by Deanna Lee
I dried my coffee cup and dropped the paper towel in the trash. The break room was a mess; it always was. It had occurred to me that if the people in the office treated their home like they treated the break room, then I had no interest in being their guest. I sighed and leaned against the counter. Several memos on the subject of cleanliness had gone totally ignored. I had two choices at this point: I could lock the break room, or I could have the cleaning company include the break room in their routine.
It was irritating to think about. I shouldn’t have to pay five hundred dollars more a month for a clean break room. I glanced up when the door snapped closed. Sarah stood glaring at me in silence. It seemed that she had finally decided to confront me.
“Sarah.”
“I have plans, and you’re interfering with them.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tightened her jaw as she glared at me.
Well, at least she got to the point. I made sure I did too. “I have plans for this gallery, and they do not include letting an inexperienced buyer deal with clients that are central to those plans.”
“Do your plans include fucking the artists you sign to this gallery?”
“No. My career plans don’t involve sacrificing my dignity and self-respect.” I watched her cheeks flush pink and her eyes harden. “I am your supervisor, and it would serve you well to remember that the next time you decide to have a conversation with me. Holman’s is a professional operation, and professional behavior is required.”
She turned abruptly and jerked the door open to leave. “Fine.”
I watched her leave, mildly irritated. Jane popped her head in then and checked her watch. “Lisa Millhouse is expecting you.”
“I know.”
“Don’t let Perky Tits upset you.”
I laughed and snagged my coffee cup off the counter. She handed me the plans for Lisa’s show and my briefcase in exchange for the cup. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. “You know, if we were in high school, I’d offer to kick her butt in the bathroom.”
“If we were in high school, you’d be standing lookout while I kicked her butt in the bathroom.” I grinned when she laughed. “Has Mr. Brooks confirmed his attendance this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
The drive to Lisa Millhouse’s home was relaxing. She lived forty-five minutes outside Boston. Lisa worked in bronze and iron most of the time; there was something very interesting about a woman with a blowtorch. I knew she was starting to experiment with wood and canvas. She’d been creating for nearly eight years, and I was fortunate to have signed her with the gallery.
Lisa was standing on her porch with a cup of coffee in one hand when I pulled into her driveway. The first time I’d met her was over the barrel of a paintball gun. It took me three weeks to gain her trust, and she still regarded me with a bit of apprehension. Since she apparently viewed everyone that way, I didn’t hold it against her.
Her work was provocative and sexy in a way that was almost violent. There was nothing quiet about her passion. I took the plans for her new show out of the backseat and waved. With a brief nod in my direction, she went back into the house.
I followed and found her in the kitchen, pouring me a cup of coffee. I took it and placed the plans on her kitchen table. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping.”
She shrugged and sat down at the table. “The dreams are worse in the summer. I don’t know why.”
Besides her nasty divorce, I knew very little about her. But I knew all about dreams, at least my own. I wondered if her dreams made her sick with anger and fear. Did she roam her house over, checking windows and doors? Lisa was a mystery in so many ways, and a part of me wanted to drag all of her pain out of her and throw it away. Yet, I knew that some people used pain as fuel. Fuel for passion, rage, and living. What would Lisa be without her pain?
I sat down and pulled the plans from the cardboard tube. “I have the construction crew standing by to start work on the show space. I wanted to make sure you were happy with the arrangement before we began.”
She leaned over the plans and studied them carefully. After a few moments, she nodded. “It’s good. I like the flow through the space…” She paused and then nodded. “I have a piece that is perfect for the center. It’ll be the finale for the show.”
“Good.” I sat back in the chair and frowned into the coffee she’d given me. “You should know that Milton has decided to use you against me.”
“Work politics suck.” She sat down. “I’m happy with you and Holman Gallery. I’m willing to endure whatever you might have to do in the next few months to secure your job.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I can’t promise that I won’t show my ass.”
“I know.”
“Besides, I find it amusing to thwart a man like Milton Storey.” She grinned and chuckled. “I guess I’ll need to order some more ammunition for my paint gun.”
“God help us.” I smiled into my coffee. I wouldn’t encourage her, but I wasn’t going to tell her what to do either.
“I understand you’re posing for Shamus Montgomery.”
Crap. I was hoping to avoid talking about him. “Yes, how did you find out?”
“He called me earlier this morning about a shipment of rosewood we purchased together about a week ago. Shame is very good about warning me when delivery men are going to come out here.” She glanced my way and laughed. “He’s very attractive, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.” I shrugged. Shamus was as close to beautiful as a man could get, and she knew it.
“He’s also very talented. There are few artists out there that could capture all that you are, Mercy. I can’t wait to see what he does.”
“His show will open about three weeks after yours and will take up the entire top floor of the north wing.” I watched her stand, go to the coffeepot, and refill her cup. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No. I’ll get sleep eventually. Do you want to see what I’ve done for the last project so far?”
I stood and nodded. “Of course.”
