Page 15 of Loss and Damages
Trying to find some normalcy, I dress in a sundress and pin my hair into a bun. I put makeup on, hoping to disguise the shadows under my eyes. I’ve read about grief and know missing him will never fade. Over time, I’ll just be able to tuck it away into a corner of my heart where it won’t hurt so much.
There’s someone already waiting on the porch when I let myself in through the back of the gallery, and I unlock the front door and invite a middle-aged woman inside. While she browses, I open the register, putting in the cash and coins I might need to make change, and sign into my Square account to process the day’s sales. I still haven’t decided on anything to replace the tea set Dominic purchased yesterday. I don’t have another set that large. The bigger sets always sell well, but I need so much time to finish them. Now that Leo’s gone, I’ll have more than enough time to replenish my stock, though it will be difficult to find the motivation. I’m not used to working alone.
Toward the end of the day, I’m stiff, my muscles aching with the expectation that Dominic would come back to the gallery to talk about Leo. I dread it, that Gloria’s prediction will come true, as much as I look forward to him stopping by. I was the last person to see Leo alive, I’m sure Gloria was right about that, and if Dominic thinks he has a connection to me, maybe that’s not a bad thing. Dominic is Leo’s brother, and he’s the closest thing I’ll ever have to being with Leo again.
That’s a crutch I can’t afford to lean on, I tell myself, flipping the Open sign hanging on the gallery’s door to Closed in relieved disappointment. Dominic isn’t part of my life and doesn’t want to be. Leo’s dead and it’s time both of us moved on.
Leo wouldn’t want me to wallow, and I should try not to. After I lock up, I change into sloppy shorts and a tank top and bring a banana to my workshop. I need to start painting again. It’s something I enjoy, but it’s also my business. If I don’t paint new things, my money will dry up and I’d have to find work. I’ve never held a job. I’ve always been able to earn what I need to pay my bills selling my art. I don’t want to let that go, and Leo would be disappointed in me if I did.
I play some music, avoiding anything Leo and I listened to, and dig into my supply of china pieces. I don’t have a tea set—I’ll need to order one—but I have a large basin and pitcher and decide cherry blossoms would look lovely.
It’s soothing to paint again. After my grandma passed away, it was difficult to keep going. Every brush stroke reminded me of her and the time we spent together. Now Leo’s gone, and I’m back to that same empty place.
I paint until well past midnight, and it’s the first day since Leo’s wake that I’ve spent an entire twenty-four hours alone with no one to talk to but my customers.
Chapter Seven
Dominic
Something’s been bothering me since I spoke to Jemma in her little gallery. Like fuck if I knew what that something was until the next morning when I get up to work out before going to the office.
It was something she said when I asked if she was pregnant. Leo didn’t want to start a new family before he fixed the one he had. I didn’t catch it then, too dumbfounded to be talking with my dead brother’s girlfriend for much of anything to penetrate through my hangover fog, but she planted that seed and I can’t get it out of my head.
Is it my fault Leo didn’t marry, didn’t start a family? He’s younger than me, yes, but most men his age have married, if not started having children. I always thought he was single because he was too busy fucking around, but maybe that’s not the case.
Had I been paying attention, I could have asked her what she meant by that, what Leo had meant by that, but the story she told me crowded my brain and I’d soaked it up like a dried-out sponge thrust into a sink full of water.
Jemma spent the kind of time with him I never did—that our childhoods hadn’t allowed. Leo and I didn’t have hobbies, didn’t play T-ball or peewee hockey. We didn’t do art projects or attend music camp. Dad started priming us to take over Milano Management and Development from the second he knew we were boys. Had we been girls, we would have been our mother’s problem.
I haven’t seen her since the funeral.
Protesters outside our building exacerbate my bad mood but I fight through them, grounding out a “No comment” to the reporters lingering on the sidewalk hoping to film a bit of action.
I would have accused them of wanting to boost their station’s ratings, but the sale of the 1100 block has turned into more than just a human interest story. I don’t care. The sale isn’t illegal, and I’m not technically doing anything wrong. I may be accused of not having ethics, a moral compass, compassion for the underdog, but when has that ever stopped me from doing business? Never. And it’s not going to start now.
The mayor hasn’t contacted me, and I order my PA to get him on the phone. I don’t care if she’s on hold all day. Pitts is avoiding me too, no doubt looking for cues from Wilkins. I barely last the morning without losing my temper, swatting Jemma’s face out of my mind like an annoying bug.
The pull to drive out to Hollow Lake is strong, but I keep it at bay. There’s no reason to drive out there and talk to her. They weren’t married, she’s not pregnant, and Leo’s death severed any ties she had to my family.
She’s a nobody artist living in the sticks and she’s of no use to me.
To go through with my threat I made to the mayor, I use the afternoon to scout property on the other side of the river from the 1100 block.
The wind blows the stink of the dirty water through the air, but the sun warms my face and as long as they don’t shit on me, I don’t mind watching the seagulls fly around looking for bits and pieces to fill their bellies.
The buildings need repair, a nursing home that has seen better days, and if I recall, featured in the news for abusing their clientele. A waste of space, really, when I could build chic restaurants and boutiques and turn the riverfront into upscale property. I’m not sure why we haven’t already, except this side of the river is on the wrong side of the tracks and to entice anyone to spend time here, I’d need to clean up more than just the riverfront. A restaurant would have no patrons if there was a chance of getting mugged while they waited for the valet to bring their cars around from the parking lot.
I stare beyond the nursing home to a dilapidated residential neighborhood that desperately needs attention. St. Charlotte claims its impoverished neighborhoods, just like any other city in the United States. Mayor Wilkins’s campaign platform had promised economic growth, more jobs, and a plan to pretty up the poorer sections of the city. Promises he has not kept.
At least I can say my projects will create jobs. We’ve always paid fairly, well above minimum wage, and offer a benefits package any employer would be proud of. It’s not that we do that out of the kindness of our hearts. You get what you pay for, and we expect to hire the best because the companies we own are the best.
I may need to schedule an interview with the paper, or a popular online e-zine, and remind people of that little fact before the judgmental press gets too carried away and there’s no controlling it.
And they call me a bloodsucker.
I sit on a rickety bench that’s going to snag my suit and watch a barge float along the murky water. What does Jemma think ofwhat she’s heard in the news? What did Leo tell her about the family business?
It doesn’t matter. Leo’s disapproval didn’t mean that much to me, not enough to stop doing what I’m doing in a pathetic attempt to earn Dad’s approval.
