“And?”
“He’s not having any of it,” I say.
“Then screw him,” says Margot. “At least just give it the rest of the week, and if it’s too unbearable after that, then maybe we’ll all go back to L.A. I know Sylvia would be happy about that.”
My bravery is really off the charts this morning, and I’m on a roll.
“About Sylvia…” I say.
“What about her?” asks Margot, pulling down her sunglasses to peer at me over the top of the rims. I’ve really got her attention now.
“I’ve got another confession to make.”
Margot takes her sunglasses all the way off and leans forward on her chair. There’s no turning back now, so I tell her about what I think happened to Sylvia’s plate full of food.
“All I know is that Stirling came down with the empty plate Saturday morning, and that there’s no way Sylvia ate all of that food. But honestly, sis, I don’t think Damon would have let anything happen between them.”
“Ugh, that girl. But neither do I.”
“He probably kept the plate and sent her crying back to her room.”
“More like snarling,” she says and reaches into a briefcase by her feet that I didn’t see. “Come on. I know you’ve got your shit together, but as a Board Member, I had some reports pulled. I’m not trying to usurp you, and I don’t have any illusions about saving either of the stores. But if the ship is going down, I hope we can ease it down gracefully, and keep the captain from sinking with it, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean, and I’m dying to get your input. We’ve got to figure out how to get him to accept what’s happening and rein him in, so he doesn’t spoil what’s left of his meager retirement assets.”
“That and how to keep Em from sucking those assets right up for herself,” adds Margot.
We spend the rest of the morning in lounge chairs by the pool alternately strategizing about Father’s ruined business, and laughing over childhood memories, the good ones, anyway.
11
Damon
I’mout of breath and completely rattled by my own behavior by the time I get back to my studio. My heart pounds with relief that no one else in the house was up and about when I came back in.
I start to head into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face and get a hold of myself. But I don’t think I can stand to look at what I’ll find in the mirror. Instead, I sit on the couch and, elbows on my knees, I rest my forehead in my hands.Jesus, when did you become such an asshole, Dan?I ask myself. I can’t believe I behaved so violently toward Amanda. I mean, I have every right to be angry at her for the way things went down five years ago. But to let my anger get the best of me that way was completely uncalled for.
It’s true, I’ve never gone to counseling, but I’ve always been able to channel the anger I felt toward Amanda into my work, until now. This isn’t like me, and I need to find a way to deal with it.
Like a magical talisman, my phone buzzes on the coffee table in front of me. I’d left it behind when I went down to the beach this morning. I lift it to see that not only is it Nan calling, but that she’s already called twice this morning while I was on my walk. God bless her, she’s always had a sixth sense about when I need her, even if she is probably just calling about work.
“Nan—”
“Oh my God, Damon, you won’t believe what’s happened.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Good grief, you sound like shit. Are you okay? Did I call too early?”
“Not really, and kind of, but whatever. What’s going on?”
“Your world just got a little bigger this morning. News travels fast, and it seems that any artist that the Pershing Gallery is courting immediately shows up on the radar of its rivals—in Paris and London!”
“Nan, you know I’ve always considered Paris galleries to be too snooty.”
“I know,” she says, “But the Rochard doesn’t want you for its Paris Gallery—they want you for the space in Provence, which is sohotright now. And Sainsworth is a sweet little space in London’s Chelsea area. Talk about starting a new chapter after this disaster, it doesn’t get any better. And the best part is, if you do double dates at both competitor galleries, you’ll still have Pershing salivating to be the first New York gallery to get you next.”
Nancy’s words have my head spinning, because of how true they are. This mishap with the gallery didn’t just force me to become a squatter in my own house. It’s shown me that the last five years, while they’ve been my most successful as an artist, they haven’t formed a truly new chapter since Amanda broke up with me. They’ve just been a sort of an interim purgatory I’ve kept myself in trying to avoid the hell of a broken heart. The realization that I haven’t really healed, but instead just created some really emotionally-charged paintings, hits me like a tidal wave.
