The Lost Art: A Romantic Comedy

by Jennifer Griffith

  It was kind of fun, if time-consuming.

  The even more time-consuming thing came in hairstyling. She washed and blow-dried her long, now-blonde hair. Every time she looked at herself in the mirror the first three days of the bleach-out, she reflexively pulled a terrified face. The sheer reflectivity of it accosted her eyes. But she trained herself to simply glance and insulate herself from the shock. Now she carefully twisted each strand, then gingerly wound it around a hot roller which she bought at the drug store when she went to get a refill on Tylenol Cold and Flu.

  The rollers baked her golden locks into spiraling curls that wafted down her back in amber waves and across her left eye in peek-a-boo bangs like Veronica Lake’s, but the back she pulled into a happy ponytail. She set the style with a ridiculous fog of aerosol hairspray, and then began the arduous process of getting dressed.

  Over the three days since her decision to “go for broke” on the makeover, Ava had donned dozens of clothing combinations from Zoe’s generosity. She had to agree with Zoe that some were mistakes. The sea green pinstriped pinafore, for instance. However, a lot of them were absolute stunners. Eventually Ava selected six outfits that fit and looked particularly feminine and set them aside in her closet for this week’s experiment.

  This morning she selected one, a cool white sundress with cap sleeves and Scandinavian blue embroidery around the hem. It was made from a crisp, starched cotton that was perfect for the weather. Ava put it on over the bulge-flattener underwear, which had the curious effect of improving her posture, and then selected some hemp espadrille sandals to go with it. Her old standby clogs had a definite platform on them, so walking in heels shouldn’t be territory too foreign, especially since Ava did have a measure of natural coordination. A glance in the mirror told her she looked like a sea breeze.

  It made her want to pull out her paints and put a seabird flying in the sky of her mural. But she didn’t have time right now.

  Next she pawed through the jumble of jewelry on her dresser. Zoe had eclectic taste. Ava found six necklaces of shells and seeds and bits of bright coral. Something she read online made her choose the red as an accent. Apparently researchers in Finland conducted a study where they placed pictures of women wearing different colors of clothes in front of men and asked the men to rate which women were more attractive. It didn’t matter what else about the women, but in the pictures where they were wearing red, the men invariably found the women more attractive. Invariably.

  Ava added the dash of red. She had to, if she meant to be the polar opposite of her former self.

  Along those lines, for the past three days, Ava had stood in front of the mirror, practicing. The smile couldn’t be her standby shy number with just a modest upturn of the sides of the lips. It had to flash—but in a friendly way, not a Jack Nicholson in The Shining way. After, no lie, hours of variations, she hit just the right note with it. She could close her eyes, smile the smile, open her eyes and check it in the mirror and replicate it every time. Bingo.

  With the Intrepid purchase, a free sample of a new perfume came. Perfume at first seemed way out of Ava’s comfort zone. Didn’t billows of musk belong to Harmony Billows’ realm as far as their office microcosm went? Ava thought long and hard about the decision to spray or not to spray. She put it on a piece of cardstock first, liked the floral notes, and then rolled her eyes, shut them, and atomized.

  Now she looked, walked, smiled, and smelled the part she intended to play—and she had another bullet in her chamber. Just as she put the final touches on her lip gloss and the tiny daisies on her pink painted toenails and fingernails, her oven timer beeped. When she opened the oven, the scent of her favorite hot baked cinnamon rolls engulfed her apartment. She scooped them onto a tray, covered them with frosting then plastic wrap, and gathered them along with her big beach tote to set off for the office.

  Just as she was about to step out the door, her phone rang.

  “Young.” It was Mr. Phelps, and in his usual yelling mode.

  Ava resisted the urge to bark a yes-sir like she would as an infantryman to a drill sergeant. Instead she choked it back and said in a warm, sweet voice, as sweet as the cinnamon rolls on her tray, “Oh! Mister Phelps! I’m so thrilled to hear from you. I’m just now scooting out the door of my apartment to head in to see you and everyone else. I’ve missed you all just terribly. Is there anything I can do for you before I come in? Should I stop and grab you a coffee?”

