Chapter 20 #2
She smiles, but it’s not quite the Mandy smile that I’m used to seeing.
The one that reaches her eyes. Her gaze takes in my grand lake home, which even I can admit is ridiculous for one person.
Probably why I spend time down at the boathouse.
They are on the same property, connected by a winding path through the woods down to the lake.
My heart thumps as I lead her to the deck, anxious to see her response. I wish I’d brought in a photographer, but figured that might be too much. She follows me, her heels clicking softly on the wooden boards.
“It’s gorgeous,” she half-gasps, half-speaks, her eyes wide as she takes in the transformation.
“Wine? Champagne? A cocktail?” I ask, moving to the bar cart. “This night is all about you.”
“Champagne, please.” An expression flickers across her face, then disappears so quickly I almost miss it. I can’t read it. Was it disappointment? Maybe because she thinks this is all tonight is about.
“This is just the beginning, Sweetness.”
“Um...wonderful.” Her voice lacks its usual warmth.
We sit, and thankfully, the day wasn’t too hot, so now there’s a nice breeze rustling the rose petals on the table. The plan is to come back here for dessert. While we’re at the restaurant, someone will come and freshen up the deck and slices of triple-layered cake will be waiting for us.
After a few sips of champagne, she offers up a shy smile, her fingers fidgeting with the stem of her glass. “I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to act or what I’m supposed to say,” she admits. “This is all…”
“All for you. I wanted to spoil you.” And test her.
For the first time, I’m thinking that I didn’t need to give Mandy some stupid wealth test. I know her well enough—maybe Harris doesn’t—but Mandy is nothing like Anna.
And you haven’t shared all of your past either, a tiny voice whispers in the back of my mind.
Was tonight a mistake?
Nope, I tell myself. This is all for Mandy. I choose to focus on the pampering part. Not the Pretty Woman Test, as Harris calls it.
We chat through appetizers, the conversation stilted and formal. We nibble on the shrimp, but I find it a struggle to get through the hour. The usual spark between us feels dimmed, almost extinguished, and I feel like I’ve landed in the middle of a bad movie.
“How long have you had this home? Is it a childhood home?” she asks politely, her posture straight and rigid in the chair.
“About a year or so.” I bought it when I came to help Grace. No need to live out of a hotel, and the area is beautiful. Nice place for a vacation home.
“Oh, that’s nice.” Again, very polite. “Do you live here most of the time?” Her face squinches up, and it’s the first glance of the Mandy I know I’ve seen all evening. Like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“On and off. It’s a gorgeous area.” I shift in my seat, watching her carefully.
“I can’t argue with that.” She sips more champagne, tilting the glass back until it’s almost empty.
“More champagne?” I stand and grab the bottle from the ice bucket, the condensation cold against my palm.
“Sure. I mean yes, please.” Her words come out slightly rushed.
I sit back down, drowning in the awkwardness. We’ve always been able to talk. Ever since day one. It might have been disagreeing sometimes, but we never struggled for words. Not like this.
“Tell me about you and Scott,” I say, trying to find safer ground.
“Well, he’s my brother...he can be overprotective.” She drains the glass of champagne, setting it down with slightly more force than necessary.
“How about your parents?”
She forces a laugh. “They became snowbirds after I graduated. My mom couldn’t stand the cold winters.”
“How about you?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, her shoulders tensing slightly.
“How do you feel about the winters?”
“There’s a certain kind of beauty to the ice and snow. For an artist, it means I have more time to paint, because there aren’t as many barbecues and social events.”
“In that old shed?” The question comes out before I can stop it. I know right away it was the wrong thing to say from the way her expression closes off.
“What’s wrong with my studio?” She places extra effort on the word studio, her chin lifting slightly.
“Nothing. Just thought it might be cold.”
“I have space heaters...”
Oh, great. Can it get any worse? We need to wrap this part up and get to the restaurant. At least then I can talk about the surrounding people, the town.
If I am to be honest with myself, what I want to do is show her the paintings I inherited from my uncle.
Show her the older Silvano I found of Blackbeard.
See if she thinks it’s an entirely notch up from his other work.
Maybe he kept painting in his Picasso-style but grew bored.
Lost inspiration. Because it’s almost as if two different artists painted them.
Maybe she would tell me about her copies of Silvano in the shed.
I want to show her the note someone left me. The one that says I have something that doesn’t belong to me. Still have no clue what that means. I’ve disregarded it until I receive another one.
I want to break through the barrier she has up right now. Ask her about her art, because art is the one subject that will bring a real smile to her face. But talking about art will lead to the gallery, and the murder... So I say nothing.
“Ready for dinner?” I stand, offering my hand.
“There’s more?” she asks, her voice small.
“Absolutely. It’s all for you.”
We ride in the limo, and yes, it’s a quiet ride.
Too quiet.
I relish in the soft touch of her hand in mine, the only warmth in this increasingly cold evening, but still, for the first time, I can’t wait for the night to be over.
In my mind, I’m cancelling the dessert option and the rest of the night I had planned.
The new bathing suits I had for her to choose from, the wine in the hot tub.
To start with, coming back to my house and sitting on the deck would be pure torture. I’ll make a trip to the restroom and make the calls. We’ll order dessert at the inn.
I can’t wait for this night to be over.