Chapter 21 #2
“Yes, Todd. We were a team. But we both had our own art, our own style.” The words feel hollow, rehearsed, like I’ve said them in my head a thousand times.
He smiles again. Always smiling, but this one seems forced. A flush brightens his cheeks as he pats my arm in a patronizing manner, like I’m fifteen years old, or younger. His touch makes my skin crawl.
“Did you sell any others?” he asks.
He tries to act like he’s just curious, but there’s a sharpness to his words. His eyes have lost their warmth. He wants to know. Almost as if he’s scared of them coming out.
“No, not yet.” I take another sip of wine, hoping my hand isn’t shaking.
“Mandy,” he says with saccharine sweetness that makes my teeth ache. “I suggest you don’t if you know what’s good for you.”
A chill runs down my spine just as Seymour breaks into the conversation, his arm draped over my shoulder in a possessive way. The warmth of his touch helps steady me. About time.
“Alexander, hello. Fancy meeting you here.” Seymour’s voice carries a hint of steel beneath its polite surface.
“Yes, well, Mandy and I have been chatting about the big event.” Todd’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.
Thank God this conversation is almost over, because I’m still reeling. The wine glass trembles slightly in my hand as Todd’s threat echoes in my mind. Did he really just threaten me?
This is a Todd I’ve never seen. The charming facade has cracked, revealing something darker underneath.
Maybe I’ve cut him too much slack concerning my style he adopted.
Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing and was willing to risk our relationship over it.
If that’s the case, then he never really knew me.
But for him to waltz up to me, act all innocent, like he’s missing us?
Then casually ask about Blackbeard? Oh, yeah. He’s scared.
“Alexander, why don’t you join us for dinner? We can continue talking about the plans for your event.” Seymour smiles like a proud papa, his hand warm against my shoulder. “Mandy is planning this one, and she’s so creative.”
My stomach drops. No, no, no.
“Yes, she is.” Todd reaches out and claps Seymour on the shoulder. “I’d love to have dinner with you.”
What?
The room spins slightly, and not just from the champagne.
This was supposed to be a date. I mean, sure, it wasn’t in the top ten of dates, but still.
I leave my wine glass on the bar as a waiter leads us to a table.
Each step feels heavier than the last. The nightmare of this evening has evolved into something worse.
A combination of the most awkward date ever, combined with my ex, who just threatened me.
The chair scrapes against the floor as I sit. Todd and Seymour’s voices fade into background noise as they settle in. The white tablecloth, the gleaming silverware, the soft lighting. It all feels surreal.
“What are the plans for the Silvano event?” Seymour’s question breaks through my daze.
I look between them, my gaze bouncing from Seymour’s expectant face to Todd’s smug one. The pounding in my head intensifies. I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and have a civil conversation about this. My head feels like someone took a jackhammer to it, and the room won’t stop tilting.
“Mandy?” Seymour prompts again.
“Oh, right,” I mumble, my tongue feeling thick.
“Um, actually, Seymour ran a great event...why reinvent the wheel...tickets...fancy appetizers.” The words come out disjointed.
My legs shake as I stand, bumping the table hard enough to send water sloshing from the glasses.
“I have a killer headache. Sorry, I can’t stay. ”
Then I leave.
Just walk away.
The cool night air hits my face as I rush through the inn’s doors. If the limo isn’t here, I’ll walk home. I don’t care. Or I’ll walk to Barrie’s. It’s not far from here. The limo is nowhere in sight, so I head across the lot, my arms wrapped around myself against the evening chill.
It only takes seconds. “Mandy!”
I quicken my pace, but these stupid heels slow me down.
It’s Seymour, and he catches up easily. His fingers wrap gently around my arm. “What’s wrong?”
I blink rapidly, fighting back tears that threaten to spill.
There’s too much to explain right now. Everything feels jumbled in my head, and if I try to sort it out, it would all come tumbling out wrong.
The need to sleep this off settles over me.
“I need to go home. Honestly. Tonight hasn’t been great, and I need to be alone.