I followed her out the back door of her house, across a small, neat lawn, and into the barn she used for her studio. A large bronze sculpture stood in the center of her work space. The feminine lines struck me immediately. It screamed pain and emotional chaos. I glanced at her briefly, disturbed by the honest and hateful emotion that came from it. The female form was in a kneeling position, protecting her head from an invisible threat.
“It’s beautiful.” It was a cruel beauty.
Desperately wanting to run from it, I closed my eyes briefly. Unwilling but also unable to stop myself, I focused on the sculpture again and swallowed back a hard knot of distress.
“Thank you.”
“Lisa, are you sure you want this on public display?”
I met her gaze and found the pain of the sculpture in her eyes. “Yes.”
Nodding, I let my eyes drift over the piece one more time. “What will you call it?”
“Breaking Point.”
Nodding, I cleared my throat. “You’re right. It will be perfect for the finale.” I checked my watch, aware that I was seeking to escape. “I’ve an appointment in about an hour, so I’d better head back.”
Lisa chuckled. “One day, Mercy, you’ll have to break free of that shell you’ve created.”
I looked toward her. “What do you mean?”
“You love art. Yet you’re embarrassed and uncomfortable by the emotion it invokes in you.” She inclined her head. “Why do you hide your passion?”
I had no answer to that question. I sighed, let my eyes drift over the sculpture one last time, and then left the barn. She didn’t follow, and I didn’t expect it. Lisa was one of those people who understood privacy. She valued her own so much that she innately knew when another person felt invaded and needed to be alone.
On the way back to the city, I turned the radio off. Either the noise
was too stimulating, or I was oversensitive. It was past lunchtime when I returned to the gallery, leaving me only ten minutes to prepare for the Board meeting that had been scheduled for nearly a month. I hurried through the gallery and up the stairs that led to the administrative area.
Jane was standing at the top of the stairs holding a big chocolate chip cookie, a cup of coffee, and my agenda for the meeting. I took the cookie as she followed me through the bull pen to the large conference room. Two members of the Board were already there. “Remind Mr. Storey of the meeting, Jane.”
Jane nodded after she placed my coffee on the table. “Of course.”
James Brooks, the chairman of the gallery’s Board of Directors, was sitting across the table from me, eyeing my cookie. “I’m not sharing.”
He laughed. “You’re fortunate that I like stingy women.”
That was true. His ex-wife was so tight with money she could make Abe Lincoln spring up from his grave and beg for relief. They’d divorced in a friendly manner more than a year before. I glanced down the table and smiled at her. I’d often wondered how they had managed to stay so damn friendly. I divided the cookie in half and offered it to him with little goodwill. The fiend took it immediately. I munched my half and glanced over the agenda.
“You’ve read over the final contract with Shamus Montgomery, James?” I asked, hoping that I didn’t look too smug.
“Oh, yes. We were pleased with the contract. He rarely offers his work outside his own gallery space.”
“He doesn’t have much of a choice. His space can’t accommodate his new show. Ten of the twenty-two pieces he already has weigh over two hundred pounds.” Finishing off the cookie, I picked up my coffee. “Did you hear the rest?”
“Oh, yes.” James grinned as the door opened and the three remaining members of the Board entered, followed closely by Milton. “I’m actually looking forward to seeing what he does.”
Yeah, I was really looking forward to that myself. I looked down at the table and tried not to think about my boss and various other people I would have to work with seeing me bare asssed and immortalized in alabaster. It was a fucking nightmare.
The Board of Directors for Holman Gallery was made of five people: James Brooks, Cecilia Marks, Dr. Natalie Monroe, her husband Carl Monroe, and Victor Ford. I could count on one hand the number of times the last three had spoken. I secretly called them the Silent Trio. Honestly, I was never sure if they were too bored to respond or were communicating telepathically. Maybe they were going to take over the world one day.
I didn’t have to wonder long about what Milton was going to say to the Board. The moment he sat down, he started to talk.
“As you know, Ms. Rothell signed Shamus Montgomery yesterday.” The members nodded. I sat back in my chair and waited for the rest. “She also agreed to pose for him in the nude. I consider this inappropriate. I also consider Mr. Montgomery’s work too raw for the Holman Gallery.”
“Shamus Montgomery’s last show netted the gallery that hosted him a reported ten million dollars in commissions,” I responded. “As for my decision to honor Mr. Montgomery’s request that I pose for him…” Pausing, I considered my next words carefully. “It is both an honor and privilege to be considered worthy of modeling for his work. I believe the piece will add a special quality to our show and go a long way toward cementing our relationship with the artist. The happier he is with this show, the more likely he will be to return for his next showing.”
“The Assistant Director of this gallery has no business strutting around naked for a contracted artist,” Milton snapped.
“I don’t strut,” I returned mildly.
“Mercy has this matter well in hand, and we’ll let her deal with it as she sees fit. Now, what about Lisa Millhouse?” James picked up a napkin and brushed cookie crumbs from his sleek, neatly groomed beard.
