*Three days later, I’m helping out in one of the Center’s art classes. Marie, who usually leads the children’s programs, is out sick. I suspect we’ll lose her to another job in the near future anyway.
I lean over the shoulder of one of our regulars, an enthusiastic seven-year-old named Erin. We’re working with watercolors today, and she holds up her work-in-progress.
“It’s a garden, Miss Lily,” she says. “Like the one in my book.”
“It’s beautiful. You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?”
She beams at the compliment.
“Look, those are the roses,” she says, pointing them out. “And these are the daisies and these are the tulips. And here’s the cat. He likes to sit next to the fountain.”
I smile at her, trying to ignore the pang I feel in my stomach. I was in a garden like this only a few days ago—minus the cat, admittedly—and I’d thought it was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen.
But I’m not supposed to be thinking of that. Or him.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her again.
She grins and picks up her brush once more, and I turn to the boy sitting at the table next to her.
“And what are you painting, Ben?”
He shows me his artwork, which features a T-rex attacking a fighter plane. I smile.
“That’s awesome!” I say. I give him a high five.
I remember when Ben first started attending classes with us. Both of his parents work late, so they signed him up for our after-school program. For the first several sessions, he refused to take part in the activities. He said art was dumb and “for girls.”
Now, though, he’s often the first one diving into our supplies for the day. A couple of times his mom has had to literally drag him away from the table at the end of the session.
I look around the room. Ben’s story isn’t unusual around here. The Frazer Center has impacted the life of every child in this room—and hundreds of others of all ages besides. What will happen when this place is gone?
It’s not that I believe they won’t explore other hobbies, or find equally productive uses of their time—but how can I not bemoan the loss of these smiles, this enthusiasm?
I return to the front of the room and sit down to watch the children work. I’m exhausted. I’ve spent every night since my return tossing and turning, trying to brainstorm some magic solution to our monetary problem. I’ve been here every morning at seven, and I’ve taken to the phones as early as it’s socially acceptable, calling every contact I could find. I’ve tried begging, I’ve tried offering incentives—everything I can think of. But people are either unwilling to give or have already given as much as they can. In this economy, I’m grateful for everything we can get, but it’s just not enough.
I sigh. There’s no way around it. I know Dad is hesitant to even consider it, but I think we’re going to have to cut back significantly on our program offerings if we’re going to hold on. We’ve done our fair share of fundraisers, but no single event save Arts & Hearts has ever come close to matching the pledge we would have received from the Cunninghams. And fundraisers require manpower and many hours of planning and preparation, but we’re low on those, too.
I nibble on my nail. At least focusing on the Center’s problems keeps my mind from straying to this past weekend. Garrett’s called several times since I left him back at the Cunningham estate, but I let all of them go to voicemail. Calder hasn’t tried to contact me at all.
But why do I care if he contacts me, anyway? We were just fucking. Nothing more. He lied to me and he used me, and that’s not something I can forgive easily.
His accusations still haunt me. The Center is just an excuse. You’ve buried yourself in this little mission of yours so you don’t have to think about how you really feel or what you really want.
Is that true? I’ve sacrificed a lot for this place—a social life, a decent income, and no small amount of sanity—but I have genuine personal stakes in its fate. And an even deeper interest in the emotional well-being of my dad. True, I’ve thrown myself even deeper into the Center’s affairs since Garrett and I broke up, but it seemed like a healthy thing to do at the time. It gave me a distraction, a purpose, an emotional anchor. It’s my passion, but that doesn’t mean I can’t emotionally invest in other things, too.
Except when it comes to Calder. How could I even consider it when he was actively responsible for the Center’s current situation? I think that’s a fair reason to hold back from him.
But I’m not supposed to be thinking about him. I need to focus on the Center right now.
“Lily?”
When I glance up, my dad is standing in the doorway.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, pulling up a chair beside me. “You’ve seemed a little preoccupied since you’ve been back.”
