Three Fates

was right on schedule. And she had loved it—being surrounded by art, having an almost free hand in the displaying, the acquiring, the promotion and set-up for showings and events.
    The fact was she’d begun to think of The Gallery as hers, and knew full well the rest of the staff, the clients, the artists and craftsman had felt very much the same.
    James P. Horace might have owned the smart little gallery, but he’d never questioned Malory’s decisions, and on his increasingly rare visits had complimented her, always, on the acquisitions, the ambiance, the sales.
    It had been perfect, which was exactly what Malory intended her life to be. After all, if it wasn’t perfect, what was the point?
    Everything had changed when James had forsaken fifty-three years of comfortable bachelorhood and acquired himself a young, sexy wife. A wife, Malory thought with her steel-blue eyes narrowing in resentment, who’d decided to make The Gallery her personal pet.
    It didn’t matter that the new Mrs. Horace knew next to nothing about art, about business, about public relations or managing employees. James doted on his Pamela, and Malory’s dream job had become a daily nightmare.
    But she’d been dealing with it, Malory thought as she scowled through her dark, drenched windshield. She’d outlined her strategy and it had been to wait Pamela out. To remain calm and possessed during this nasty little bump until the road had smoothed out again.
    Now that excellent strategy was out the window. She’d lost her temper when Pamela had countermanded her orders on a display of art glass, when she’d seen the perfectly and beautifully organized gallery turned upside-down with clutter and ugly fabrics.
    There were some things she could tolerate, Malory told herself, but being slapped in the face with hideous taste in her own space wasn’t one of them.
    Then again, blowing up at the owner’s wife was not the path to solid job security. Particularly when the words myopic, plebeian bimbo were employed.
    Lightning crashed over the rise ahead, and Malory winced as much in memory of her temper as from the flash. A very bad move on her part, which only showed what happened when you gave in to temper and impulse.
    To top it off, she’d spilled cappuccino on Pamela’s Escada suit. But that had been an accident.
    Almost.
    However fond James was of her, Malory knew her livelihood was hanging by a very slim thread. And when the thread broke, she was sunk. Art galleries weren’t a dime a dozen in a pretty, picturesque town like Pleasant Valley. She’d either have to find another area of work as a stop-gap, or relocate.
    Neither option put a smile on her face.
    She loved Pleasant Valley, loved being surrounded by the mountains of western Pennsylvania. She loved the small-town feel, the mix of quaint and sophisticated that drew the tourists, and the get-away crowds that spilled out of neighboring Pittsburgh for impulsive weekends.
    Even as a child growing up in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pleasant Valley was exactly the sort of place she’d imagined living. She’d craved the hills, with their shadows, their textures, and the tidy streets of a valley town, the simplicity of the pace, the friendliness of neighbors.
    The decision to someday fold herself into the fabric of Pleasant Valley had been made when she’d been fourteen and had spent a long holiday weekend there with her parents.
    Just as she’d decided, when she’d wandered through The Gallery that long-ago autumn, that she’d one day be part of that space.
    Of course, she’d believed her paintings would hang there, but that had been one item on her checklist she’d been forced to delete rather than tick off when accomplished.
    She would never be an artist. But she had to be, needed to be involved and surrounded by art.
    Still, she didn’t want to move back to the city. She wanted to keep her gorgeous, roomy apartment two blocks from The Gallery, with its views of the Appalachians, its creaky old floors and its walls jammed with carefully selected artwork.
    And the hope of that was looking as dim as the stormy sky.
    So she hadn’t been smart with her money, Malory admitted with a windy sigh. She didn’t see the point of letting it lie in some bank when it could be turned into something lovely to look at or wear. Until it was used, money was just paper. Malory tended to use a great deal of paper.
    She was overdrawn at the bank. Again. She’d maxed out her credit cards. Ditto.