Page 3 of Loss and Damages
Jemma
My head’s pounding when I wake up, the birds and their song chipping at my brain like an ice pick. Leo stayed too late again last night, keeping me up talking about the state of the world and drinking too much wine. He finally staggered out of my cottage about three this morning. I told him to stay the night like I always do, but he never listens and last night was no exception.
Now I’m awake and going on five hours of sleep.
I need caffeine, as soon as possible.
Rolling out of bed, I snag my robe and pull it over my nightgown. I have to open the gallery soon, but I need coffee before I shower or I’m likely to fall asleep standing up.
The kitchen windows are open and the scent of fresh-cut grass wafts in from the neighboring yard. My little house and art gallery sit on the outskirts of Hollow Lake, a little town forty minutes from St. Charlotte, where Leo lives. I sell my china and other artists’ paintings and sculptures to tourists and city dwellers who spend their summers away from the crowds.
Holding a cup of coffee, I go out to the porch and breathe in the fresh air of a beautiful Minnesota summer. I love June inMinnesota. Not too hot, not too cold, the sun shining down just right. I stand near the steps, lean against the railing, and watch a butterfly flit from flower to flower in the little garden I planted near my porch. A sharpring! ring!from a bicycle’s bell shatters the silence and I sigh. The birds fly off and the butterfly darts away.
Gloria Billings, my mother’s best friend and my neighbor in commerce, rides down my narrow driveway on her mint green bike and waves, her tiny dog poking its head out of the basket attached to the handlebars. She owns a souvenir shop about a quarter mile away. We share customers and often refer them back and forth. Her shop carries #lakelife t-shirts, chocolate nut clusters that have funny names like Moose Droppings and Duck Poop, and magnets that have mosquito jokes on them. She also carries massed-produced art that she complains never sells because tourists shop at my gallery and buy the real thing. As it should be, I always think, but I keep my opinions to myself.
“Good morning,” she calls, parking her bike and letting Coco, her little chihuahua, into the grass to pee. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
“Thanks,” I say wryly and sip my coffee. I’d run her off, but it would disappoint my mother who has said many times she doesn’t like me living alone out here. Grandma Darcie did it for years after Grandpa passed away and she didn’t have any issues, good or bad. At least, as far as I know, she never had a billionaire playboy visit as often as I have drinking wine and wanting to talk about ending world hunger and why Flint, Michigan still doesn’t have safe drinking water.
“Did Leo spend the night again?” she asks, coming up the steps as Coco tinkles on a flower in my garden. She’s a little cutie that has big, bulging eyes. She likes Leo, too, always shoving her nose in his crotch, a place, I’m sure, Gloria thinks I’ve been too often for my own good.
“No, he dropped off a painting and left after dinner,” I lie. Well, it’s not a lie. He did leave after dinner. Many, many hours after dinner. “He asked me to be his date at the fundraiser.”
Curiosity glitters in her eyes. “I hardly think you said yes.”
She’s inching toward my front door. She wants coffee, but I’m reluctant to let her in. I look quickly at the delicate Cartier watch Leo bought me for my birthday last year, a gift I accepted very reluctantly. I know how much a watch like this costs, but he wanted me to have it, saying he appreciated my time and friendship.
I’m as far from Cartier as Coco is from winning the National Dog Show. Gloria knows it too, and she thinks she’s insulting me.
“I was thinking about it. Just, you know, because it might be fun.”
“Hmmm. I suppose it would be interesting to meet the rest of the Milanos.” Giving up any remaining pretense, she opens my cottage door and lets herself inside where she heads straight toward my little kitchen and the dark roast I buy at a café in town. She pours a mug and adds a generous dollop of my chocolate-almond creamer.
Dominic Milano scares the hell out of me. I’ve never met him in person, and I don’t want to. He’s ruthless, mean, and I know without a doubt he kicks puppies and pushes little children if they’re in his way. He and Leo couldn’t be more different. I don’t doubt for one second Dominic Milano ever spared a thought for the population of Flint, Michigan.
“I’ll pass,” I say and lean against the breakfast bar that separates my kitchen from the living room. It’s the only place to sit, but I don’t eat many meals in the cottage and occasionally sitting on a stool is fine with me.
It’s times like these when I’m glad I don’t have a kitchen table or Gloria would make herself right at home. She can’t heftherself onto a stool, claiming her old bones can’t handle it, but I think the extra weight she carries is more to blame than her bones. Not that I care one way or the other how people look. I’m as voluptuous as they come, hauling around more weight than I need to be, too, but it really isn’t my fault I have a penchant for anything chocolate and drink wine like France is running out of grapes. I blame that particular character trait on my mother.
“It’s a good idea,” she agrees, nodding, my second favorite mug lifted to her lips. “Dominic Milano’s stepping in a pile of shit now, what with trying to buy that fixed-rent block in St. Charlotte.”
I blink. Gloria rarely uses foul language. “Mom told me about that. They’re picketing his office building.”
“I hope they give him hell. My parents live in one of those apartments. If that sale goes through and the Milanos evict them, they’ll have nowhere to go. They can’t afford anything else.”
“I hear the mayor’s fighting it. That’s what Mom says.”
She scoffs. “Mayor Wilkins can be bought, just like anyone else. Dominic Milano has enough money. Why does he need more?”
“Because he’s not happy. Maybe one day he’ll fall in love and she’ll soften him up.”
“A playboy like that? They don’t settle down. Leo’s different. He’s going to ask you to marry him, I bet my shop on it. Maybe that’s why he asked you to the benefit. A romantic evening out, dinner, dancing...wouldn’t surprise me, Jemma. It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
I lift a shoulder and refuse to comment no matter how long she stares at me. Finally, she sets her empty mug in the sink for me to wash. “I suppose I should get going. I need to stock a few shelves before I open. With the Fourth of July right around the corner, traffic’s picking up. Can I turn on your TV and look atthe weather? I thought I saw some clouds coming this way on my ride over.”
“Yeah, sure.” I fill my mug again and begin counting the seconds until Gloria leaves and I can shower. The coffee’s helping, but I need a stream of cool water to wake up more. The girl I hired to help me part-time is enrolled in art classes at the community college in town and isn’t coming in today. I’ll be running my shop alone, which means no nap this afternoon.
Damn Leo for wanting to talk all night. He says I’m his only outlet, the only one in his life who understands. When he looks at me with his dark brown eyes and that sad, sexy smile, I can’t deny him anything.
