An Excerpt from SEEMINGLY PERFECT

            As opening nights went, this one resembled the Titanic just as it clipped the iceberg.

            Twisting the stem of a wineglass between her thumb and forefinger, Victoria Carlyle Bentley surveyed the chaos around her and felt herself sinking. Prickles of irritation teased her neck, and her constant smile edged toward brittle. From the Diet Coke an excited patron splashed on a canvas to the wastebasket her summer intern accidentally set on fire to a celebrity wannabe’s Chihuahua that peed all over the floor, practically everything that could go wrong tonight already had.

            She hoped.

            Clients and strangers packed her Jasmine Gallery for the opening of Sean Roarke’s collection of abstract and, okay, mildly bizarre paintings. Thank God for decent weather. Minneapolis didn’t always offer balmy evenings on the twentieth of May, and foot traffic in the North Loop depended on them.

            Pursing her lips, Vic watched her summer intern, Hope McCulloch, wobble a drink-filled tray. She took a step toward Hope, intent on shifting the tray to steadier hands, just as someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned, and a sigh escaped her.

            Mother. “Who’s that girl, Victoria, and what has she done to her hair? Does she actually work for you? She looks so—” Her nose wrinkled. “Young, for one thing.”

            Vic closed her eyes, but she couldn’t erase the vision of Hope’s blue, purple, and blond spiked hair. She also couldn’t turn down the volume on the formidable Patrice Carlyle. “She’s my summer intern, Mother, and it’s her first week. College students often like to be creative with their hair.”

            Vic wondered again what had happened to Hope’s shoulder-length blond hair or to the competent young woman she’d interviewed on a Zoom call a few weeks ago. If Hope’s work tonight was any indication, her first week at the gallery would be her last.

            Mother made a tsking sound. “Can she handle that tray? I think you should let someone else take it. She looks clumsy.” Before Vic could respond, Mother’s gaze swept the room. “Sean painted all of this . . . what do you call it? Abstract art? I’m more accustomed to—”

            “Now, now, Patrice.” Vic’s dad joined them, none too soon, murmuring just loud enough for Vic and her mother to hear. Quite unlike Mother, whose voice must’ve carried to St. Paul. “It’s not every day that Vic hosts an opening for her assistant, and I suspect it’s not quite as easy as you think.”

            “But Warren—”

            “Let her do it. Vic can take care of herself.”

            Vic smiled her thanks as Dad led Mother away, shushing her protests. She glanced across the room, saw a couple of her favorite clients frown when Hope spoke to them, and headed in their direction to make sure the situation was under control.

            “Vic! One sec?”

            The voice, and the hand grasping her elbow, belonged to Sean, her highly capable assistant and tonight’s artist of the moment. In retrospect, she almost wished Sean had held his opening at someone else’s gallery, where someone else’s assistant would be handling all the minor catastrophes that sometimes accompanied an art opening.

            She turned to him, sizing up his anxiety level. Medium to spilling over. “You should be meeting and greeting, Sean, not handling crises. That’s my job tonight.”

            He ran his fingers through his short brown hair. “Too much is going wrong, and I haven’t seen any art critics.”

            She shrugged, acknowledging the unforeseen problems. “I must’ve given Hope more than she could handle, especially considering the large turnout. My mistake, and I’ll deal with it.”

            He glanced around the room. “Is Ryder coming?”

            “Sorry, I’m not expecting him.” Vic frowned, thinking of the excuses her husband always gave for skipping her opening nights. It would be just like him to show up, finally, on the worst opening night she’d ever experienced.

            Despite herself, she looked toward the front door, wondering if Ryder might appear. Her jaw dropped. “No. It can’t be.”

            Sean’s gaze followed hers. “What? You know the hot guy?”

            Vic caught another glimpse of the man near the door. Tall, with longish brown hair, wearing jeans and a polo shirt in a room filled with dress shirts and jackets. As their gazes briefly locked, her hand flew to her throat. Jake? She hadn’t seen him in twenty years.

            She hadn’t planned on ending that streak tonight.