“She approved the plans for her show in the east wing this morning. I’ll start the construction crew immediately. Once we have the space ready, we’ll have the work delivered from our storage area. The last piece for her show will have to be retrieved from her studio.” I flipped the page in the agenda.
“Good.” James glanced briefly around the table and then focused on me. “Now, tell me about your idea.”
“I’d like to reopen the south wing of the gallery and hold a series of shows for local high-school students.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Milton interrupted. He puffed up and glared at me. “Our budget couldn’t support a project like that.”
Sighing briefly, I glanced toward Milton before returning my gaze to James. “This project would serve several purposes for the gallery. It will bring in potential customers. No parent worth their salt is going to miss seeing their child’s work on display in an art gallery. It will strengthen our reputation in the community as a leader and an advocate for youth organizations and the arts in schools.”
“The entire south wing?” Milton demanded. “We’ve had it closed for six months to save money.”
“Exactly, it’s sitting there empty when it could be serving a valuable function.” I bit down on my tongue to keep from going on further.
“I like it.”
I looked down the table to Cecilia Marks, the former Mrs. Brooks. She was a patron of the arts and a society maven that could make or break the average woman. She’d made my move to Boston easy. I owed her a lot. Her approval meant a great deal to the Board and me.
“Yes. I like it, too. You can start by contacting the schools to develop a dialogue with the art teachers,” James said.
Milton followed me into my office and slammed the door. “In case you missed it, I’m still the director of this gallery.”
I rubbed my forehead and sat down in my chair. “The decision has been made, Milton. There is nothing more to discuss.”
“I’m going to make you regret coming to Boston, Ms. Rothell.”
I already regretted meeting him but didn’t suppose that counted. He stormed out of my office.
Jane entered, shutting the door gently. “Well?”
“They said yes.”
“Awesome.” Jane grinned and sat down in one of the visitor chairs. “I’m so jazzed.”
“Once Milton is gone, I’m going to make sure you get full credit for the idea. It chafes that I had to hide it now.” The last thing I wanted was to take credit for her idea. The whole thing had been so off-putting that it had taken her several months to talk me into it.
Jane grimaced and then looked out into the bull pen. “If he knew I was involved in it, he would make my life hell. So, thank you.”
I nodded and wondered how Jane would feel in August when I recommended her for my position. She deserved it, but I wasn’t going to tell her so until the Board approved it. Looking to my watch brought a frown. I only had two hours left before I was once more in Shamus Montgomery’s clutches. We sat in silence for a moment, lost in our own thoughts, and then she sighed.
“You should sleep with him.”
I jerked and looked at her. “For God’s sake.”
Jane grinned. “I know you don’t believe me, but a well-placed cock has a way of curing what ails you.”
“Nothing is ailing me.”
“Whatever,” Jane muttered and stood up. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything about Mr. Storey’s plans.”
A well-placed cock, indeed. I turned the phrase over in my head and silently agreed. I moved my legs against each other and tried to ignore the empty feeling that centered in my womb. I didn’t know why Shamus made me feel empty, but it had also occurred to me that he could fill me beautifully.
The ringing phone jarred me loose from what would have become a filthy daydream. I picked it up and leaned back in my chair as I put the receiver to my ear. “Mercy Rothell.”
“Good afternoon, Mercy.” His voice was enough to turn my insides to mush.
I leaned back in my chair and turned away from the bull pen. “Mr. Montgomery.”
He
laughed. “Do you eat Chinese?”
“I do.” I twirled my finger around the phone cord and stared out the window.
“Good, that’s what’s for dinner.”
“Why not let me out of this, and find a willing woman?” I bit down on my lip, because suddenly I wasn’t all that interested in getting out of posing for him. It was an odd state to be in, both excited and leery.
He was silent for a moment. “It would be a disservice to you to let you back out of posing for me. Aren’t you tired of living a half-life?”
I closed my eyes and chewed on my lip. He was baiting me and waiting for me to reveal myself. Finally I responded, “I’ll see you at six.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I ended the phone call and sighed. The fact that a man like Shamus Montgomery would be waiting for me was hard to grasp. He’d come into my life like a force of nature, and I knew that I would never be the same.
“It’s not often that you come in like this.”
Lesley’s tone was even, but I could hear the curiosity in her voice. I must have sounded like a complete psycho when I had called her less than twenty minutes ago and begged to see her.
I shrugged and then shook my head. “There’s this man.”
“Ah.”
Growling with irritation, I pushed the lever on the recliner and crossed my ankles on the footrest. “He’s demanding and pushy.”
“You like him.”
“It would be difficult not to,” I admitted, disgruntled. “He’s charming, talented, sexy, and—”
“Demanding.”
I looked at her and shrugged. “Yeah, demanding.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course, I’m sure.” I frowned at her and then looked away. “I’m sure.”
Lesley sighed. “Are you saying that because you want it to be true, or because you think I want to hear it?”