Page 4 of Sweet Caroline
Why did I agree to this again?
Right. My father.
I try to catch myself before I get too worked up and swallow past the restless feeling gripping my chest. It’ll just be a few more weeks.
A month out from the election, Dad’s really been pulling out all the stops to bolster his chances at winning the governor’s seat; thelastthing the Pete Brennan campaign needs right now is a PR nightmare—like a messy breakup between the candidate’s daughter and his campaign manager. So I’d promised Dad I wouldkeep up the charade—grit my teeth and pretend to still be with my cheating ex—until votes are cast in November.
Agreeing to the ruse had been one thing. Actually having to act like nothing’s wrong at public functions, when all I want to do is stuff Fletcher’s silk ties down his smarmy throat? Let’s just say, it’s been tense.
“They can’t be drilling much longer, can they?” Julian asks no one in particular, catching me off guard. I’d almost forgotten he was in the room, perched silently near the front window like some kind of gray-haired sleeper agent. He aims his curatorial scrutiny across the street over lowered reading glasses.
“I hope not,” I say, attempting an air of cheerful optimism.
That’s when I see the painting beside him: that abstract piece he’d been eyeing—all mustard yellows and browns with little flecks of red. With all due respect for the artist, it’s run-of-the-mill. Dated. Like something you could pick up at Ikea to decorate a low-budget hotel room. Twenty years ago.
Okay, maybe that’s not my most respectful take.
The urge to scream is back in full force. What with all the hard surfaces in here, a good scream would probably get the gallery walls singing. Maybe I could achieve some kind of glass-shattering resonance with enough reverb to knock that thing off the wall.
I clench my jaw and close my eyes, reminding myself art is subjective.
“Quietest exhibition we’ve had in a long time,” Julian mutters as he flips through a Portland artist’s portfolio—the one I’d left on his desk after sorting through the mail yesterday. “The noise is driving all the foot traffic away.”
“Whatever they’re working on will wrap up soon, I’m sure,” I offer, trying not to get too gloom and doom about the next several months.
In reality, the noise is only part of the reason the gallery’s beenquiet. I’ve peeked at the pieces Julian’s considering; more abstract paintings and a few garish geometric sculptures. Nothing new. Nothing unique. A tiny piece of me dies inside; there’s so much stunning, modern art out there andthisis what he’s thinking of bringing in?
“Maybe we just need to get creative,” I say, forcing a bright, hopeful tone. “Get some new artists in, host some fun evening events, and drum up a bit more interest around town?”
Without raising his head, Julian looks up at me over his glasses.
“I have some ideas,” I add, shooting my shot. “And some incredible artists I’ve been following online. We could try featuring a few young local creatives. Something a little more… edgy. I could give you their—” I cut myself off when Julian shakes his head, the almost-fatherly dismissal all too familiar.
“Leave the curation to me, Caroline.” He shuts the portfolio, then stalks toward his office at the back of the gallery space.
I hurry to mask the way my chest deflates. “Sure. Yeah. Of course.”
Returning to my calendar app as he passes me, I try to focus on adding the registration details to each of the events lined up for next month, but I’m not really seeing the dates in front of me.
Thanks to my father’s career in the public eye, slapping on an approachable, pleasant facade has become virtually second-nature to me. But something about pretending everything’s fine these last few weeks has felt different—almost suffocating.
A jarring, metallic crash rings out, and I startle.
Equally suffocating? The relentless banging and grinding coming from that construction site. But, when I realize it was only our sidewalk sign getting knocked over by the wind, I consciously relax my shoulders and head out to fix it. Bracing myself for the auditory onslaught, I clutch at my blazer and push outside.
A gust catches the door and hurls it wide, and I have to make amad grab for my scarf to avoid losing it to the street. I snag it at the last moment, shivering as I wrap it back around my neck. It’s cold, even for early October.
Lennox Valley is known for its fall windstorms and the weather is really giving it everything it’s got today. I glance at the debris-littered road and sigh in defeat, knowing my morning run tomorrow will amount to nothing more than jumping hurdles over fallen branches. Guess it’s finally time to take the plunge and check out that gym nearby.
Stooping, I right the fallen sign, then brush a wet leaf away from the edge of the lettering.
“The Gareth Mason Art Gallery: Unleash Your Imagination.”
If only Julian would unleash his.
Or maybe I need to leash my own.
After all, it really isn’t my place to make suggestions for the gallery’s collection. My role is event planning, not curation, even if I do know a thing or two about business—and art. Julian had only agreed to hire me last year so his wife, Sunny, could start to step back from her managerial role. She’d convinced him the gallery needed fresh ideas that would appeal to younger patrons, but he was clear my job was limited to planning events, at least at first. He hasn’t been as enthusiastic as Sunny about sharing the workload.
