Page 12 of Loss and Damages
Despite her shocked tone, she doesn’t leave. She’s rooted to the floor because she doesn’t want to leave me alone in her gallery. She’s trapped and I intend to use it.
“Will you at least tell me what he was doing here? Your gallery’s brochures were in his apartment. It’s how I found you.” I soften my voice. “Thank you for attending his wake. Leo would have appreciated it.”
She hesitates, then says, “Hefound my gallery online. He...was looking for a gift.”
“What did he buy? If you don’t mind me asking.” I’m still holding the teacup and saucer and I place them gently on the table.
“Nothing. He ended up leaving empty-handed.”
“Not so empty-handed if he started dating you,” I say, studying her face for some kind of reaction. She’s scared, I tend to have that effect on people, but she’s telling the truth. He didn’t purchase anything the day he sought out her gallery.
“We weren’t dating.”
Again, not a lie, but words sound like the truth if the person saying them believes them.
“But he spent time here. Investedsomething here, or you wouldn’t have attended his wake.”
Jemma inhales and slightly relaxes her stance. “Leo liked to sit outside with me, I live behind the gallery, and drink wine and talk about art. He said he didn’t have anyone else to do that with. I don’t know much about ‘real’ art. Picasso, Van Gogh, whoever,” she says, waving a hand, “the kind you can afford to collect, but I know several of the local artists and we spent some pleasant evenings chatting. It’s all he wanted, someone to talk to.”
I can easily imagine my brother sitting outside, drinking cheap wine out of a plastic tumbler and discussing the local artists, feeling like a part of Hollow Lake’s little community. Just as easily, I can picture Jemma talking to him as if he was a real person and not Leonardo Milano, billionaire playboy.
This was an innocent friendship then. Nothing that I should be concerned about.
I nod and gesture to the tea set. “You kept your end of the bargain, I’ll keep mine. Who is the artist who painted this?”
She clears her throat and steps forward. “Oh, that’s me. Are you sure you want it?”
Jemmapainted the tea set? I want it all the more. “Yes. You should have put a higher price on it.”
Picking up two of the teacups and their saucers, she says, “We don’t get many billionaires in this area buying painted china. I’d rather price low and sell than price too high and not. I’m thrilled every time I wrap up a piece for a customer.”
“You have a head for business.” At a counter full of bubble wrap, tape, and an old cash register, I watch her carefully protect each piece in what seems like miles of plastic.
“I have to, or I wouldn’t sell anything. My livelihood is this gallery, and some of the other artists depend on their sales to end the month in the black.” She packs the teapot last and carefully stores everything in a sturdy cardboard box. “That’s 3,225 dollars with tax, please.”
I slide my credit card out of my wallet, and instead of using the old register, she offers me a white credit card device that looks out of place among the china and paintings. I shove my card into the slot and scrawl my signature on the small screen using my fingertip.
“Would you like a receipt? This will print one if you want a paper copy, or you can have one emailed to you.”
I put my card back into my wallet. “No, that’s fine.”
“Okay. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
She could do a lot of things for me, but I won’t bother this little bird. This gallery and her house were Leo’s sanctuary, and I have no use for such things. I have business to conduct and women to fuck who know the score.
Jemma’s marriage and babies, and a good ten years younger than me.
“You’re not pregnant?” I ask to be sure. “I have no interest in battling for custody, so you can be honest. I would just want to help you, that’s all.”
To my surprise, tears fill her eyes, but she forces a smile. “I miss your brother, Mr. Milano. Leo was intelligent, funny, and kind. Last summer he blasted Fleetwood Mac and helped me paint the gallery. When we were done, we were sweaty and hot, and he attacked me with the hose I use to water my plants. As the sun went down, we drank wine and ate angel food cake and he thanked me for giving him the best day of his life.” She touches her lips as if remembering a sweet, poignant kiss. “He spent a lot of time here. If you dig into his life before he passed away, you’ll find that out, and there’s no reason to hide it. I’m not pregnant. He said he wanted to fix the family he had before starting another. If there’s nothing else, please excuse me. I dislike crying in front of my customers.”
She does leave me then, the box sitting on the counter, and disappears around the corner where she came.
There’s something almost raw about her story, earthy, maybe. I can imagine Leo standing on a ladder painting a side of the gallery in long, broad strokes, and spraying its little owner until she was sopping wet. They’d had the conversation, the baby talk, and I picture her lying in bed, talking about children, only Leo isn’t next to her, I am.
I pick up the box and leave the store, the little bell signaling my departure. There’s no reason to come back, and after I set thebox in the back of my truck, I lean against the door. The gallery’s charming, like Jemma, and my brother’s heart and soul will live on in those walls as well as in her memories. I want to hate her for having more of him than I ever did, but I can’t. I loved him, and he found something he needed here.
I drive away feeling as hollow as the lake’s name implies.
