Chapter 1
CAROLINE
Dumping a cheating boyfriend should be like firing him from a job. But, instead of making him turn in his company ID and credit card, you should be within your rights to demand he returns what really matters: all mutual friends, the cute pet names he used to call you, and your dignity.
Fletcher clearly didn’t get the memo.
I scowl down at my phone.
Fletcher
Silent treatment still in effect? Fine babe. Suit yourself. But you’re gonna have to play nice with me Saturday whether you like it or not.
Wear that Benedici dress I got you in Milan. Paid enough for it, so it might as well get some use.
Jesus. The audacity.
Can you have a tension headache in advance?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, making a mental note to burn that dress, then silence my phone as I tuck it behind the art gallery’s front desk. Well, desk might be overstating things. It’s more a glorified lectern than usable workspace.
Loud drilling starts up again across the street and I roll my shoulders, trying to ignore how the floorboards vibrate beneath my heels. I smooth down my linen blazer, then pull out my tablet.
Don’t scream. Just focus on work.
I’ve been doing a lot of that lately: shoving down the urge to scream. I could really use a good scream. Or maybe a racking, sobbing cry. A tantrum.
An orgasm?
Something. Anything to get rid of this relentless dread.
Stop being dramatic, Caroline. I can practically hear my mother reminding me to stand up straight and smile.
If only I could remember how.
It’s bad enough I have to go with Fletcher to this fundraiser. Worse still that I have to wear his engagement ring and pretend he didn’t sleep with half of Washington state on the campaign trail.
My phone pings again and I close my eyes, knowing he’s gonna keep after me until I give in. The same persistence that makes him a gifted campaign manager also makes him a huge pain in the butt.
Why did I agree to this again?
Right. My father.
I try to catch myself before I get too worked up and swallow past the restless feeling gripping my chest. It’ll just be a few more weeks.
A month out from the election, Dad’s really been pulling out all the stops to bolster his chances at winning the governor’s seat; the last thing the Pete Brennan campaign needs right now is a PR nightmare—like a messy breakup between the candidate’s daughter and his campaign manager.
So I’d promised Dad I would keep up the charade—grit my teeth and pretend to still be with my cheating ex—until votes are cast in November.
Agreeing to the ruse had been one thing. Actually having to act like nothing’s wrong at public functions, when all I want to do is stuff Fletcher’s silk ties down his smarmy throat? Let’s just say, it’s been tense.
“They can’t be drilling much longer, can they?
” Julian asks no one in particular, catching me off guard.
I’d almost forgotten he was in the room, perched silently near the front window like some kind of gray-haired sleeper agent.
He aims his curatorial scrutiny across the street over lowered reading glasses.
“I hope not,” I say, attempting an air of cheerful optimism.
That’s when I see the painting beside him: that abstract piece he’d been eyeing—all mustard yellows and browns with little flecks of red. With all due respect for the artist, it’s run-of-the-mill. Dated. Like something you could pick up at Ikea to decorate a low-budget hotel room. Twenty years ago.
Okay, maybe that’s not my most respectful take.
The urge to scream is back in full force. What with all the hard surfaces in here, a good scream would probably get the gallery walls singing. Maybe I could achieve some kind of glass-shattering resonance with enough reverb to knock that thing off the wall.
I clench my jaw and close my eyes, reminding myself art is subjective.
“Quietest exhibition we’ve had in a long time,” Julian mutters as he flips through a Portland artist’s portfolio—the one I’d left on his desk after sorting through the mail yesterday. “The noise is driving all the foot traffic away.”
“Whatever they’re working on will wrap up soon, I’m sure,” I offer, trying not to get too gloom and doom about the next several months.
In reality, the noise is only part of the reason the gallery’s been quiet.
I’ve peeked at the pieces Julian’s considering; more abstract paintings and a few garish geometric sculptures.
Nothing new. Nothing unique. A tiny piece of me dies inside; there’s so much stunning, modern art out there and this is what he’s thinking of bringing in?
“Maybe we just need to get creative,” I say, forcing a bright, hopeful tone. “Get some new artists in, host some fun evening events, and drum up a bit more interest around town?”
Without raising his head, Julian looks up at me over his glasses.
“I have some ideas,” I add, shooting my shot.
“And some incredible artists I’ve been following online.
