Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Mandy
Seymour’s event will be hard to beat.
I watch the caterers weave through the crowd with their silver trays, their black uniforms crisp and professional.
The soft clink of champagne glasses mingles with the pleased murmurs of the guests.
I swear he paid for the caterers himself, which gives him an unfair advantage, because I don’t have that kind of cash lying around to invest in probably what was the most expensive catering business in the area.
I observe another tray of perfectly arranged appetizers float past. I’m torn. Happy for the gallery, especially when Eugene’s painting goes for way more than it’s worth. But who knows? The art world can be unpredictable that way.
But really, I can let the competition go, because I care more about the gallery than I care about our silly competition. I panic every time I think about the gallery doors closing permanently. But Seymour needs to tell me the artist he picked.
“Mandy, dear.” Diana’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She’s gorgeous in a silver sequin dress that catches every bit of light in the room. “Isn’t this wonderful?”
I nod, forcing another smile. I’ve been smiling so much tonight my cheeks have started to ache.
I’ve pulled out every charming, gracious thing I could think to say while playing the role of ambassador.
And I’ll keep doing it. I’ll stand here all night with burning cheeks if that’s what it takes for the gallery to succeed and stay open.
“If this next event is just as successful,”—Diana sips her champagne, her lipstick leaving a perfect coral mark on the crystal—“then we might have to strategize for the coming year.”
The words take a moment to process. “Really?” My voice comes out in an embarrassing squeak.
She reaches out and squeezes my arm, her silver bangles jingling.
“Yes, Mandy.” A warm smile spreads across her face, softening the usual business-like set of her features.
She’s relaxed. She almost looks at peace, like she’s had a victory.
“If the next event can be just as successful, then we’ll have a board meeting. ”
I feel it right away, the pressure settling heavy in my chest. My hands grow restless, and I resist the urge to wring them together.
Maybe I should just let Seymour run the next event, but that’s the money talking.
That’s the insecure part of me rearing up its ugly head.
We need a successful event without a wealthy board member propping it up.
Geez. I have a lot of planning to do. I’ll definitely need to chat about my ideas with Barrie.
My dreams of a family fun event linger in the corners of my mind; yet, I know most parents aren’t rolling in the dough.
I picture kids with paint-covered hands, their proud parents beaming as they create their first masterpiece.
Somehow, there could be a compromise between making money for the gallery and promoting artists so others want to have a show here, and giving back to and engaging in the community. It doesn’t have to be one or the other.
Diana is talking, her words flowing past me in a steady stream, but I’ve only been half paying attention. I force myself to focus on her animated face.
“You must be curious as to the artist next month for the next event.” Of course, I am.
She continues, her eyes sparkling with excitement, “It was all Seymour’s doing.
He not only worked his magic tonight, but somehow, he pulled strings I didn’t know existed.
As you know, we’ve tried for several years to convince this artist to have an event here in Lakewood.
But it’s always been no.” She waves a hand through the air.
“Something about the weirdness of being famous in your hometown.”
A prickle starts at the top of my scalp, spreading down my neck like ice water.
Diana gushes, her words tumbling out faster and faster. “This will be our best shot at having the second event be a smashing hit. I mean, honestly, there’s so much that can be done with an artist who has a history here.”
She keeps talking about how if this event is a success, this well-known artist might be willing to do it again in another year.
Her praise for Seymour flows endlessly, but I’m barely hearing her.
My mind races. No way. It couldn’t be Todd.
Excuse me, I mean Alexander Silvano. Right?
There have to be other artists who we’ve asked to hold a show here, and they refused.
My thoughts spiral downward. The chatter of the crowd becomes distant, muffled, like I’m underwater.
Even as I notice the murmurs growing louder, the crowds moving toward the exit like there’s something to see outside, I can’t shake the image of Todd’s face, the one of betrayal, when I broke up with him.
He was clueless. But it sure didn’t stop him from moving forward with his career, did it?
