Page 20 of Loss and Damages

Jemma

I feel unsettled all day. It doesn’t strike me until I sell one of Leo’s paintings to a woman passing through on her way to Minneapolis that it’s because I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.

You’d think it wasn’t that big of a deal—I should be glad to see the back of Dominic Milano as my Grandma Darcie used to say—but I’d wanted to at least tell him once more that I’m sorry about Leo.

The secret Leo asked me to keep is weighing heavily on my heart, but I don’t know what would make me confess to Dominic.

Leo’s gone and nothing I do can hurt him, but he asked me not to tell anyone, and even though he’s dead, I’d feel like a traitor if I didn’t abide by his wishes.

While I replace Leo’s painting, choosing an evening scene out of his stock in the back, I think about Dominic sitting next to me in the limo and letting me fall asleep against his chest. I don’t remember one second of the ride to Hollow Lake, or him carrying me into the cottage and laying me on my bed.

I’d slept hard until the alarm on my cell phone went off, and when I tried to open the door to cross the yard to the gallery, I realized he’d locked the door behind him.

I want to contact him, but I don’t know what I’d say. That I feel sorry for him after the conversation I had with his mother? That wouldn’t go over well. I doubt even if he was dying from dehydration in the desert he’d accept water from someone if they offered it out of pity instead of kindness.

And just to be clear, not many people are kind to Dominic Milano. Not with the way he does business.

The gallery’s landline rings ten minutes before I’m supposed to close, and I bite back a groan.

It isn’t uncommon for someone to call from the road and ask if I’ll stay open an extra fifteen minutes until they get there.

It’s always longer than that, but usually they’re so grateful they buy something to repay me.

Today I want to go home, and, I don’t know, drink a glass of wine, get tipsy enough to call Dominic, and say thank you and wish him a slurred good luck.

I wouldn’t feel much better, but I’d never have the courage to contact him sober.

I should leave well enough alone.

Huffing a laugh, I reach to answer the phone. I’m going to have to. Leave it alone, that is. I don’t have Dominic’s personal phone number and there’s no way a lowly someone like me could gain access to it.

“The Gallery on Hollow Lake, this is Jemma. How can I help you?” I lean against the counter and look outside.

The lake is calm, a family of ducks bobbing on the water.

The sun shines, hours away from setting.

It’s a typical summer evening in Hollow Lake.

Maybe I’ll change and ride my bike to town.

Stop at the ice cream parlor and buy a chocolate-dipped cone or poke my head into Becca’s shop and tell her how the benefit went.

I should do something other than sit around my cottage and mope.

“Jem, did you see the news?” Tara’s voice comes out in a breathy rush.

“No. I’ve been at the gallery all day. It was busy, but it usually is right before the Fourth of July. Why, did something happen?”

“Dominic Milano was giving, I guess it looked like a press conference or something, outside his building, and someone drove by and started shooting.”

My hand flies to my throat, and my pulse quickens under my fingertips. “Oh my God. Do you know if he’s okay?” I sound like I’m going to start crying and Tara hears it.

“Shh. Yeah, he’s okay. A protester filmed the whole thing on his phone, and in the video, it didn’t look like he was hurt too badly.

One of the reporters speculated a bullet nicked him.

A medic bandaged his arm and then a car drove him away.

No one knows what happened to him after that, but it didn’t look serious. ”

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe. “Okay. Okay. But what do you mean he was giving a press conference? During a protest? That doesn’t make any sense. He could have been killed. Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know what he was doing there on a Saturday, but he came out and the reporters who were filming the picketers started yelling questions at him.

While they talked about the shooting and the sale of the 1100 block, they showed a short clip of you guys walking into the Rosewood.

That dress looked amazing—it was totally worth the money—but you need to be careful.

If you’d spent the night with him, you could have been shot, too. ”

I skim over that part. If I’d been awake and he had asked to come in, I don’t think I would have said no. “Was Jeremy mad?”

“I wouldn’t say mad, but when I reminded him you were going to honor Leo, he said he hoped that would be the end of it. He’s worried about you. There’s a lot of tension here because of the sale, and I think the shooting outside his building is only the start.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” I say, but I can’t concentrate on what we’re talking about.

