Red Hot Obsessions (19 page)

There's light in my dad's eyes now. He's as excited about the idea as I am.

“I'm going to research some logistics,” he says. “And I need you to start brainstorming a marketing plan. If we're going to do this, we need some quick turnaround time. Figure out how we're going to get the word out there. And come up with a few general layout plans for the room. We need some templates to show people who might be interested in using the space.”

This is the Dad I've missed, the one who disappeared when the bills started piling up. This is the Dad who started the Center, who helped an entire community grow and flourish beneath his hands. There's life in his eyes again, the spark of determination.

“Of course,” I say. “I'll have something for you by the end of the day.”

I turn and hurry down the hall to my office. This is it—this is our chance. If we can pull this off, we might just survive this financial ordeal. The Frazer Center for the Arts will live to see another day, and we'll do it without relying on the generosity of people like Calder Cunningham.

The thought of him makes me pause, even now. It’s been days since I got his letter, and I still can’t get it out of my mind. I still look through my mail a little too eagerly at night, hoping against my better judgment that he’s sent something else. Every time the phone rings, or even when an email pings in my inbox, I find myself yearning for some point of contact.

But there’s only been silence from Mr. Cunningham.

It’s better this way, I tell myself. I need to get over him. I need to focus on the Center right now.

But I don’t feel like I have any closure. Calder never explained the full truth in his letter. I still have no idea why the family is broke, or what this means for Calder and his sister. Garrett apparently caught wind of the matter through his work, but there’s no way I’m calling and asking about it. He mentioned that Calder struck a bargain with his editor, which means that the entire thing has been carefully covered up. The media loves a good scandal. If people find out the Cunninghams were struggling financially, the press will have a field day. I confess that in my weaker moments I’ve tried searching online for rumors or snippets of information, but apparently Calder is great at damage control. I haven’t been able to find anything.

I just hope he and his sister are all right. I remember the way his eyes sparkled as he showed me around his house. He loves that place. And why shouldn't he? It's been in his family for years. Every brick, every room, every piece of furniture has a story behind it, a memory tied to it. Just because the place is ostentatious and oversized doesn't mean it can't carry the same emotional meaning as any other home. Because that's what it is, at the end of the day—his
home.

Shit. All this time I've been thinking about what Calder could do for me. I was literally calculating prices in my head when he was giving me his tour, imagining how I might put that money to better use. Who am I to judge how someone uses their money? Why am I entitled to anything he owns?

I remember the sadness in his eye when he confessed that he sold his horse Rudolph. How many other things will he have to sell to settle his family's finances, if things are indeed that bad? It all seems so obvious now, but I was blind to it all at the time because I was only thinking about myself and what I wanted.

I lean my forehead on my hand. I suddenly feel terrible for the way I've behaved. No wonder Calder hasn't contacted me again. All this time I've been pissed at him, thinking he lied so he could use me for sex, while the entire time I've only been after his money.

But not anymore.

If there's one good thing that's come out of this situation, it's that I was forced to come up with the solution on my own. If the Center survives, it will be by the hard work of myself and my dad, not because some billionaire took pity on our situation.

I turn back to the paper spread out on my desk and pick up my pen. I'm already bursting with ideas, and I want to show Dad that we can do this.

It's time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to work.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

TWO MONTHS LATER

“What do you think?” I ask my dad.

We're standing at the doorway of the gallery, surveying the hard work of the last few days. I was up half the night draping fabric from the ceiling and setting up tables, but the result is, in my opinion, absolutely beautiful.

“It's wonderful, sweetheart,” Dad says. He's beaming, and I swear he hasn't looked this young in years.

Tonight is our very first event since opening up the gallery for rentals. A couple is celebrating their fiftieth anniversary, and they wanted the whole package: decor, tables and chairs, even use of the temporary dance floor we put down for our ballet and jazz classes. The check from tonight will fund our afterschool program for the rest of the month.

