Hiya Readers
The book releases in about four hours! Can you believe it? IT’S FINALLY TIME! Here’s another chapter to read to celebrate!
xoxo Dana
Chapter Four
Elise glances through the framed paintings with a frown on her tawny face. “The client brought in fifteen, but he didn’t specify how he wanted them hung.” She grips the folder with the client’s information to her chest and runs a hand through her coarse umber hair.
“Should I call him and ask?” I shift my gaze to the office phone. “Maybe he forgot some paperwork.”
My least favorite part of this job is answering and making phone calls, but they don’t happen often. In fact, interacting with anyone other than the gallery visitors themselves is rare, though that’s stressful in its own way.
But Elise shakes her head. “I’ll take care of it.”
She tightens her grip around the folder, and I lean forward to scrutinize the paintings.
The frames are all the same style—sleek black, flat, not taking anything away from the content. The paintings themselves are abstract—all bright colors, thick oil paint spread across the canvas like Jackson Pollock. They’re beautiful in a strange way. Fascinating more than anything else.
In the pocket of my black slacks, my phone buzzes.
Elise is pretty lax about phone usage as long as nobody’s inside the gallery—and let’s face it, there’s rarely anyone in the gallery except during special functions—so I pull it out to see who’s calling.
Imogene. We haven’t spoken since Mom dropped the bomb.
I glance around the gallery before holding up the phone. “Elise?”
Her tired eyes turn to me, then she nods. “Take your break. I’m going to step into the office to make these calls.”
“Thanks.”
In the breakroom, I relax on a chair, resting my head against the wall. The gallery is in the middle of downtown, so the space is tight. Even in this room, I can hear anything in the main gallery, but this is as close to private as it gets.
“Hey, Mo. How’s it going?”
She launches into a speech without a glimpse of salutations. Her words come out garbled, rambling, difficult to understand. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you sooner, but Mom wanted to wait until they were sure—”
“No, no, it’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The last thing I need is for Mo to blame herself. Our mother’s secret-keeping has nothing to do with her. Mom and Rob chose to hide the pregnancy, even from me, and that was their decision.
Imogene pauses, and her voice is steadier. “She’s had me keep it secret for months, and I should’ve told you.”
“Really, it’s okay.”
She takes another shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Billie. You know how Mom gets. The baby’s super healthy, and her pregnancy’s going well, but they’re concerned about heart defects because of the lithium.”
It takes a moment to register what she’s saying.
“She mentioned they switched up the doses. It could cause birth defects?”
“The baby could be stillborn.” She releases a long sigh. “But they want to do what’s best for Mom too.”
“Mo, are you upset about this?”
She hesitates. “I don’t know.”
I wish I could be there with her. Unfortunately, unless she makes a trip out here, I won’t see her until May, when we celebrate her high school graduation.
“I’m surprised you’re not.”
My eyes wander the closet-sized breakroom. There isn’t much here but the table and chairs, a fridge, and a small counter with a sink. Nothing to look at. “I mean, I wish she told me sooner, and the pregnancy bit’s weird, but I’m not surprised she kept it from me.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Look, I know you want us to be close, but we won’t magically have a great mother-daughter relationship because we talked. Doesn’t work that way.”
Imogene harrumphs. “I know.”
“Seriously, why is this bothering you?”
For a minute, she doesn’t speak. “I guess I was hoping she’d wait to move on with her life until after I graduate. They’re not moving to California till summer, but the baby’s due two weeks after your birthday, Billie.”
“Wow.”
I hadn’t done the math yet.
She huffs. “How’s everything there? How’s Jimmy?”
“Things are alright. He’s alright.”
The anxious trill in her voice sends a jolt through my body. Shouldn’t she have that information from the horse’s mouth? She’d get better info from him than me. We don’t talk.
“He still likes his job?”
“He likes it fine.”
Jimmy applied at Draft Horse after we first moved in, and he was hired on the spot. Not only does management at the bar love Xander, but his recommendations are trusted implicitly.
His first day of work was the day I left on my study abroad with Prue.
Everything was different when I got back.
Through the open door, the bell signaling the front door has opened chimes. Elise is probably in her office and shouldn’t be bothered.
“I need to get back to work, Mo.”
“Right.”
She hangs up without a goodbye, and I shove the phone back into my pocket. I don’t have time to sort out how I feel.
The main gallery looks empty.
Closer inspection reveals a young woman with long honey-brown hair staring at the focal piece of this month’s featured artist. She’s tall but thin—the only curve is her ass, and it isn’t much—but there’s something oddly attractive about her.
She turns as my footsteps approach, and my chest twists with discomfort.
What the hell is Dahlia doing in my gallery?
I force my legs to keep moving until I reach her. “Have you been here before?”
Dahlia tilts her head, her teeth tugging at the thin bottom lip. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“For the last five months.”
She studies me a moment, pausing on my sheer button-up shirt. “You look good in professional garb.” She turns back to the painting. “Who’s Alejandro Garcia?”
I tug at the neckline to make sure no buttons have come undone. “He’s our featured artist this month. Born in 1979 in Arizona, Garcia moved to the area as an eight-year—”
Dahlia turns back sharply. “I don’t care about that.”
“Then why are you here, Dahlia?”
She shrugs. “I wasn’t going to come in because I thought it’d be boring, but here you are.”
“Yes, I work here.”
