in her short lifetime. I’d call it bad luck, but it went beyond that. Her mother had bailed—simply never returned one day, nor had she appeared to ever give Summer a second thought. Her father had been taken in the most grueling, painful way. She never asked for much, was typically the kind of woman who was happy with what she had, but somehow life always came up short. Our families all considered her their own, but that was hardly the same as having blood kin.
She almost gave up once, almost let the depression win. If I hadn’t found her, she might not be here now. Four years and I still couldn’t erase the image from my head, the panic from my chest.
Christ. If anyone deserved a break, deserved to be happy, it was Summer. Maybe Matt could do that for her. Even though the thought ate away at me, ultimately, that’s all that mattered to me...that she was happy. And still breathing.
Summer
“ I emailed you the seating arrangements.” Eric Holcomb’s deep, penetrating voice boomed over the phone.
I leaned back in the computer chair upstairs in my studio-slash-office, pulling up the attachment. Eric was the director at Charlotte’s downtown art museum and we were going over the last of the preliminaries for my benefit. This was my fifth year working with him. Eric was a handsome man in his early forties and as hospitable as he was gay. His life mate, Edward, was an accountant at the same firm as my friend Rick.
“I got it.” I skimmed the attachment. “Looks good, except you seated the mayor next to the school board director. I’d rather not have any arrests at the event.”
He laughed. “I’ll fix that.” I listened as he shuffled papers. “The caterer wants to know if you want the same options as last year.”
I mulled that over. “No. The beef wellington wasn’t too popular. The chicken kiev with asparagus spears and roasted potatoes are fine, as we discussed, but add a fish option and email me for approval. Maybe salmon. Dessert? What’s she got planned?”
“Tiramisu and raspberry sorbet torte.”
“Tell her to add another option. Something with chocolate.”
“Okey dokey. Moving on, how much wall space do you need? I reserved the vault to take down the paintings in the west entry hall.”
“That worked well last year. It was nice to have that divider between the dinner and the art auction. People can walk through and bid before being seated.”
Eric cleared his throat. “Now, missy, I need the last of your pieces if you want them matted and ready to go.”
The Charlotte Art Museum ate the cost of framing my paintings, the donated paintings by local artists, and my students’ pictures, as my auction was good PR for them. Each dinner ticket paid for the caterer, and anything over that amount the museum kept. We had set the difference for each plate at twenty a head over this year, and with one-hundred and fifty in attendance, the museum would be left with a nice chunk of change for their trouble. All proceeds from the auction went to me for my programs and the pediatric cancer research network. There were also a lot of donations mailed in through the press kits we send out.
“I have two more of my paintings for you.” I mentally went through what I had available. “I’ll drop them off tomorrow. I’m hoping to have the last three in two weeks.”
He uttered an unbelieving, “Uh huh.”
“I promise, oh Great Lord Eric,” I teased. “How many donations from local artists are there?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s it?” Leaning forward, I started to panic. That wasn’t anywhere near the thirty we had last year.
“Don’t worry your perfect, caramel latte-colored head over it. The Observer isn’t doing the article until Sunday. You’ll get more donations and drop-offs then.”
“All right. Okay. I hope I don’t have to make up the difference. That’s not a lot of time to get decent work done.” Scrolling through the rest of his attachment, I leaned back in my chair.
She almost gave up once, almost let the depression win. If I hadn’t found her, she might not be here now. Four years and I still couldn’t erase the image from my head, the panic from my chest.
Christ. If anyone deserved a break, deserved to be happy, it was Summer. Maybe Matt could do that for her. Even though the thought ate away at me, ultimately, that’s all that mattered to me...that she was happy. And still breathing.
Summer
“ I emailed you the seating arrangements.” Eric Holcomb’s deep, penetrating voice boomed over the phone.
I leaned back in the computer chair upstairs in my studio-slash-office, pulling up the attachment. Eric was the director at Charlotte’s downtown art museum and we were going over the last of the preliminaries for my benefit. This was my fifth year working with him. Eric was a handsome man in his early forties and as hospitable as he was gay. His life mate, Edward, was an accountant at the same firm as my friend Rick.
“I got it.” I skimmed the attachment. “Looks good, except you seated the mayor next to the school board director. I’d rather not have any arrests at the event.”
He laughed. “I’ll fix that.” I listened as he shuffled papers. “The caterer wants to know if you want the same options as last year.”
I mulled that over. “No. The beef wellington wasn’t too popular. The chicken kiev with asparagus spears and roasted potatoes are fine, as we discussed, but add a fish option and email me for approval. Maybe salmon. Dessert? What’s she got planned?”
“Tiramisu and raspberry sorbet torte.”
“Tell her to add another option. Something with chocolate.”
“Okey dokey. Moving on, how much wall space do you need? I reserved the vault to take down the paintings in the west entry hall.”
“That worked well last year. It was nice to have that divider between the dinner and the art auction. People can walk through and bid before being seated.”
Eric cleared his throat. “Now, missy, I need the last of your pieces if you want them matted and ready to go.”
The Charlotte Art Museum ate the cost of framing my paintings, the donated paintings by local artists, and my students’ pictures, as my auction was good PR for them. Each dinner ticket paid for the caterer, and anything over that amount the museum kept. We had set the difference for each plate at twenty a head over this year, and with one-hundred and fifty in attendance, the museum would be left with a nice chunk of change for their trouble. All proceeds from the auction went to me for my programs and the pediatric cancer research network. There were also a lot of donations mailed in through the press kits we send out.
“I have two more of my paintings for you.” I mentally went through what I had available. “I’ll drop them off tomorrow. I’m hoping to have the last three in two weeks.”
He uttered an unbelieving, “Uh huh.”
“I promise, oh Great Lord Eric,” I teased. “How many donations from local artists are there?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s it?” Leaning forward, I started to panic. That wasn’t anywhere near the thirty we had last year.
“Don’t worry your perfect, caramel latte-colored head over it. The Observer isn’t doing the article until Sunday. You’ll get more donations and drop-offs then.”
“All right. Okay. I hope I don’t have to make up the difference. That’s not a lot of time to get decent work done.” Scrolling through the rest of his attachment, I leaned back in my chair.
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