And it's not the only event we have scheduled this month. Next weekend we're hosting a Bar Mitzvah, and two weeks after that an awards ceremony for a local private high school. Assuming everything goes smoothly, I hope word of mouth will draw in even more events in the future. I’ve also been working furiously on a marketing plan when I haven’t been bouncing between my normal duties.

My dad wraps his arm around me and kisses me on the top of the head. “I'm proud of you, honey.”

I smile. It's a little too soon to say for certain, but it looks like we might dig ourselves out of our hole in the near future. I’m sure there will be plenty of kinks to work out over the coming months, but we’ve bought ourselves time, and that’s the most important thing right now.

“You should go home and get some sleep,” he tells me. “You've been overworking yourself these last few days.”

I hate to admit it, but he's right. I'm exhausted, and I'm running on adrenaline fumes right now. Last night I didn’t even bother going home. I just curled up on the old sofa in my dad’s office.

“Go on,” he urges, and I know from his expression that he won’t accept any excuses.

I grab my bag from the office and head outside to my car. Party guests are already starting to trickle in, and I wave as I make my way across the parking lot. For the first time in a long time, I feel at peace. Exhausted, but at peace.

And then I see who's leaning against the side of my Honda.

“Garrett?”

He glances up when he hears my voice.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

“Some welcome,” he replies, straightening. “I just came by to see how you're doing.”

“Garrett, I—”

“Don't do this. You've been ignoring my calls, so I wanted to give you some space, but I'm not going to let you cut me off again.”

I cross my arms. “I'm not having this conversation with you right now. Get out of my way.”

Instead of moving, he leans back against the car, blocking my path to the driver's seat.

“You mean a lot to me, Lils, you know that. I'm just trying to look out for you.”

“I don't need you to look out for me. Now move or I'm calling the police.”

“Did Cunningham tell you he had me arrested? I was just trying to make sure he wasn't taking advantage of you, and somehow I was the one who ended up in jail overnight. You don't still speak to that fucker, do you?”

I'm trying to control my anger, but I can't help myself.

“Whether I talk to Calder or not is none of your business,” I say. “And it's your own fault for ending up in jail. You shouldn't have been there.”

His eyes darken.

“I can't believe you're defending him,” he says, stepping toward me. “He's no good, Lils. You need to stay away from him.”

“Again, that's none of your business.” I fumble in my purse for my cell. “Get out of here, Garrett, or I swear I'll—”

He leaps toward me and grabs my arms, pulling me toward him.

“Please, Lily,” he begs, the anger suddenly gone from his voice. “Please. Let’s just go somewhere and talk for a while. I know I’ve made some mistakes. I know I’ve hurt you. But things are different now. Please, just come with me.”

I try to twist out of his grip. “Let me go.”

“No,” he says, pulling me closer. “I’m not letting you go until you agree to give me another chance. After everything we’ve been through together, I think you owe me that.”

“I don’t owe you anything!”

His grip on my arms tightens to the point of pain. He shakes me.

“Don’t do this to me, Lily. I love you. I always have. And you love me, too.”

“No,” I say, and then I slam my heel onto his foot. He loosens his hands, and I take the opportunity to escape from his grip.

“Stay away from me,” I say. “I don’t love you, and I don’t want you in my life anymore.”

His eyes flash. He’s angry now.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“I do. Now get out of my way.”

“No.” He lunges for me again, and this time I swing my purse at him, knocking him in the head.

“What the fuck, Lily?!” he cries.

“Get the hell away from me,” I say. “If you come near me again, if you try to call or contact me in any way, then I swear I'll have you arrested. We're over.”

I push past him and dive into the driver's seat of my car, but he reaches after me and tries to drag me back outside.

“Let me go!” I try to swing my purse at him again, but it’s too cramped. He has me halfway onto the pavement before I manage to jab my elbow up and hit him in the nose. He yowls and releases me, and I leap back into the car and slam the door behind me.

He’s still screaming at me, even as I pull out of the parking spot.

“Fuck you, Lily!” he says. “I saved you from that guy! I fucking saved you!”

I turn on my radio and crank it up, drowning out his words.