My jaw tightens until I can feel my teeth grinding together. Every muscle in my body tenses, ready to run or fight. I’m not sure which.
“Diana,” I gasp. The words scrape against my dry throat. My voice jars her from her endless spiel on Seymour. “Who’s the artist?” The question comes out strangled, barely audible over the growing commotion.
“You’ll have to speak louder, Mandy.” Diana’s attention drifts from me to the group clustering outside in the parking lot. Her neck cranes to see over the heads of departing guests. I’m about to lose her.
I force out the words again, my hands clenched at my sides. “Who is the artist?”
“Oh,”—she laughs, the sound light and carefree—“I thought you knew.” She clutches my arm in excitement, her bracelets jingling. “It’s none other than Alexander Silvano.” Then she moves toward the door to see what’s happening outside, leaving me frozen in place.
I’m left standing there, my legs refusing to move. The room spins slightly, and I reach out to steady myself against a nearby wall. I have to plan and promote an event for the artist who stole my unique concept?
There’s no way.
It will be impossible.
The more he succeeds, the better for the gallery. If I don’t put in my full effort, it could mean the gallery closing. The thought sits like lead in my stomach.
The walls of the gallery seem to close in around me. My chest tightens with each shallow breath. I just need to be alone in my shed to process this. To figure out how I can get out of this. But I can’t. I know I can’t.
The piercing wail of sirens cuts through my thoughts.
I startle, my heart jumping into my throat. The gallery has just about emptied, voices and footsteps echoing off the walls as the last guests hurry outside. The crowds are still gathered in the parking lot, their faces illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights. Did something happen?
I push my way through the cluster of people, their perfumes and aftershaves mixing uncomfortably in the night air.
Words float around me in snatches and phrases as I force my way to the front.
Phrases like, “Not again.” And, “Another one?” And, “I came out here and found him lying in the parking lot. He’s dead. ”
What? He’s dead?
Then I see him. Eugene. His body sprawled across the cracked pavement, one arm outstretched toward his car, his funky tuxedo a stark contrast against the dark asphalt.
Unmoving.
I close the door to the shed and lean against it, letting the familiar stillness wrap around me. It’s calming here in the darkness. Safe. Away from how complicated my life has become in such a short time. It feels like forever since last night at the boathouse.
He kissed me!
The memory sends warmth spreading through my chest, but it’s quickly chased by a chill. Eugene died. A second artist has died at our gallery. The coincidence strikes me as strange. Maybe it’s my time working with Scott, who always sees connections where I wouldn’t, but something feels off.
I push those thoughts aside. It’s tragic. It’s terrible. But the board will have a meeting and we’ll come up with a plan. Right now, I need this sanctuary.
With trembling fingers, I flip the switch.
Light floods the space, and my night sky paintings stare back at me from every direction.
Pride and fear war in my chest as I take in my recent work.
Todd’s face flashes in my mind again. His lack of surrender, his complete denial of what he’d done.
I’ve protected my art ever since, keeping it locked away until it almost suffocated.
The desire to protect my work surges through me.
I lunge for the tarps piled in the corner, my movements frantic.
In a mad whirl, I throw them over my work, my heart pounding.
I glance at the windows, suddenly aware of how exposed they are.
Anyone could see in and steal my ideas. I grab more tarps, throwing them about like a magician does his cape, but with none of the grace and all of the desperation.
It only takes a few minutes before I’m left standing in the middle of the shed, chest heaving from the mad dash. My paintings are hidden, safe. I know I’m being silly. I press my palms against my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.
So much of my past swirls around me, haunting me. The part of me that was crushed after Todd’s betrayal refuses to stay buried.
Suddenly, I want to see them.
I had five paintings done. One sold. I haven’t looked at them for five years, because seeing my designs, the richness of the colors, the famous New England figures that pop out at me—it’s like reliving that moment of betrayal all over again.
Not something I could handle walking into my studio every day, seeing that reminder of what was stolen from me.