There isn’t a way for me to contact Dominic to see if he’s okay, and agitated, I swipe at the sweat that suddenly covers my forehead and try to swallow back the panic that’s bubbling up in my throat.

Tara pauses and says, “What happened between you two last night?”

“Nothing. I talked to his mother most of the night, then he brought me home. We rode in a limo and I fell asleep on the way back to Hollow Lake.” Then he carried me to my cottage like a princess and laid me on top of my bed like I was under a spell, and I have never wanted a kiss so badly in my life .

I cut off that thought as quickly as it came into my head.

“We didn’t plan to contact each other again. ”

“Why do you sound sad about that?”

Tara’s too smart for her own good. “I’m not. I mean, it would be nice to know that he’s okay, but it’s none of my business. Leo’s been gone barely two weeks and I need more time to let it go. Give me a break.” My voice cracks, and now I don’t know who I’m crying over.

She sighs. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll let you go so you can close up. Chat later?”

“Yeah. Kiss Maya for me.”

“I will.”

Tara disconnects and I gently set the receiver into the cradle.

It’s difficult to plan my days without Leo in them.

If he were still alive, he’d be waiting for me to close the gallery, and we’d have a long painting session or we’d drive into Hollow Lake and grab a bite to eat and walk along the water.

Or we’d simply stay at the cottage and just be together, sipping wine and talking.

Leo didn’t complicate things, not like Dominic whose every breath is the very definition of complicated.

Bereft, I lock the gallery’s door, flip the sign to Closed, and store the cash in my safe.

I step onto the small porch in the back and a black SUV crunches over the gravel down my narrow driveway.

It stops when the driver sees me, but I can’t tell who it is through the dark window tint.

The door opens, and I freeze as Dominic slides out of the truck.

He’s shaky, his left arm in a sling, a pair of mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes. Dressed in slacks and a dress shirt, he sags against the truck. The sun highlights a waxy sheen to his complexion.

I hurry over the grass. “My sister-in-law told me you were shot at this morning. Are you okay?”

He drags in a breath. “It’s a flesh wound, but it hurts like a son of a bitch. My doctor said I shouldn’t be alone, but I don’t... If I could...”

“Come inside. Do you have antibiotics? Pain pills? Are you nauseated? Can you eat?” I’m babbling. I’m so relieved he’s here and mostly okay I don’t know what to say and try to say it all.

“Jemma.” He slides his sunglasses off his face revealing the tired pain in his eyes, and I want to hug him. “I—”

“Come inside and sit down.” I tug on his hand, encouraging him to accept my offer. He drove all the way out here hoping to find...help, maybe, and I’m not going to let him leave until his eyes are clear and he can stand without leaning against something for support.

He shuffles across the grass and grasps the handrail as he trudges up the porch’s steps. I hold the door open and follow him inside. “Sit on the couch. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Dominic sinks onto the old sofa that belonged to my grandma and leans his head back, his eyes closed. Tension seeps out of him. It must have been a long drive out here if he’s in as much pain as he looks.

“Medication?” I ask, setting the glass of water on the coffee table.

“In my pocket. Can you?”

“Yeah.”

Leaning on a hip, he indicates which pocket, and I push my hand along his hard thigh and grab two small prescription bottles. Self-conscious, I can’t look into his eyes and instead focus on the labels and the tiny black print. “Which one?”

“I’ve taken the antibiotic already. If you could give me a pain pill and a glass of wine, I would be indebted to you.”

“Wine with a pain pill doesn’t sound like a good idea, but I’ve never been shot. Take it with the water, and I’ll pour you a glass of wine. I still have the white you left here the other night. Will that work?”

“Sounds fine, thank you.”

I tip a yellow pill into my palm and pass it into his waiting hand. He pops it into his mouth and I hold the glass until he has a firm grasp on it. He downs most of the water while I wait. “Luckily you’re right-handed,” I say, searching for something that doesn’t sound idiotic and failing.

“Always a silver lining,” he says, twisting his lips and giving the water glass back to me.

I can’t tell if he’s joking, and I twirl toward the kitchen, keeping my mouth shut.

While I uncork the bottle, he watches me. I pour a generous amount into stemless glasses thinking it will be easier for him to handle.

“Here. I can fix something light if you’re hungry. Some soup, maybe.”