We could try featuring a few young local creatives.
Something a little more… edgy. I could give you their—” I cut myself off when Julian shakes his head, the almost-fatherly dismissal all too familiar.
“Leave the curation to me, Caroline.” He shuts the portfolio, then stalks toward his office at the back of the gallery space.
I hurry to mask the way my chest deflates. “Sure. Yeah. Of course.”
Returning to my calendar app as he passes me, I try to focus on adding the registration details to each of the events lined up for next month, but I’m not really seeing the dates in front of me.
Thanks to my father’s career in the public eye, slapping on an approachable, pleasant facade has become virtually second-nature to me. But something about pretending everything’s fine these last few weeks has felt different—almost suffocating.
A jarring, metallic crash rings out, and I startle.
Equally suffocating? The relentless banging and grinding coming from that construction site.
But, when I realize it was only our sidewalk sign getting knocked over by the wind, I consciously relax my shoulders and head out to fix it.
Bracing myself for the auditory onslaught, I clutch at my blazer and push outside.
A gust catches the door and hurls it wide, and I have to make a mad grab for my scarf to avoid losing it to the street. I snag it at the last moment, shivering as I wrap it back around my neck. It’s cold, even for early October.
Lennox Valley is known for its fall windstorms and the weather is really giving it everything it’s got today.
I glance at the debris-littered road and sigh in defeat, knowing my morning run tomorrow will amount to nothing more than jumping hurdles over fallen branches.
Guess it’s finally time to take the plunge and check out that gym nearby.
Stooping, I right the fallen sign, then brush a wet leaf away from the edge of the lettering.
“The Gareth Mason Art Gallery: Unleash Your Imagination.”
If only Julian would unleash his.
Or maybe I need to leash my own.
After all, it really isn’t my place to make suggestions for the gallery’s collection.
My role is event planning, not curation, even if I do know a thing or two about business—and art.
Julian had only agreed to hire me last year so his wife, Sunny, could start to step back from her managerial role.
She’d convinced him the gallery needed fresh ideas that would appeal to younger patrons, but he was clear my job was limited to planning events, at least at first. He hasn’t been as enthusiastic as Sunny about sharing the workload.
It’s not that Julian doesn’t trust me or my eye for art; he just doesn’t like change.
Sunny’s emerging from the back office when I crack open the door to duck back inside, and she flinches at the noise. I shoot her an apologetic look and hurry to pull the door closed behind me, grateful when the grinding and drilling muffles to a more tolerable volume.
“My God!” she says, her face a dramatic mask of frustration. “I’d rather swallow a razor blade than listen to this for one more day!”
I try to suppress a laugh; Sunny has the larger-than-life flair of a Disney villain contained in the body of a slight, semi-retired Korean woman: equal parts fabulous and terrifying.
“Caroline, I can’t take it anymore!” Aiming a sparkling index finger my way, she adds, “I’m getting a coffee.”
I smirk as I cross the room, returning to my lectern-desk. “But won’t that mean going out into the noise?”
“Be that as it may, the show must go on, dear.” Wide-eyed, she comes up beside me and grabs my arm.
“And this show requires caffeine.” She turns to snatch her vintage fur coat from the closet around the corner and slips the sleeves over her many rings and bracelets.
I’m not sure how she does it; the amount of jewelry she wears should be gaudy but she somehow pulls off chic.
“Wait,” I say suddenly, shutting off my tablet. “Let me go grab you a coffee.”
She places a hand on her chest. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” I join her at the closet to grab my favorite wool peacoat. “I could use the fresh air and I need to make a phone call.”
“Oh, you angel child!” Sunny drawls, shrugging off her fur and stowing it away once more.
With her coffee order stored safely in my phone, I push out into the cold.
High-pitched drilling pierces the air, and traffic lights swing overhead, groaning in the wind.
My hair whips against my face and I bunch my shoulders in a futile attempt to block out the latest auditory assault, unsure I’ll even be able to hear Adrian over the noise.
But, desperate enough for a pep talk from my best friend, I hit the call button next to his name as I pick my way through the scattered leaves and twigs already littering the sidewalk.
He answers and, just as I’m about to shout over the drilling, the universe throws me a bone and it quiets down—for now, at least.
I exhale.
Small mercies.