Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Mandy
How dare he?
Honestly, who is he to use my words against me?
I’m raging as I finish up at the center, my hands shaking slightly as I stack the children’s paintings to dry.
Small footprints of paint track across the floor, evidence of their enthusiasm, as I replay Seymour driving away, spitting small stones from underneath his wheels.
Except this is a different kind of rage, because I’m conflicted. My stomach keeps doing this strange flip-flop thing, and I can’t seem to stop the smile that keeps threatening to break free. Because after he said it, after he drove away, I wanted to burst out laughing.
That doesn’t make any sense. Right?
Except it does.
Because he made Jerry smile. The way he interrupted my class, inserting himself as role of instructor, so he could talk to a boy being ignored by his father.
I should have been annoyed, but watching him crouch down next to that quiet boy, speaking in low, gentle tones.
.. My chest tightened watching Jerry’s whole demeanor change, his shoulders straightening, his voice growing stronger with each response.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to hug the man in a giant bear hug. Ha! Like the prickly pear would have enjoyed that. He’d probably go rigid as a board and give me that stern look he’s perfected.
The words themselves weren’t what mattered. It was how he saw what Jerry needed. In that moment, did he grasp my vision for working with kids? Does he finally understand that aspect of the gallery isn’t about profit?
Even if the gallery closes, I’ll do anything to keep up those art lessons with the kids. If I can encourage even one child, it’s worth it.
I drive home, my emotions ricocheting between frustration and gratitude. The steering wheel is cool under my grip as I try to process everything. I don’t care that my emotions are a swirling mass of contradiction, because I’m feeling it.
My fingers start to tingle, that familiar itch I haven’t felt in so long. The urge to hold a brush, to smell the sharp scent of paint, to watch colors blend and flow across canvas. It’s been so long.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been painting landscapes.
It’s income. But this feeling building inside me, this urgent need to lock myself away in my studio—yes, it’s just a shed, but I don’t care—and paint for hours, this is different.
This is the kind of painting where time slips away and suddenly it’s been six hours and it’s the middle of the night.
I don’t even know what happened.
Maybe it’s been building since that midnight swim with Seymour.
That night, under the stars, was pure sensation.
The brisk water shocking my skin, the cooling night air raising goosebumps, the complete release of letting everything go.
When you’re in the middle of a lake, staring up at the vast expanse of the sky, nothing else exists.
Feeling Seymour’s muscular frame under your fingers...
Nope. Not going there right now. Tomorrow. I’ll think about that contradiction tomorrow.
As soon as I get home, I dig my overalls from the bottom of my drawer. My chest heaves, and I’m overcome with a brief sob. The fabric is soft and paint-stained under my fingers. I haven’t worn them in a while, but they signal to that part of my brain that I’m about to unleash some creativity.
Something I haven’t felt for five years. Sure, I’ve faked it. I’ve pretended that I’m inspired. But I know what it feels like, the rush of adrenaline, the desire for the world to fade away into nothing. Just me and the canvas in front of me.
For years now, the blank canvas has been frustrating and intimidating. Now? I can barely contain myself as I hurry to the shed, fumbling with the key in my excitement. The familiar smell of turpentine and dried paint greets me as I push open the door.
I stay there until the wee hours of the morning, losing myself in the rhythm of brush strokes and color.
Can we think about him now?
Yup, that’s the first thought when I wake in the morning, my body aching from hunching over canvases all night. I can’t put off those thoughts any longer. The fact that Seymour isn’t the evil villain everyone takes him to be.
I sit up in bed, running my fingers through my tangled hair as I let myself really examine what I’ve seen.
If someone is as ego-driven and narcissistic as people think him to be, he wouldn’t be showing these tender spots.
Even if he considers them a weakness. Even if tries his hardest to hide them from the world.
Someone like that wouldn’t take the time to encourage a young boy. They wouldn’t notice the father standing in the back on his phone, wouldn’t catch the disappointment in Jerry’s eyes each time he looked back. They wouldn’t feel that surge of protective anger that pushes you to take action.
But he felt all of that.
Or he wouldn’t have interrupted my class.
