“Thank you,” I say simply.
My dad nods and turns back to watching the children. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just watch our charges laugh and chatter and create.
When my dad does speak, his voice is so soft that I hardly hear the question at all.
“When do we give up?”
I look at Ben, who's adding a Pterodactyl to his dinosaur picture, and Erin beside him, who's painting a princess next to her explosion of flowers. I reach over and grab Dad’s hand.
“Never,” I answer, just as quietly. “Not until the very end. Not until they make us.”
* * *
It's a week before I get the letter. At my apartment, not the Center, same as the last one. I find it among my other mail when I get home, and I read it as I sip the tea I've been using to help me sleep.
Dearest Ms. Frazer,
I am deeply sorry for the events of last weekend. It was never my intention to mislead you—if you recall, I was adamant from the first that I had no intention of giving you the money. I'll admit I would have been in a bind had our wagers come out the other way, but as they did not, this issue is of far less significance. I owe you nothing, and whether or not I actually have the means in my possession is of little consequence in that matter.
As for the other events of this weekend, I never had any reason, I thought, to doubt your own desires. If at any point I believed you were not enjoying our little games, I would have ceased them immediately. I'm deeply sorry if I misread the situation.
Regarding your friend who arrived just before your departure—I highly recommend that you acquire a restraining order, for your own protection. I had him detained on charges of trespassing, but that will not keep him, I suspect, from contacting you in the future. Please be safe and take wise course in this situation.
Sincerely,
Calder Cunningham
There's no lawyer's signature on this one, but that makes it no less impersonal. He's just trying to cover his ass. This is an entire letter of excuses.
I crumple it into a ball and throw it in the garbage. Did he really believe this was an acceptable apology?
The real question, though, is why he would send such a letter in the first place. There's no call to action at the end, no invitation to contact him or indication that he means to contact me again. There’s no mention of our argument in the garden, either. Was this just a way to assuage his guilty conscience? To convince himself on paper that he wasn't at fault for this entire situation?
I'll admit I should have paid attention to the warning signs from the beginning. I noticed the lack of security and other employees. And Calder told me himself about selling his boat and his horse. His financial situation seems obvious now, but that doesn't relieve him of his mistakes.
Deep down, though, in spite of my anger, it still hurts. It's my own fault for letting my feelings get involved, I know, but acknowledging that doesn’t lessen the sting. And there’s the crux of it: despite what he claimed, I did feel something when I was with him.
I don't want to admit it, but I've been waiting for him to contact me. I've always thought myself a very logical, reasonable person, but even though I know it's ridiculous, I've been hoping for some grand, romantic gesture, some apology to end all apologies. Every day that's gone by without word from him has been a torture.
But when did I become one of those women who agonizes over the fact that a man hasn't called? Calder and I agreed that what happened between us was only physical. We're not dating. We're certainly not in love. Yes, I allowed myself to start feeling things I shouldn't, but that's my own fault. I can't expect him to suddenly change his emotions because I can't seem to control my own.
It's a mess, this whole thing. And at the end of the day, no matter what I tell myself, I still end up hoping that he's in as much agony as I am, that he's just as disturbed by the fact that I haven't called him.
I’m pathetic, that’s what I am.
Which is why this letter is so painful. This letter makes it quite clear where he stands on the entire issue. Forget those moments where he started to open up to me this weekend, when I thought I glimpsed something deeper. Forget the intense physical connection I felt when we were wrapped around each other. I'll be incredibly surprised if he ever contacts me again.
Life goes on, I tell myself.
I'm not done with my tea yet, but I don't care. I open the trash can once more and flip the rest of my drink on the crumpled letter, just in case I feel the urge to pull it out and read it again.
* * *
A week later, I'm standing in the Center's gallery. It's nothing like the elaborate room in the Cunningham mansion, but I've always been proud of the space. The walls feature work from local artists of all disciplines, including several names that have been popping up in collectors’ circles. There’s also a corner dedicated to pieces created by our students—everything from the finger-painting masterpieces of the preschoolers to the charcoal drawings produced in one of our master classes.
I stroll down the length of the room, alternately admiring the artwork and surveying the space. We use this room for a number of our classes and larger events. And every February, of course, it's turned into a proper ballroom for our Art & Hearts fundraiser. Every year at the event, guests come up to me and my dad and compliment the space. It's amazing what some well-placed decor and appropriate lighting can do for a room.
I stop in the center of the floor and turn around. Given the right amount of attention, you could do a lot of things in here.
The idea hits me hard and suddenly. I turn once more, taking it all in.
How the hell did I not think of this before?
I rush to find my dad. He's in his office, of course, bent over a stack of invoices.
“Dad,” I say, out of breath.
He glances up, his eyebrows quirked quizzically.
“The gallery,” I say. “I was thinking—can we rent it out? For events?”
He sets down his pen, thinking. “That's an idea.”
