Page 11 of Loss and Damages

Jemma

All day I keep expecting Leo to pull up in front of the gallery, his happy gait coming up the sidewalk to the porch, his eyes glittering with excitement for his next painting.

He drew inspiration from everywhere. The long walks we took after I closed the gallery, the flicker of a flame in the firepit, the gentle fluttering of a butterfly’s wings.

As an artist, my grandma opened my eyes to many things, and as I grew older, she never let me lose the wonderment of childhood.

Leo made me see things I’d forgotten since she died.

The way a caterpillar’s body bunched up as it moved, dew beading on a leaf, the delicate flight of a ladybug, the perfect points of a snowflake.

I could go on for a million days and never list all the things Leo reveled in.

He loved life as much as he loathed it.

I help customers by rote, accept new sculptures from the woman who lives in town, and rearrange some of Leo’s paintings.

I have a few in the back, and I switch out a couple, keeping the walls fresh.

It’s busy work, but rearranging jewelry and my china keeps the gallery from feeling monotonous and the repeat customers have something new to find.

I’ll need to seek out another artist after Leo’s paintings are gone.

Gloria’s question rubs at me. Should I have told Dominic about his brother’s art?

Leo asked me not to reveal his identity, wanting his art to be accepted for what it was and not who he was, but we never talked about what he’d want me to do if he passed away.

We never spoke about death or dying and I have no idea what his wishes would have been in this particular instance.

I’m balancing my register and reporting the credit card totals when a car parks in front of the gallery, and I hold in a sigh.

A customer is always a good thing, but it will keep me longer and if they buy something, I’ll have to close out all over again.

I’ve been looking forward to a glass of wine all day.

Leo’s death drags its claws down my back, and I can’t find any escape. I was thinking of soaking in the tub tonight, maybe in the dark, or lighting a scented candle. I need to find peace because I feel like grief and loneliness are slowly driving me insane.

I haven’t locked the door or flipped the Open sign to Closed and the little bell jingles merrily, the exact opposite of my mood.

Dominic Milano steps through the door and my heart starts to race when his eyes meet mine. He’s gorgeous, and today I’m brave enough to study his face. There are hints of Leo there, in his eyes and jaw, but Dominic’s more built, broader shoulders, sturdier, in a way I can’t describe.

Today he’s dressed casually, slacks, yes, but he’s not wearing a suit jacket and his dress shirt’s not as crisp, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

It’s warmer, and he could have forgone the jacket in favor of the temperature.

His hair is fastened away from his face again, and scruff covers his jaw.

How do women find the courage to date him? How would any woman feel his equal?

I swallow, my throat raw. “Mr. Milano.”

He huffs a laugh, and I fight the urge to bristle. What does he want me to call him?

“Miss Ferrell. You’re looking well.”

I’ve been trying, doing my hair and makeup, the shimmery lip gloss that looks cheerful even though I can’t bring myself to smile.

“Thank you. What can I do for you? Another tea set? A sculpture, perhaps? A necklace for...a girlfriend?”

I wince. I sound like I’m trolling.

His eyes dart around the gallery and land on one of Leo’s paintings.

No one would know it’s Leonardo Milano’s—he never signed his name at the bottom of anything he did.

He used his initials, LAM, but I doubt Dominic would put two and two together without being told.

Not after the things Leo’s told me about his family.

His gaze shifts back to me. “I was hoping for a moment of your time.”

I pause. “I suppose that would be okay.”

“Can we go somewhere more comfortable?”

I resist raising my eyebrows. I don’t want to look like an idiot.

More comfortable? What does he mean? I’m aware the gallery doesn’t have a place to sit, nothing but the window seat, but I use that space to feature my china.

The chairs on the porch look over the lake, but they also face the road.

I’m guessing when he said comfortable, he also meant private.

Which actually is a good thing because Gloria will be riding by with Coco in her basket any minute.

“Sure. Let me, I just have to close out—” Jesus Christ Almighty. I need to get it together. He’s used to women fawning over him, but I don’t need or want to do that. I’m not interested in Dominic Milano. No matter how handsome he is, he scares the crap out of me.