My hands curl into the bedsheets as I remember how he stood there, tall and imposing, yet speaking so gently to Jerry. Because he has rules. And I’m sure doing something spontaneous for someone else, showing that you care, breaks all his rules.
Even if Diana had ordered him to take me away that night and distract me, she couldn’t have planned out the night at his boathouse.
I pause, letting that sink in. I’m not sure most people know about that beautiful spot on the lake.
He could have driven me to a diner and bought me some stale coffee and a day-old Danish.
He certainly didn’t have to go to the extent he did. Almost like whatever rose inside of him to encourage me that night is the same something that pushed him to talk to Jerry.
The realization hits me, and I press my palm against my racing heart.
Seymour Black has a heart. A somewhat beautiful and tender heart that he hides away from the world.
I close my eyes and let the intimacy of that night wash over me.
My insides do some flip-flopping, and I can almost feel the cool water against my skin again, hear his quiet voice giving instructions.
He made himself vulnerable.
He revealed a part of himself, when he shared his stress-relieving rituals with me, and then he had Jamie deliver grilled cheese. Just. For. Me. He noticed what I like. And I didn’t give him a chance to explain. Oh, geez, I have some humble pie to eat.
I drag myself out of bed, muscles protesting from the long night of painting.
Despite my exhaustion, my mind is racing with these new revelations about Seymour, about the way I’ve misjudged him.
Something has settled inside me, balanced out the rage that is always readily available below the surface and has been for five years.
It doesn’t take much.
I arrive at the gallery thirty minutes later, my clothes wrinkled from throwing them on in a rush, but I’m too preoccupied with thoughts of last night to care. The desire to paint again, the memory of colors flowing beneath my brush, almost makes me weep on the spot.
The wooden stairs creak under my feet as I head upstairs to the staff room, but I stop when I hear voices. Diana’s precise tone carries through the door, followed by Stephen’s lower rumble. I think back on his conversation and his desire to buy the gallery and turn it into a restaurant.
I’m about to walk in with a cheery hello—and try my hardest not to give Stephen the stink eye—when Diana’s words stop me cold.
“Do we tell her?”
My heart seizes, the pleasant warmth from my morning realizations instantly replaced by ice. Tell her what? I assume they mean me. The worst thoughts, the worst-case scenario, floods my mind. They’re not waiting for the next two events. She sold the gallery to Stephen. Today’s my last day at work.
Maybe it’s because I’m over-tired and high on having found my muse again, but I push open the door, my hand trembling slightly on the handle. “Tell me what?”
Oops. It’s not just Diana and Stephen.
Seymour is there, looking impossibly put-together in a crisp white shirt that emphasizes his broad shoulders.
His trusty shadow, Harris, sits in the corner, pretending to be absorbed in his phone.
I soak in Seymour’s presence, the way he fills the room without even trying.
Except now, I see past that confident facade.
I see him. I see the charade he works so hard to pull off, whether it’s an arrogant smirk or a condescending smile or sarcastic comment.
It’s the way he holds himself, like he’s constantly on guard.
I know better now.
I know he uses all that to protect himself. To keep safe. I don’t know what happened, but something in his past has made him build these walls.
Diana speaks and I’m jarred from my thoughts, my stomach clenching as I prepare for the worst.
“Eugene contacted us.”
“Eugene, as in our next featured artist?” My voice comes out higher than intended, panic rising in my chest. He cancelled. He wants out. I know better than anyone what is riding on these next two events. I’m not even sure any of the board members care as much as I do.
I look right at Diana, noting how her professional smile reveals nothing, how her hands are clasped too tightly on the desk. “What happened?”
“It seems he had a break-in to his home and art studio.”
“Oh.” The words hit me hard. For me, my private studio, even if it is in a reconverted tool shed, is a sanctuary. The thought of someone violating that space makes me feel slightly ill. “Did they steal or destroy any of his art?”
“None of his own pieces. Thankfully, no,” Stephen says, leaning forward in his chair. “It was as if they were looking for something, but he doesn’t think anything is missing.”
“There was a large, spray-painted red X through one of his most treasured paintings,” Seymour says. “A possible lost Renoir. Eugene said he never knew if it was a copy or not. He just loved the art.”