“Think about it. It's a large space, and it's easy to adapt and decorate. We have a lot of flexibility over the lighting and layout. We have tables and chairs we can include as part of the rental fee. We have the retractable stage we use for recitals—”
“And a decent sound system,” he says, nodding now. “And I'm assuming most events are on the evenings and weekends, when we aren’t using the room anyway.”
“We can black out any dates we have recitals or gallery shows. It's a fun, unusual space, I'm sure there are plenty of people out there who want a unique alternative to a hotel ballroom or something.”
There's light in my dad's eyes now. He's as excited about the idea as I am.
“I'm going to research some logistics,” he says. “And I need you to start brainstorming a marketing plan. If we're going to do this, we need some quick turnaround time. Figure out how we're going to get the word out there. And come up with a few general layout plans for the room. We need some templates to show people who might be interested in using the space.”
This is the Dad I've missed, the one who disappeared when the bills started piling up. This is the Dad who started the Center, who helped an entire community grow and flourish beneath his hands. There's life in his eyes again, the spark of determination.
“Of course,” I say. “I'll have something for you by the end of the day.”
I turn and hurry down the hall to my office. This is it—this is our chance. If we can pull this off, we might just survive this financial ordeal. The Frazer Center for the Arts will live to see another day, and we'll do it without relying on the generosity of people like Calder Cunningham.
The thought of him makes me pause, even now. It’s been days since I got his letter, and I still can’t get it out of my mind. I still look through my mail a little too eagerly at night, hoping against my better judgment that he’s sent something else. Every time the phone rings, or even when an email pings in my inbox, I find myself yearning for some p
oint of contact.
But there’s only been silence from Mr. Cunningham.
It’s better this way, I tell myself. I need to get over him. I need to focus on the Center right now.
But I don’t feel like I have any closure. Calder never explained the full truth in his letter. I still have no idea why the family is broke, or what this means for Calder and his sister. Garrett apparently caught wind of the matter through his work, but there’s no way I’m calling and asking about it. He mentioned that Calder struck a bargain with his editor, which means that the entire thing has been carefully covered up. The media loves a good scandal. If people find out the Cunninghams were struggling financially, the press will have a field day. I confess that in my weaker moments I’ve tried searching online for rumors or snippets of information, but apparently Calder is great at damage control. I haven’t been able to find anything.
I just hope he and his sister are all right. I remember the way his eyes sparkled as he showed me around his house. He loves that place. And why shouldn't he? It's been in his family for years. Every brick, every room, every piece of furniture has a story behind it, a memory tied to it. Just because the place is ostentatious and oversized doesn't mean it can't carry the same emotional meaning as any other home. Because that's what it is, at the end of the day—his home.
Shit. All this time I've been thinking about what Calder could do for me. I was literally calculating prices in my head when he was giving me his tour, imagining how I might put that money to better use. Who am I to judge how someone uses their money? Why am I entitled to anything he owns?
I remember the sadness in his eye when he confessed that he sold his horse Rudolph. How many other things will he have to sell to settle his family's finances, if things are indeed that bad? It all seems so obvious now, but I was blind to it all at the time because I was only thinking about myself and what I wanted.
I lean my forehead on my hand. I suddenly feel terrible for the way I've behaved. No wonder Calder hasn't contacted me again. All this time I've been pissed at him, thinking he lied so he could use me for sex, while the entire time I've only been after his money.
But not anymore.
If there's one good thing that's come out of this situation, it's that I was forced to come up with the solution on my own. If the Center survives, it will be by the hard work of myself and my dad, not because some billionaire took pity on our situation.
I turn back to the paper spread out on my desk and pick up my pen. I'm already bursting with ideas, and I want to show Dad that we can do this.
It's time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to work.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TWO MONTHS LATER
“What do you think?” I ask my dad.
We're standing at the doorway of the gallery, surveying the hard work of the last few days. I was up half the night draping fabric from the ceiling and setting up tables, but the result is, in my opinion, absolutely beautiful.
“It's wonderful, sweetheart,” Dad says. He's beaming, and I swear he hasn't looked this young in years.
Tonight is our very first event since opening up the gallery for rentals. A couple is celebrating their fiftieth anniversary, and they wanted the whole package: decor, tables and chairs, even use of the temporary dance floor we put down for our ballet and jazz classes. The check from tonight will fund our afterschool program for the rest of the month.
And it's not the only event we have scheduled this month. Next weekend we're hosting a Bar Mitzvah, and two weeks after that an awards ceremony for a local private high school. Assuming everything goes smoothly, I hope word of mouth will draw in even more events in the future. I’ve also been working furiously on a marketing plan when I haven’t been bouncing between my normal duties.
My dad wraps his arm around me and kisses me on the top of the head. “I'm proud of you, honey.”
I smile. It's a little too soon to say for certain, but it looks like we might dig ourselves out of our hole in the near future. I’m sure there will be plenty of kinks to work out over the coming months, but we’ve bought ourselves time, and that’s the most important thing right now.