I have to count the cash twice because I’m too nervous to do it accurately the first time and I run the credit card report.

He walks around the gallery and stops in front of the painting Leo did right before he died.

It’s of the lake, stormy, cattails quivering in the breeze, grey clouds in the sky.

He’d been down the day he painted it, something about Dominic, and he’d finished it in one evening, finally dropping into my bed at two in the morning, only to rouse himself at four and drive home.

“We can go through the back and talk at my cottage, if that works.”

“Thank you.”

He’s polite, I’ll give him that, even if I feel like he’s undressing me with his piercing stare.

I lock the front door, flip the sign to Closed, and lead him to my office.

Unnerved and trying hard not to be, I try three times to open the safe to store my deposit bag. I don’t stop by the bank more than once a week because I don’t generate much in cash, and I’ve never been afraid of keeping my deposits onsite between drops.

He looks around my little office with interest, but it’s not much.

A desk and a laptop where I keep track of my sales, not only for myself, but for the other artists I sell on commission.

When the last of Leo’s paintings sell, I’ll add up his sales and, I don’t know, mail a check to his family.

The secret will be out then, but I would never feel right keeping money that didn’t belong to me.

I lock the back door, and waiting, he stands in the grass, a hand in his pocket.

He doesn’t fit in here, and I feel like a hick who doesn’t know how to eat with a fork. Leo never made me feel like this, and I resent Dominic for doing it.

I don’t want him to stay long, but my grandma’s manners are embedded in me as much, or even more than, her love of painting, and I ask as we walk up my porch steps, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“That would be great, thanks.”

Not wanting him in my cottage, I barely open the door wide enough to let myself in and close it firmly behind me.

I want to change out of my dress, but I want to find out what he wants as quickly as possible and then ask him to leave.

I keep my dress on, pour wine, and dammit all to hell, dump a bag of parmesan and garlic popcorn into a bowl.

I doubt he’ll have any—Dominic Milano eating popcorn? —but I do it anyway.

Through the storm door, he sees me coming, and opens it for me. “Thanks. Here. It’s a blackberry wine I buy at a local winery. It’s my favorite.”

Our fingers brush as he wraps his hand around the wineglass, and startled, it’s all I can do to keep a hold of my own glass and not drop the popcorn bowl onto the porch.

“I can’t picture Hollow Lake having a winery.”

Sinking gratefully into my wooden rocking chair, I say, “I don’t know how that works. I’m not a vintner. I prefer to support them.”

Dominic settles into the chair Gloria sits in when we chat, and taking a small sip, he tastes the wine. In his hand, the wineglass doesn’t look as small as my teacup, but it looks just as fragile.

“Indeed.”

“Why are you here?” His presence is getting on my nerves. He belongs on a yacht sipping Cristal, not on my weathered porch drinking wine that costs twelve dollars a bottle. I grit my teeth.

He rests his elbows on his knees and squints into the distance, my wineglass cradled gently between his palms.

Finally, after what seems like forever, he says, “I’m not sure.

Looking for a piece of my brother? He didn’t tell us about you, and I didn’t know he was seeing someone.

If he hadn’t kept your gallery’s brochure, I never would have found out he was driving home from here the night he died.

He was, wasn’t he? Driving home after spending time with you? ”

“Yes. He never spent the night. He insisted on leaving, no matter how late it was. I asked, but he always said no.” I press my lips together and look away. I’m going to start crying, and once I start, I’m not going to be able to stop.

I can’t hold them in, and tears run down my cheeks. I set my wineglass near the popcorn bowl and hide my face in my hands. I’m embarrassed to cry in front of Dominic, in front of a man Leo said was barely a brother.

“It’s not your fault. The police think it was a deer.”

“I know.” I wipe my palms on my dress. “I watched the news. That’s what the reporter said.”

“I’m sorry you found out that way.”

“Thanks.” I gulp the rest of my wine. “Excuse me, I need more.” I grab the bottle where I left it on the counter and bring it outside. I fill my glass and offer to top off his.

“Thank you.”

Between the two of us we’ve already finished the bottle. Luckily, I buy it by the case.

“You said before you weren’t dating, but you were seeing each other.”