I force a smile. “I’m fine, Dad. Just trying to figure out a way to get us out of this.”
He watches me for a moment. “No. I think it’s something else.”
I look down at my lap. He was always really good at reading me. It must be some super-parent sense or something. I’ve been rather closed-mouthed since my return. When I confessed to him that I hadn’t been able to secure any more money, he was so completely crestfallen that I couldn’t bear telling him the rest of the truth.
I mean, what was I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, Dad, I lied to you about where I was going this weekend. I went to see Calder Cunningham, even though you asked me not to. And oh yeah, I slept with him a few times. Oh, and while I’m making confessions, I don’t think Garrett will be helping us out after all.
I’m ashamed even now of my behavior. Just seeing the hope and trust in my dad’s eyes makes me sick to my stomach.
“What’s going on?” he prompts. “You can tell me.”
That’s just it, though. I’m not sure I can. There’s no way I’m telling my dad about everything that went on this weekend. There is one thing I can talk to him about, though.
“Dad, I don’t want Garrett helping us. I know he found us some money, and I’m grateful for that, but I can’t do it. And I promise I’m not being petty. If it were just old feelings I’d suck it up for the sake of the Center. But he’s…” How much can I say without worrying him? “He’s done some things this past week that have made me very uncomfortable.”
My dad considers this a moment.
“I understand,” he says finally. “I knew it would be hard on you. It wasn’t fair of me to ask that in the first place.” He glances around the room. “Sometimes I get so caught up in this place that I forget the important things.”
“It’s not—you had no way of knowing,” I say quickly, trying to drive that guilty look from his eyes. “If it were anyone else, I’d just deal with it. But Garrett…”
“What has he done? Something I should know about?”
I take a deep breath. “He thought me asking him to help was an invitation to come fully back into my life. If you knew how many times he’s called me, what he’s said…”
“He’s been harassing you?”
Harassing. I remember how Calder accused me of that very thing after all of my calls and letters and emails. I freaking broke onto his property, for crying out loud. Am I really any better than Garrett, in the end?
“It’s just caused more problems than it will help,” I reply diplomatically.
“I’ll call him and tell him we won’t be needing his assistance,” my dad says.
It only makes me feel a little better. I haven’t seen him here at the Center since I’ve returned, but I know this isn’t over yet. But I don’t tell my dad how uneasy I am, how I’ve been a jumble of nerves these past few days.
“Thank you,” I say simply.
My dad nods and turns back to watching the children. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just watch our charges laugh and chatter and create.
When my dad does speak, his voice is so soft that I hardly hear the question at all.
“When do we give up?”
I look at Ben, who’s adding a Pterodactyl to his dinosaur picture, and Erin beside him, who’s painting a princess next to her explosion of flowers. I reach over and grab Dad’s hand.
“Never,” I answer, just as quietly. “Not until the very end. Not until they make us.”
*
It’s a week before I get the letter. At my apartment, not the Center, same as the last one. I find it among my other mail when I get home, and I read it as I sip the tea I’ve been using to help me sleep.
Dearest Ms. Frazer,
I am deeply sorry for the events of last weekend. It was never my intention to mislead you—if you recall, I was adamant from the first that I had no intention of giving you the money. I’ll admit I would have been in a bind had our wagers come out the other way, but as they did not, this issue is of far less significance. I owe you nothing, and whether or not I actually have the means in my possession is of little consequence in that matter.
As for the other events of this weekend, I never had any reason, I thought, to doubt your own desires. If at any point I believed you were not enjoying our little games, I would have ceased them immediately. I’m deeply sorry if I misread the situation.
Regarding your friend who arrived just before your departure—I highly recommend that you acquire a restraining order, for your own protection. I had him detained on charges of trespassing, but that will not keep him, I suspect, from contacting you in the future. Please be safe and take wise course in this situation.
Sincerely,
Calder Cunningham
There’s no lawyer’s signature on this one, but that makes it no less impersonal. He’s just trying to cover his ass. This is an entire letter of excuses.
