hear those simple words: Good job. I’m proud of you.
I shower Jerry with praise, pointing out the creative ways he uses color, the unique perspectives in his drawings.
I make sure my voice carries clearly across the room, hoping his father might look up, might notice.
But while Jerry gives me grateful smiles, I can see in his eyes that mine aren’t the words he’s longing to hear. They never will be.
I clutch the reproduction of Starry Night in my hands, feeling the familiar texture of the canvas as I hold it up for my students.
My heart swells as their eager faces look up at me, reminding me why I love teaching art.
“What do you notice about the colors?” I ask, tracing the swirling brushstrokes with my finger.
“How does this painting make you feel when you look at it?”
Several hands shoot up, and I smile encouragingly. “Why do you think Van Gogh chose these particular shades of blue and yellow? What mood was he trying to create?”
The creak of the door interrupts my flow. My stomach does an unwelcome flip as Seymour Black strides into the classroom like he owns it, settling into an empty chair at the back. His presence fills the room, making it feel suddenly smaller. My palms grow damp against the canvas.
Holy grilled cheese. How did he find out about this class? I force myself to take a steadying breath, trying to ignore how his intense green eyes follow my every movement. This is my space, my sanctuary with my students. He has no right to invade it.