Page 63 of Loss and Damages
I pause in front of the open elevator that’s waiting to carry me away for the first and only time. Even if I wanted to talk to her again, she wouldn’t accept my call. I chose Dominic, and she’s done with me, her offer to chat on occasion rescinded. I could tell her about Leo’s paintings and ask if she wanted the ones that I haven’t sold, but I think I’m better off keeping it to myself. I won’t sell any more, though. When I get back to the gallery, I’ll take them off the walls and save them. That way I’ll always have a piece of Leo even after Dominic leaves me.
“I’m sorry about Leo. I truly am.”
“Thank you, Jemma. Stay safe.”
“Thank you.” I understand what she’s saying. We’re both caught in a deadly spider’s web. “The same to you.”
She nods.
I step into the elevator and her eyes hold mine as the doors close. I would have given her more compassion if her sadness and lies hadn’t destroyed Dominic’s life. I didn’t ask her if Leo knew Raphael wasn’t his father, but I don’t think she told him, either. She was the only one who knew, and besides telling me, she’ll take her secret to her grave.
I’m tempted to spend the night at Jeremy and Tara’s and cuddle on Maya, but I drive home, Athena’s and my conversation rattling around in my head. I’m emotionally exhausted by the time I reach Hollow Lake, and rather than unlocking the gallery and storing Leo’s paintings, I change into pajamas and get ready for bed. I’ll take them down tomorrow and figure out what to hang in their place. I haven’t reached out to any other artists yet and pulling Leo’s paintings off my walls will force me to do it sooner than later. Maybe Ashley will know of someone, or maybe I’ll need to expand my reach and look to St. Charlotte. It doesn’t matter where the artist lives as long as the paintings fit the vibe of my gallery.
Around midnight I drift off, my pillowcase still holding the scent of Dominic’s cologne, but I’m not asleep long when something rouses me from a vague dream of Dominic holding my hand while we walk along the lake.
I hear it again, a muted crash. Sometimes racoons crawl into my garbage and once a black bear tried with all her strength to open the gallery’s door. I ended up having to call the police and they shooed her away.
Holding my phone and a flashlight, I step barefoot into the yard. A late-model sedan is parked near the gallery and the streetlight down the road glints off the back bumper. Whoeverthe driver is left the car running, and the engine rumbles over the lake water splashing at the shore.
A crash explodes through the air, and I sprint across the yard, not thinking about anything but stopping whoever’s in there from destroying anything else. I may not sell collector’s pieces, but the art is worth something to me and the other artists trying to make a living.
The evening breeze cools my fevered skin and the dew-soaked grass brushes at my ankles as I run between my cottage and the gallery. I round the corner and pound up the porch steps. “What are you doing?” I scream, dropping my phone and yanking the door open, the handle biting at my skin with the pressure of my grip.
The flashlight’s beam catches two tall, scrawny figures dressed completely in black, ski masks covering their faces. They startle, one of them caught cutting one of Leo’s paintings.
“Stop that!” The shriek rips out of my throat.
They rush toward me, pieces of broken china crunching under their shoes, and the shorter of the two shoves me against the wall, slamming my head into a large, framed watercolor that loosens on its hook.
I fall to my hands and knees, stunned.
The painting slides down the wall and smashes onto my shoulders and against the back of my head. The force knocks me onto my stomach, bits of china cutting into my cheek. Stars burst behind my eyes.
Tires skid on the gravel as the driver punches the accelerator, and it’s only a moment later nothing but stillness fills the gallery, even the crickets and birds silenced by the violence.
Gingerly, I push the heavy painting off me.
The glow of my flashlight illuminates the shards of splintered china, and through the meagre light, I see one of Leo’s paintings sliced from corner to corner. The handmade jewelry in thebroken display cases is scattered among the glittering bits of glass, and the books written by the local authors are all ruined, the pages ripped out and covers torn.
They didn’t leave anything untouched, and I crawl across the floor, porcelain slivers digging into my knees and the palms of my hands. I pick up pieces of the water pitcher and basin set I put out to replace the tea set Dominic purchased during his first visit to the store. My hands tremble and I accidentally cut myself. Blood seeps from my fingers.
Who would do this? I’ve done nothing to anyone in this little town.
Tears fill my eyes and I drop the pieces that have pink flowers painted on them.
I look for my phone, remembering in a fog that I dropped it on my race to enter the gallery. I don’t have the strength to stand, and I crawl toward the door, my hands and knees on fire. I find my phone under one of the rocking chairs. I’m lucky one of them didn’t steal it or break it.
I have to wipe the blood off my fingers several times for the screen to acknowledge my attempts to open my recent calls list, and I press on Dominic’s name, hoping he’ll answer.
The line only rings once. “Jemma, what’s wrong? It’s late.”
“The gallery.” I try not to cry before I can get the words out. “They broke in. They destroyed everything.”
“Listen to me carefully, okay, sweetheart?”
I focus on his words. My fingers drip blood onto the porch. “Yes.”
“Are you hurt?”
