Page 23 of Loss and Damages
That’s a curious thing. Leo never spent the night. If Jemma was mine, no one could pry me out of her bed.
Rage simmers through the phone and I’m surprised my cell doesn’t burn my ear. “There is no bother meeting the mother of your dead lover. I want to look into her eyes and see what Leo found in her.”
She’ll see the things I saw. Jemma’s love of life, her kindness, her understated elegance. She was Leo’s match in every way.
“I’ll ask her to go to the fundraiser with me tomorrow night, but I doubt she’ll say yes.”
“No one tells you no. Force her to join you and I will attend as well. We’ll donate in Leo’s name and honor him.”
“I’ll do my best, Mama.” I disconnect before she can say more.
If I beg Jemma to go to the benefit and she agrees, I’ll owe her for more than spending time with me and letting me know Leo through her. Everyone will be shocked if my mother attendsthe fundraiser so soon after Leo’s death, but it will be good for her to surround herself with friends and the donation in Leo’s name will give her purpose, though neither of those things will do as much good as meeting Jemma, holding her hand, looking into those big blue eyes, and together mourning a man they both loved.
It would be so much easier if she could be bought like Wilkins. If she was the greedy and selfish woman I’d thought she was. People are easy to manipulate when they want money, jewels, and social status. If I could promise her a luxury apartment in the city and a limitless credit card, she would be my puppet and she’d spread her legs just like my father’s mistress trades sex for Chanel.
And I would hate her.
I don’t hate Jemma Ferrell, but I can’t spend much more time with her.
Because I don’t hate her, but I can’t love her, either.
I stop and buy flowers on the way out to her cottage. I’ll arrive at seven-fifteen, though that’s not the time we agreed upon. I don’t have her cell number, but I could access it easily enough. I didn’t call the gallery’s phone, either, to confirm a time. I didn’t want to give her a chance to back out on me, and the fifteen minutes after she closes her gallery for the evening will give her time to lock up and maybe change her clothes. I want to be there while she cooks.
KeepingNonnacompany in the kitchen as a boy are some of my fondest memories, and I haven’t sat in a kitchen while a woman puttered around for quite some time. I’ve missed it.
I’m not sexist. I can cook.Nonnasaw to it I wouldn’t starve if I had to depend on myself. Listening to Jemma clink together pots and pans while I sip wine will bring me back to a time when things weren’t so complicated. When I had people in my life who wanted to be there.
Jemma wants nothing to do with me, but it’s the perception that matters.
I also brought a bottle of red and a bottle of white. I don’t know what she’ll fix for dinner, and it’s an assumption I might pay for. She could have ordered pizza delivery for all I know. She’s humoring me, tolerating me, and if I can convince her to attend the fundraiser tomorrow evening, it will be the last I see of her. She’ll think, and rightly so, her duty to the Milano family has been fulfilled and she’ll owe us nothing more.
The thought turns me melancholy. There isn’t much I want that I can’t have.
Jemma Ferrell is one of few.
I drive myself out to her cottage, the wine and flowers laying in the seat next to me. Again, I pretend I don’t see the tree that took my brother’s life or the fading skid marks that streak across the weathered pavement. One day I might stop, press my hand to the tree’s trunk. Feel the energy, the pain, run my fingers over the chips in the bark caused by the Aston’s front fender. But not today.
The road in front of Jemma’s gallery is empty, and I park right in front. The sign says the gallery is closed and will reopen tomorrow at nine. Two white rocking chairs, similar to the ones Jemma and I sat in at her cottage, face the road and have a small table between them. It’s a pretty building, and I know without seeing it that Leo was more comfortable wearing jeans and standing on a ladder painting than he was dressed in a suit attending meetings at Milano Management and Development.Until one day he’d decided enough was enough and walked away from all of it.
That included me.
I like the image of Leo that Jemma described better. At least he was happy with her. Something he never was with me.
I walk around the gallery, my hands full, and stop when her cottage comes into view. Lush grass and hundreds of wildflowers grow between the two buildings, and a gravel path from the road leads to the side of her house where a beat up car is parked under a tree, a light blue Toyota something that has seen better days.
“It was my grandma’s.”
Jemma stands on the porch, a hand above her eyes to block the sun to see me clearly. She’s wearing a sundress, and she’s barefoot, which I find surprisingly charming. Her hair is pulled into a low side ponytail, hiding one of her lush breasts.
I bank a sudden rush of desire. I haven’t gotten myself off since that evening on Leo’s bed, the shame too thick and strong to tempt me again. How often did Leo lift up the skirts of these pretty dresses and have his way with her, bending her over the couch or the table?
My cock stiffens and I pause, watching her as she watches me, until I find a little control. If Jemma attends the fundraiser tomorrow evening, I’m going to have to find a quick lay before then or it’s all I’ll be able to think about.
Crunching over the gravel, I say, “What?”
“The car. My grandma left it to me when she passed away. I inherited all of this, actually, and it caused a rift between my brother and me for a couple of years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I walk up the porch steps, the wood creaking under my weight. Everything is painted the same shade of white like her gallery, except, I notice now, the trim on her cottage is a light blue like her car.