Her thin lips curl into a smirk. “What do you do around here? Are you qualified to talk to me about the artwork? Or are you just here to look pretty?”
My muscles are so tense my body trembles. “I know as much about the artwork as anyone else employed here. I may not be qualified to sell the art pieces, but I pull my weight. I’m a perfectly capable employee.”
“Where’s your boss?” Dahlia’s lips curl with amusement. “They have no problem leaving me in your perfectly capable hands?”
I snort. “Dahlia, you can’t afford one of these paintings. My boss wouldn’t be interested in you.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“I’m doing my job.”
She grins, nodding toward the centerpiece. “Tell me about this painting.”
I turn to the enormous oil painting. “Garcia painted ‘Bridge over Tranquil Water’ two years ago when he stayed in South Hero near Keeler Bay. It depicts—”
Dahlia’s phone buzzes, and she takes a moment to read the text. My words falter as her face twists from smug and antagonistic to contemplative. Her jaw goes slack.
“Is everything alright, Dahlia?”
She turns off her phone with a scoff. “Like you care.”
My stomach clenches.
Of course, I care. The ball of fury and self-destruction inside her is the same darkness that has followed me my whole life. And my mother. Probably Mo too. How could I not care?
“We may have stopped being friends, but I never stopped caring.”
She slips the phone into her purse and returns her attention to me. She’s beautiful when she smiles like that. “Tell me more about Garcia…” Her voice is soft, gentle—she hasn’t used that tone with me in a long time.
I respond in kind.
My dad’s house is quiet when I slip inside. It’s after dinnertime, and he’s settled down to grade papers in the study to the left of the foyer. It’s the only room with a light on.
He looks up from his stack of quizzes, joy written across his dark-brown face. “Mina, I didn’t know you were coming over tonight.” He’s gotten a haircut in the last couple days, as his obsidian curls are short and tight and the sides fade into his beard.
“Surprise.” I set my backpack on the floor beside the open chair. “Can I stay the night, Dad?”
With a grin, he motions me to sit. “Of course. Will you do your homework with me?”
I sit and pull out my massive art history textbook. It’s nearly seven hundred pages of information and artwork, but my class covers a small portion of the contents.
“I have a test tomorrow over Gothic art and architecture, and I need to go over the chapter again.” I flip to the pertinent page near the end. “It’s a reminder since I already studied all of this.”
Dad chuckles as he returns to the top quiz. “How convenient you’ve been to the Notre-Dame.”
I bring out my class notes and a mechanical pencil and jot down the vocab words and a time line of events as I peruse the chapter.
But despite being in the safety and comfort of my father’s house, I can’t focus.
Between Mom’s pregnancy, how upset Imogene was, and Dahlia showing up at my work, I have no more spoons for the day. All I want is to curl up and fall asleep, but I have to study.
I tap my mechanical pencil against the page as I read and reread the introduction about Pope Urban II and the rise of cathedrals.
Dad lays his pen down. “Talk to me, Mina.”
I stop.
“Something is bothering you. Why don’t you explain it to me?”
A meager laugh escapes my lips. “I don’t know where to begin.”
He quirks a devious smile. “I find the beginning to be an excellent starting point.”
I snort. “Have you talked to Mo lately?”
“She called yesterday, but I was teaching my night class. Then, she missed my call today.”
I probably shouldn’t tell him—and I should’ve kept it from Prue—but I have to say something.
“Mom’s pregnant. Due at the end of April, a couple weeks after my birthday.”
He raises an umber eyebrow. “She must be halfway through. You found out this week?”
“Mom didn’t want anyone to know in case of miscarriage or birth defects, you know, because of her medication.”
“Of course.” But he sounds skeptical. “You’re upset you didn’t know sooner?”
I give a one-shouldered shrug. “That’s the thing… I think I’m supposed to be upset, to feel left out, but it doesn’t bother me. It makes sense why she wouldn’t want to tell anyone—there could be some serious side effects from her medication, and she needs to take it to function. And you know, this isn’t the first time she’s failed to keep me in the loop. It’s expected by now. So I’m not mad at her, but maybe I should be.”
For a moment, Dad’s hazel eyes observe me, calculating.
But I shake my head. “Maybe it’s because I’m not there to see everything. Mo’s unsettled by it, and that surprised me. She was always so strong.”
“She’s a child, Mina.” His voice is small but deliberate.
“She’s eighteen. She’s an adult now.”
“An adult who, like you, never had the opportunity to be a child.” He stretches to lay his hand over mine. “She spent her entire childhood taking care of her adult mother. Now, your mother is stable, remarried, and about to have a baby. Can you imagine how displaced she must feel?”
I frown.
If it’s anything like having your best friend meet a cooler girl who bonds with him over music while you’re away for the summer—a girl who also has an enormous crush on your ex… Try as I might, I cannot help feeling they’ll both replace me. So yeah, I know a little about displacement.
“You two talked a lot while I was gone for the summer.”
“Yes. I spent every second I had with her.” He clears his throat, and all reminiscence dissipates from his voice. “Aside from when Jimmy was teaching her to drive. He was a devoted companion.”
I nudge a few auburn coils behind my ear. “I wish I’d been able to spend the whole summer with her. She was sick for the last ten days she was here. I barely got to see her.” I twist my hand up to hold his. “Think we could convince her to spend next summer here too?”
Dad shifts his attention to the quizzes on his lap. “I suspect Imogene has other plans.”
