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 crumbled 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.