  “Young. Is that you? You sound strange. No. No coffee. I need you to get in here right away. Hot foot it. We’ve got a problem with the Hudson River exhibit. Now get going. P-r-o-n-t-o.” When he spelled he really meant business.

  “Sure thing, honey.” Was honey over the top? It sounded Southern. Phoenix was South, wasn’t it? Probably over the top, but she intended to make this entire day over the top.

  She hung up, and immediately it rang again.

  “Ava Young. You better get you and your nasty hair-in-a-bun down here fast.”

  “Why, Harmony. What are you doing in the office before 7:30? How sweet of you to call. Are you an early riser, too?”

  “Shut up, Ava. I couldn’t care less what time you drag your dark circles under your eyes out of your sorry bum bed, as long as you get here a-sap. Somebody just called and said he is coming in at eight to demand his rights or else he’s pulling out of the exhibit. Now I cannot in a kabillion years understand what is going through that billionaire playboy’s muddled brain to want you, but he insists on seeing you, and if you don’t move your be-hind I’m going to come over and haul you—oh. Excuse me. Hello, Mr. McMullen.” A crackling sound told her Harmony covered the receiver, and Ava overheard her cooing to a guest in the lobby, presumably Kellen McMullen.

  Whoa. When it hit, it really hit. Ava hung up the phone, pasted on her best practiced smile, and stepped forth into the bright Arizona sunshine as a different woman.

  Today with each step Ava told herself to really believe she was an outgoing, feminine, flirty, smiley girl. Out with the Old Crone; gone, the Robot with Breasts; gone the Ice Hag, the White Witch, the old Ava Young.

  In with the sultry new Ava Young, of the peek-a-boo bangs and the fabulous Barbie figure and the killer legs in heels. In with the Ava who could charm another million dollars out of Kellen McMullen with ease. Oh, Ava intended to give a performance so convincing even Ms. Fishbeck would be impressed.

  Enzio Valente, you’d better hold onto your tan because here I come.

  When she strolled casually into her office, she set her smile and brandished the baked goods.

  “Hello, Harmony. You said someone was here to see me this morning?”

  Harmony looked up at Ava and smiled a charming smile.

  “Oh, I don’t believe we’ve met. You are—?”

  “It’s me, Harmony. Ava. Would you like a cinnamon roll? Baked fresh this morning.”

  Harmony frowned, and her eyes narrowed. A wary arm-folding followed.

  “Excuse me? You are most certainly not Ava Young. I don’t take kindly to jokesters, and unless you show me ID immediately, I’m going to go all Post-9-11 on you and call security lickety-split.”

  Ava shook her head and whipped out her security badge from her white satin hobo purse, but it wasn’t enough to convince Harmony.

  “What do you take me for, lady? I bet you’re paparazzi stalking Kellen McMullen. What did you do with our employee? I’m calling the cops.” Harmony picked up the phone to dial, and Ava just started to laugh the best trilling little friendly laugh she could muster through the remnants of her hacking cough.

  “Harmony—really. It’s me. I’ve been sick for two weeks, and I’ve got to get back to work. I know you hate my clogs, and I know you called to tell me to get my nasty hair into a bun and get down here. I decided on a ponytail today, though. Do you like it? It’s so hot out there, gotta keep it up. How’s that for insider information? Now, Mr. Phelps called and said there was an emergency and I needed to shimmy right on down here as f
ast as my legs would carry me. Please, no cops this morning. The museum doesn’t need any negative publicity. I’d be so embarrassed for both of us. Can I get any messages left here for me, please? Have there been any?”

  Harmony humphed and peered down at Ava’s feet. She stared more intently at Ava’s face, traced the eyes with an outstretched finger in the air, shook her head in disbelief.

  “Where’s Ava?” she hissed. “Bring her back.”

  Ava just laughed her lilting laugh, patted Harmony pleasantly on the shoulder, and began to walk toward her desk.

  “If you really are Ava, there’s someone waiting for you in the conference room.”