I drank too much champagne and then wine. ”
“I’ll take you home.” His voice is soft, concerned.
“No, go back and have dinner with Alexander.” The name tastes bitter on my tongue. “I’ll just take the limo?”
Seymour pulls out his phone, his fingers moving quickly over the screen. “The limo is coming.” He takes my hands in his, and despite everything, his touch steadies me. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
The limo’s headlights sweep across us as it pulls up. Finally, escape is within reach. “Sure. Whatever.” Then I’m gone, sinking into the leather seats, leaving Seymour standing alone in the parking lot.
I thought I’d sleep until noon. At least.
But no, after a few hours of dead-to-the-world sleep, I kept waking up, then drifting in and out. You know, weird dreams where Todd’s face morphed into Seymour’s and back again. Dreams where I was swimming in champagne, trying to reach the surface.
Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, I stumble from bed.
My head feels stuffed with cotton, and my mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing on pennies.
I peel off last night’s dress that I’d fallen asleep in and change into my familiar, paint-stained overalls.
There’s only one place I want to be right now.
Only one thing I want to be doing.
The coffee maker gurgles and steams in the quiet kitchen.
While it brews, I scrub the remnants of makeup from my face, watching the fancy products circle the drain.
The early morning air nips at my skin as I head to my studio, travel mug warming my hands.
Wet grass soaks through my canvas shoes, but it will be hot later.
The key sticks slightly in the lock—it always does—before I push open the door.
I flick on the new lighting system. It fizzes and sparks for a second, and then soft light floods the space.
It immediately brings the perfect ambiance to the room.
The lights aren’t harsh or fluorescent, but warm and natural, like Seymour researched exactly what an artist would need.
There’s even spotlights I can switch on that flood the canvas with perfect lighting.
But, now that I’m here I don’t want to paint.
Instead, I uncover my most recent work, carefully pulling back the drop cloth.
I study my favorite one, letting the familiar textures and colors wash over me.
It’s more than the night sky, even though at first glance you see the stars, the moon, the Milky Way.
It takes a second and third viewing to see the subtle textures, the hidden story of the universe.
No one expects the universe to be shades of orange and on fire.
A sense of contentment steals over me, raising goosebumps along my arms. It’s what happens whenever I study a piece of art that hits all the right notes. Am I imagining it? Possibly. But I had this same feeling with the last concept that created a lot of interest and success—just not for me.
I had this breakthrough because of Seymour. The realization sits heavy in my chest. I owe him an explanation. Even if what we’ve had is just a summer fling and we need to break it off. After that show of wealth last night, we’re clearly from two different worlds.
Did he think I would be impressed?
Did he think I’d care?
Did I somehow give off the vibe that I wanted to be pampered, or did he think I needed some grooming? The questions bounce around my tired brain. To be fair, I should ask him. Instead of assuming.
I close my eyes and think of everything before that.
Everything that drew me to him, that impressed me.
His kindness. The way he took care of Darren Meade.
His love for the arts. His concern for the kids in my art class.
The memory of him helping Jerry with his painting brings a small smile to my face.
Which is the real Seymour?
Maybe a little of both.
I owe it to myself to find out, because a man hasn’t made me feel like this since Todd.
And what a mistake that was. How did I read him so wrong?
Todd’s words from last night echo in my mind.
Words like art and painting. Words like dabble.
That last one still stings, makes my fingers curl into fists.
Now, I’m starting to suspect that Todd knew exactly what he was doing.
Is it that time of the month? The patronizing tone, the fake concern.
How did I not see that jerk-side to him earlier? How did I miss it?
Ugh. I need to talk to Barrie.
I close my eyes and take some deep breaths, feeling the tension slowly release from my shoulders. I let go of the stress and thoughts of Todd. I can get through this last event. I can do this. But the idea of preparing an incredible event for the artist Silvano conflicts with everything inside me.
Do I make the event a smashing success, or do I let it wither and die? Will that hurt Todd, or in the long run, hurt me more? The answers don’t come, but at least in my studio, surrounded by my work, I can think clearly again.