Read His Wicked Games: A Billionaire Romance (The Cunningham Family #1) Page 31
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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.