* * *

I don't go home. I go straight to the courthouse and apply for a restraining order. It won’t be official until we’re in front of a judge, but I’m hoping that being served with the paperwork will be enough to scare Garrett away in the meantime.

Afterward I'm still too jumpy to go to my apartment, so I drive around for a while. This is when I really wish I had a couple of good female friends in town. I’ve been too focused on the Center these last couple of years to have much of a social life. I could call up one of the women who works at the Center with me, but I don’t want this getting back to Dad. I don’t want to worry him or distract him from making sure everything runs smoothly at the party tonight.

Eventually I pull into a fast food restaurant. I order myself a value meal and sit eating it in the parking lot.

I'm halfway through my cheeseburger before I lose my resolve and pull out my phone. I can't help it—I need to tell someone about what just happened. I know I’m breaking every rule I set for myself, but I want to talk to Calder. I should be stronger than this, but I crave the reassurance that I did the right thing, that I'm not at fault for Garrett's insanity.

A call is too personal. Instead, I text.

You were right about Garrett. I applied for a restraining order.

I pause for a minute. There's so much I want to say to him, but I don't know how to say it. I don't know, after all this time, whether he wants to hear it at all.

Finally, I take a deep breath and add:

Forgive me for not respecting your decision about the pledge. I hope you and your sister are doing well.

I send it off before I can change my mind.

My cheeseburger is cold by the time I pick it up again. I munch on it absentmindedly. I move to the fries next, though they're soggy at this point. Only when I finish those and there’s still no reply to my text do I accept that I probably won't be hearing back from Calder anytime soon.

It doesn't matter, I tell myself. I said what I needed to say.

But did I? I’ve been thinking more about our argument in the garden. He told me I was using the Center as an excuse, and I realize now that he was right. I told myself that I engaged in his little games for the sake of the Center, but if I’m being honest, that’s not the truth at all. I played along because I wanted to. Because I wanted him.

But that’s too much to convey in a text message. And I’m not sure he’d want to hear it at this point anyway.

I take a deep breath and crumple up the food wrappers. I don’t blame him, truly I don’t. He has bigger things to deal with than our non-relationship. I only wish that thought made me feel better.

* * *

It's 11 PM when my phone goes off. I've been in bed for an hour, but as usual I'm having trouble falling asleep. When I hear the text message tone, I roll over and grab my cell off the nightstand.

The message is from Calder.

I almost delete it without reading it. Texting him this afternoon was a mistake. There's no reason to torture myself by trying to analyze his response. It won't change anything between us; it will only prolong this pathetic state I'm in.

But I cave to the temptation, of course. I open the text.

Are you okay?

I stare at it for a long time, trying to decide how I should respond—or even if I should respond at all—but my text tone goes off again before I've made my decision.

I've been worried about you.

I’m not sure if he’s being genuine, or just polite, but I respond anyway.

I’m fine now, I text.

His reply comes quickly.

What happened? Do I need to come over there?

My heart stutters at the offer. I want to say yes. I want him to come over and make me feel safe again. I want to look him in the eyes and apologize for my insensitivity. I want to share the Center’s success with him, and I want him to share his pain with me. And then I want him to take me in his arms and make me forget about everything else for a little while.

But I know it’s a bad idea.

I’m okay
, I text.

His response is immediate:
Are you sure?

Yes
. I reply, and leave it at that. It’s better this way.

He doesn’t answer, and I sigh and put the phone back on my nightstand. I’m just drifting off to sleep again when his next message comes through.

Come out to the estate tomorrow.

What?

I sit up in bed and flip on the light. I read the text three more times before I accept the fact that yes, that is what he’s asking. He wants me to come back to his house, back to the scene of the weekend I've been trying my damnedest to forget.

How do I reply to his offer?

I set my phone down on the nightstand and lie back on my pillow. I want to see him. But I also know, deep down, that I'm only dragging out the heartbreak. How, at the end of the day, do I really expect this to end?

I flip off my light without responding. Let him sweat for a while. Maybe in the morning I'll see things a little more clearly.

In the end, though, this new development only makes it harder to fall asleep. And when I do eventually drift off, I find that I dream only of him.