I crumple it into a ball and throw it in the garbage. Did he really believe this was an acceptable apology?
The real question, though, is why he would send such a letter in the first place. There’s no call to action at the end, no invitation to contact him or indication that he means to contact me again. There’s no mention of our argument in the garden, either. Was this just a way to assuage his guilty conscience? To convince himself on paper that he wasn’t at fault for this entire situation?
I’ll admit I should have paid attention to the warning signs from the beginning. I noticed the lack of security and other employees. And Calder told me himself about selling his boat and his horse. His financial situation seems obvious now, but that doesn’t relieve him of his mistakes.
Deep down, though, in spite of my anger, it still hurts. It’s my own fault for letting my feelings get involved, I know, but acknowledging that doesn’t lessen the sting. And there’s the crux of it: despite what he claimed, I did feel something when I was with him.
I don’t want to admit it, but I’ve been waiting for him to contact me. I’ve always thought myself a very logical, reasonable person, but even though I know it’s ridiculous, I’ve been hoping for some grand, romantic gesture, some apology to end all apologies. Every day that’s gone by without word from him has been a torture.
But when did I become one of those women who agonizes over the fact that a man hasn’t called? Calder and I agreed that what happened between us was only physical. We’re not dating. We’re certainly not in love. Yes, I allowed myself to start feeling things I shouldn’t, but that’s my own fault. I can’t expect him to suddenly change his emotions because I can’t seem to control my own.
It’s a mess, this whole thing. And at the end of the day, no matter what I tell myself, I still end up hoping that he’s in as much agony as I am, that he’s just as disturbed by the fact that I haven’t called him.
I’m pathetic, that’s what I am.
Which is why this letter is so painful. This letter makes it quite clear where he stands on the entire issue. Forget those moments where he started to open up to me this weekend, when I thought I glimpsed something deeper. Forget the intense physical connection I felt when we were wrapped around each other. I’ll be incredibly surprised if he ever contacts me again.
Life goes on, I tell myself.
I’m not done with my tea yet, but I don’t care. I open the trash can once more and flip the rest of my drink on the crumpled letter, just in case I feel the urge to pull it out and read it again.
*
A week later, I’m standing in the Center’s gallery. It’s nothing like the elaborate room in the Cunningham mansion, but I’ve always been proud of the space. The walls feature work from local artists of all disciplines, including several names that have been popping up in collectors’ circles. There’s also a corner dedicated to pieces created by our students—everything from the finger-painting masterpieces of the preschoolers to the charcoal drawings produced in one of our master classes.
I stroll down the length of the room, alternately admiring the artwork and surveying the space. We use this room for a number of our classes and larger events. And every February, of course, it’s turned into a proper ballroom for our Art & Hearts fundraiser. Every year at the event, guests come up to me and my dad and compliment the space. It’s amazing what some well-placed decor and appropriate lighting can do for a room.
I stop in the center of the floor and turn around. Given the right amount of attention, you could do a lot of things in here.
The idea hits me hard and suddenly. I turn once more, taking it all in.
How the hell did I not think of this before?
I rush to find my dad. He’s in his office, of course, bent over a stack of invoices.
“Dad,” I say, out of breath.
He glances up, his eyebrows quirked quizzically.
“The gallery,” I say. “I was thinking—can we rent it out? For events?”
He sets down his pen, thinking. “That’s an idea.”
“Think about it. It’s a large space, and it’s easy to adapt and decorate. We have a lot of flexibility over the lighting and layout. We have tables and chairs we can include as part of the rental fee. We have the retractable stage we use for recitals—”
“And a decent sound system,” he says, nodding now. “And I’m assuming most events are on the evenings and weekends, when we aren’t using the room anyway.”
“We can black out any dates we have recitals or gallery shows. It’s a fun, unusual space, I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who want a unique alternative to a hotel ballroom or something.”
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.