Page 14 of Unforgivable

“Why not? It seems exactly in the spirit to me,” he says.

“Well,” I chuckle. “What I have in mind when curating the show is something more…unusual. Something surprising.”

“I think the concept of losing love, and finding it, is very original.”

“Really?”

“Well, that settles it,” Bruno says. “I think it’s an excellent idea to include artworks by our staff. Well done, Summer.” And Gavin shoots me a look, then rolls his eyes. Meanwhile, Summer blushes prettily. I know it’s not her fault. I can understand why she thought I might be willing, she’s very young, but I’m angry with Bruno. I’ve done everything for this project from the concept to the design to the—successful—application for funding. This show is going to put Bruno Mallet on the map like nothing else we’ve exhibited. It’s a big win for him and his reputation, and mine. Sure, the works are not for sale so he doesn’t make money that way, but the reputational transaction is priceless and the funding more than covers our combined salaries and everything else we need.

We discuss other things and on the way out of the meeting, Summer slides up to me conspiratorially. “I think I went about this the wrong way.”

I give her a tight smile. “What do you mean?”

“With my piece in the show, I should have asked you first. I see that now. I hope you’re okay with it?”

I study her face; she seems to mean it. “Let me think about it.”

She nods. “Sure, whatever you say, boss.”

EIGHT

Bronwyn is here.

She’s in my house.Myhouse that used to beherhouse. Will she like what I did with the place, I wonder? Because I did plenty. I put up wallpaper in Charlie’s room and replaced the metallic silver drapes with blue and gold ones and laid down colorful rugs where there were timber floors. I painted the dark gray walls in light, cheerful colors and transformed that place from an uber modern, clinical showroom to a cozy, warm, soft cocoon. By the time I was done I’d washed that woman right out of my hair.

If only.

I got the text from Jack a few minutes ago.

Flight was late but she’s here, heading home now, see you soon x

She’s here. I was desperately hoping Leon had come along after all, that they’d be settling in the Four Seasons instead of our house. Even the fact that Jack went to pick her up at the airport almost turned into our first (of many more to come, I’m sure) Bronwyn-induced argument.

“Why?” I wanted to ask. “Can’t she hire a limousine? That’s what she usually does, isn’t it? Doesn’t she know how to call an Uber? Walk to the taxi stand?” The actual question I wanted to ask being:Are we going to be at her beck and call the entire time she’s here?But I didn’t. Firstly because there is still so much time to argue about Bronwyn, so why rush? And anyway, who am I kidding? Of course we’ll be at her beck and call.

Secondly, and if I was honest with myself I’d say this was the firstly—We ARE a happy family.SoI’m hardly going to let Bronwyn walk intoour houseand find it filled with an atmosphere so thick with tension you’d smash your face just stepping inside the front door.

I’m thinking about all that as I lean against the railing outside the school, waiting for Charlie who must be bouncing right out of her cat-patterned gumboots by now. I try to think if I’ve missed anything in preparation for Bronwyn’s stay. These days Bronwyn is vegan and, apparently, very particular about what she eats.

I know Seattle has some great health food stores, so it shouldn’t be a problem.But I’m on a strict vegan diet, so can you organize a few things before I get there?she emailed Jack.

A few things. Jack forwarded the list to me because while he has a lot more time on his hands, he claims that he wouldn’t know what this stuff even looks like, let alone where to find it, and I agreed with that. Because we have to get it right. There is no room for error, otherwise Charlie will be upset. She’s been lurching from elation to anxiety and back again all week. She is terrified that if we don’t get everything absolutely perfect for Bronwyn’s stay, Bronwyn will turn around and walk right out again.

If only, I don’t say.

Anyway, as it turned out, I didn’t have to run around the city looking for obscure vegan supplements or cashew milk artisan cheese wheels or wild pine nut butter because, as luck would have it, Summer used to be vegan and she knows exactly where to get this stuff.

She was sitting next to me, eating out of a bag of trail mix while I read the email. I sighed. She offered the bag to me and I took a small handful.

“You’re not vegan anymore?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “It was too hard. Dexter couldn’t deal with it.”

But she told me about Vegan Haven and Central Co-op and we made calls and checked stocks online and I took my list and spent two hours trawling the city when I should have been working, but I got every single item on the list which felt like an absolute win. Except for the part where I spent money we don’t really have, but I thought of it as an investment. Perfect family, happy family, refrigerator stocked up with fresh fruit and vegetables, pantry bursting with organic lentils and split peas and chia seeds and flaxseeds and hemp seeds and enough seeds to open an aviary.

And then there were the sleeping instructions. Bronwyn is apparently allergic to everything. Like the bubble boy. She wrote in another email that she can only sleep in white sheets, and they have to be crisp, but only a certain amount of crisp, crispness being dependent on the season. So in winter, not too crisp. “One hundred percent cotton, of course,” she wrote, “single ply weave only, please. 400 thread count.” Allergic to non-white sheets? That’s too bad since I don’t have white sheets, and I wouldn’t have a clue of their thread count or what ply they were.

“She’s messing with your head,” Katie said when I told her. Katie is my best friend. I’ve known her since college. She studied museology, I studied painting and drawing. Then she changed direction and became a psychologist. “I hope you’re not even contemplating buying new sheets. Let her sleep in flannels like the rest of us.”

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