Chapter Three
Mena crossed the open lobby of the executive level of the Genesis Gallery. The soft tapping of her heels on the glossy floor echoed through the space. The traditional decor routed in island colonialism had been erased, replaced by modern twenty-first century sleek design with accents of Caribbean culture. For someone who had very little experience in art, Mena had marveled at Beaujean Ali’s progressive vision for the museum. The entire staff was inundated with his drive to relaunch the gallery to focus not just on historical art pieces, but to showcase contemporary ethnographic art. Being part of the change had made leaving behind the Fellowship at the Tribal Museum easier.
Rounding the corner, Mena passed by Irving Bond’s former office that now had her name emblazoned on the outside and made a beeline for the office of Omar Johnson, the new museum director and her best friend. She slipped through the narrow open of the partially closed door and plopped down in one of the cool turquoise chairs in front of his desk.
“No, ma’am. I don’t have time for you right now,” Omar said, raising a finger in the air and wagging it at Mena. “You roll into work three hours late and you’re already up here trying to distract me.”
Mena pressed a hand against her chest, feigning surprise. “I would never try to distract you from your work. But every brilliant museum director needs to take a mini break to grab lunch. And how did you know I was late, anyway?”
“Our boss was on the rampage looking for you and you weren’t in your workshop. I heard security giving him an update when you finally arrived,” Omar said. “You in trouble, boo.”
Mena frowned. “Any idea why he wanted to see me?”
“Nope, and I don’t even have time to speculate. Beaujean moved up the opening of Quark’s permanent exhibit by two weeks. I’m about to lose my mind trying to make sure we’ll be ready,” Omar complained.
“Brilliant move, if you ask me. Coincides with the ten-year anniversary of Quark’s signature piece that catapulted him onto the art scene,” Mena said.The Coward and the Cowwas still one of the most impressive works of Caribbean inspired neo-expressionism paintings, taking the torch from greats like Basquiat.
“Ain’t he brilliant? And sexy, too. Don’t tell Charlie I said that. He’s already sensitive about me working so close with Beaujean,” Omar said.
“Come on, I don’t want to eat lunch by myself,” Mena whined, twirling a strand of her dark hair between her fingers. “I need your advice on how to make things right between me and Julian. He says he’s planning some kind of surprise for me tonight.”
Omar slammed his pencil onto the desk and leaned toward her. “This is the only advice you need. Even though you didn’t give that man an answer to his marriage proposal, despite the fact that you love him more than anybody on this planet, which I still don’t understand, he stood by you. He didn’t make demands or pressure you. That’s the kind of man you keep, especially since he’s rich now. Stop worrying. You don’t need to do anything to keep a man that refuses to lose you. Now get out of here.”
Mena stifled a smile. She knew Omar would make her feel better. “Fine. I’ll get Regina to go to lunch with me.”
“Do not bother her. She’s triple checking inventory of Quark’s pieces for the exhibit, and I need that done in the next two hours.”
“Both of you suck,” Mena said as she left his office. Glancing toward Regina’s desk, she saw her other best friend with her head down pouring over numerous spreadsheets. Mena would have to grab lunch from the Genesis Grill and eat alone again.
Ten minutes later, she arrived at the lush entrance to the restaurant located adjacent to the gallery. The gate was adorned with hibiscus bushes with blooming flowers in bold yellows, magentas and pinks. The restaurant had always been one of her favorite places on the property. Another perk introduced by the new boss: employees ate at all gallery restaurants for free. He was even building two more casual dining options for the average tourist who visited the campus.
Mena waived at the hostess and skirted around a group of severe looking men overdressed in business suits during the heat of midday. A quick glance at the posted sign near the private dining enclaves explained it—Area Reserved for North American Neurology Conference Speakers and Panelists. Mena headed to the right, toward the bar, and away from the growing crowd of doctors and hospital administrators filing into the restaurant.
Leaning against the bar, she lifted a menu from the edge and perused the section for the daily specials.
“Salmon croquettes were always one of your favorites. I hear the chef’s version is divine. Probably still won’t hold a candle to your mom’s though.”
The hairs on the nape of Mena’s neck stood on end. Dread slithered down her spine.
North American Neurology Conference.
Neurology.
No.
This could not be happening.
Chapter Four
“It’s good to see you,” Michael said, sliding onto the barstool next to her. Handsome as ever, Dr. Michael Marsh’s bright hazel eyes danced as he looked at her. “I knew you worked at the gallery, but never thought I’d be lucky enough to run into you while I was on the island.”
It had been two months since Michael had crushed her with the devastating news that they were still married. She’d hoped he’d lied or been mistaken. A few weeks later, the lawyer she’d hired confirmed she was still legally Mrs. Michael Marsh. Her attempts to get Michael to sign divorce papers had been met with staunch resistance. He wanted to convince her to give him another chance, even though she’d made it clear that there was no future for them. Not now. Not ever. But here he was in St. Basil, her home with Julian.
“How long are you here?” Mena pushed the words from her lips. She wouldn’t make a scene. She had to keep her cool or become the fodder for museum employee gossip by the end of the day.
“Another week or so. I’m on the committee for the conference that starts next week. We’re here early to make sure everything will go smoothly. Record attendance this year. I think it’s because of this gorgeous location. Have a drink with me.” Michael beckoned for the bartender. “Bishop’s X.O. dark rum straight and a glass of pinot noir for the lady.”
A flush of heat warmed Mena’s neck. Their signature order from years ago, bar hopping in Miami and along South Beach. How many times had they shared these drinks with each other in the past? Too many to count.