“You should go home and get some sleep,” he tells me. “You've been overworking yourself these last few days.”
I hate to admit it, but he's right. I'm exhausted, and I'm running on adrenaline fumes right now. Last night I didn’t even bother going home. I just curled up on the old sofa in my dad’s office.
“Go on,” he urges, and I know from his expression that he won’t accept any excuses.
I grab my bag from the office and head outside to my car. Party guests are already starting to trickle in, and I wave as I make my way across the parking lot. For the first time in a long time, I feel at peace. Exhausted, but at peace.
And then I see who's leaning against the side of my Honda.
“Garrett?”
He glances up when he hears my voice.
“What are you doing here?” I say.
“Some welcome,” he replies, straightening. “I just came by to see how you're doing.”
“Garrett, I—”
“Don't do this. You've been ignoring my calls, so I wanted to give you some space, but I'm not going to let you cut me off again.”
I cross my arms. “I'm not having this conversation with you right now. Get out of my way.”
Instead of moving, he leans back against the car, blocking my path to the driver's seat.
“You mean a lot to me, Lils, you know that. I'm just trying to look out for you.”
“I don't need you to look out for me. Now move or I'm calling the police.”
“Did Cunningham tell you he had me arrested? I was just trying to make sure he wasn't taking advantage of you, and somehow I was the one who ended up in jail overnight. You don't still speak to that fucker, do you?”
I'm trying to control my anger, but I can't help myself.
“Whether I talk to Calder or not is none of your business,” I say. “And it's your own fault for ending up in jail. You shouldn't have been there.”
His eyes darken.
“I can't believe you're defending him,” he says, stepping toward me. “He's no good, Lils. You need to stay away from him.”
“Again, that's none of your business.” I fumble in my purse for my cell. “Get out of here, Garrett, or I swear I'll—”
He leaps toward me and grabs my arms, pulling me toward him.
“Please, Lily,” he begs, the anger suddenly gone from his voice. “Please. Let’s just go somewhere and talk for a while. I know I’ve made some mistakes. I know I’ve hurt you. But things are different now. Please, just come with me.”
I try to twist out of his grip. “Let me go.”
“No,” he says, pulling me closer. “I’m not letting you go until you agree to give me another chance. After everything we’ve been through together, I think you owe me that.”
“I don’t owe you anything!”
His grip on my arms tightens to the point of pain. He shakes me.
“Don’t do this to me, Lily. I love you. I always have. And you love me, too.”
“No,” I say, and then I slam my heel onto his foot. He loosens his hands, and I take the opportunity to escape from his grip.
“Stay away from me,” I say. “I don’t love you, and I don’t want you in my life anymore.”
His eyes flash. He’s angry now.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
“I do. Now get out of my way.”
“No.” He lunges for me again, and this time I swing my purse at him, knocking him in the head.
“What the fuck, Lily?!” he cries.
“Get the hell away from me,” I say. “If you come near me again, if you try to call or contact me in any way, then I swear I'll have you arrested. We're over.”
I push past him and dive into the driver's seat of my car, but he reaches after me and tries to drag me back outside.
&nb
sp; “Let me go!” I try to swing my purse at him again, but it’s too cramped. He has me halfway onto the pavement before I manage to jab my elbow up and hit him in the nose. He yowls and releases me, and I leap back into the car and slam the door behind me.
He’s still screaming at me, even as I pull out of the parking spot.
“Fuck you, Lily!” he says. “I saved you from that guy! I fucking saved you!”
I turn on my radio and crank it up, drowning out his words.
* * *
I don't go home. I go straight to the courthouse and apply for a restraining order. It won’t be official until we’re in front of a judge, but I’m hoping that being served with the paperwork will be enough to scare Garrett away in the meantime.
Afterward I'm still too jumpy to go to my apartment, so I drive around for a while. This is when I really wish I had a couple of good female friends in town. I’ve been too focused on the Center these last couple of years to have much of a social life. I could call up one of the women who works at the Center with me, but I don’t want this getting back to Dad. I don’t want to worry him or distract him from making sure everything runs smoothly at the party tonight.
Eventually I pull into a fast food restaurant. I order myself a value meal and sit eating it in the parking lot.
I'm halfway through my cheeseburger before I lose my resolve and pull out my phone. I can't help it—I need to tell someone about what just happened. I know I’m breaking every rule I set for myself, but I want to talk to Calder. I should be stronger than this, but I crave the reassurance that I did the right thing, that I'm not at fault for Garrett's insanity.
A call is too personal. Instead, I text.
You were right about Garrett. I applied for a restraining order.
I pause for a minute. There's so much I want to say to him, but I don't know how to say it. I don't know, after all this time, whether he wants to hear it at all.
Finally, I take a deep breath and add:
Forgive me for not respecting your decision about the pledge. I hope you and your sister are doing well.
I send it off before I can change my mind.
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