  Instead of veering that direction to encounter, she presumed, Kellen McMullen, she made a beeline for Mr. Phelps’s office, where he sat staring at a dangerously tall pile of paperwork.

  “Mr. Phelps. Good morning.”

  He didn’t glance up, just began giving orders.

  “First, Young, I need you to meet with the donor. He’s being unreasonable and has been practically holding a vigil in the conference room. He won’t talk to anyone but you. Rumor has it he has more cash to donate but won’t unless you go somewhere with him. Is this true?” Phelps never looked up once during all this.

  “I think it might be. I haven’t been in touch with him since my last day here before the flu took its toll on me. I will go right over and see what he needs.”

  “Fine. But first, the bigger problem. There’s a threat against the exhibit.”

  “A threat, Mr. Phelps? Why, that’s just terrible.” She spoke in the compassionate voice New Ava would use. “Why would someone want to threaten our exhibit?”

  At this point, her tone must have crossed the line significantly enough that Mr. Phelps finally looked up. “To steal a painting and sell it on the black market for $100 million, that’s why.” His eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “Ava Young. Now, is there a certain painting, or are they all in danger?”

  “Really, miss. I think you should leave. Stop the joke. I’m not laughing.”

  But Ava was, on the inside, laughing. Outside, only her eyes danced.

  “Mr. Phelps, really. It is me, Young. Now, let’s not waste time. This exhibit is far too valuable, and we’ve invested way too much to let it be endangered in any way. I didn’t tell you I saw a fake Hart selling on eBay just two weeks ago for over $25,000. Imagine the price for a real Cole or Durand. We can’t conceive it. Tell me, sir. I’m sure you’ve thought of a solution, though,” she added, remembering Zoe’s email. “You’ve got such a good grasp of things.”

  Mr. Phelps, staring at her, eyes peeled, actually blushed. “Ava?”

  “Sir? Would you like a drink of water? Hot coffee? I can run right down to the vending area and bring you some. You seem shaken. Here, have a cinnamon roll. Freshly baked this morning. They’re delicious.” She slid one off the tray and onto a napkin for him and set it on his desk. When the scent of the spiced bread wafted up to his nostrils he blinked once then spoke again.

  “Right. You look different, Ava.”

  Ava smiled. “I know, I know. It was something I just wanted to do. Do you like my dress? A friend of mine sent it to me. She bought it and didn’t like it for herself, but I tried it on and I think it fits okay, don’t you?” She spun around and glanced down at the skirt then smiled again at Mr. Phelps. “Oh, but you can’t be bothered with silly things like this. There’s a threat against the Hudson River Masters paintings. Now, what were you saying?”

  Mr. Phelps cleared his throat, glanced down at his cinnamon roll, and then back at Ava. “Just go see what McMullen wants.”

  “Um, he likes me to call him Kellen, but okay.” She smiled, tossed her hair over her shoulder and glanced back at Phelps as she left his office. He was staring. Bingo. Ice Hag Ava had started to fade already.

  On her way to the conference room, she stopped by the desks of all her team members and offered each of them a hot, fresh pastry. They smiled and took them, looking at her gratefully. To each of them she said the same thing.

  “Thanks so much for covering for me while I’ve been out. The flu can be so debilitating, can’t it?”

  Each of them wore a face like a deer staring into headlights for a moment while they looked at her, and responded in puzzled mutters. Nigel alone noticed little, barely glancing at her, but with his usual suspicious glare. Madge even put her pince nez glasses onto her nose and tipped her chin up to look at Ava.

  Ava smiled—with her flash smile—at each of them and thanked them again before moving on.

  “Hello, Kellen.” She waltzed into the break room, set down her tray, and got her first in-person glance of the wealthiest bachelor she’d ever talked to. He jumped to his feet. He was a good foot taller than Ava, had strategically tousled longish brown hair, a massive frame, and wore full cowboy garb, right down to the Stetson, which he had removed when she entered the room.

  “Hell-low, Ava Young. I’d know that voice anywhere. Come here, gorgeous.” Kellen stalked toward her, swept her into his arms and kissed her mightily.

  Her first real kiss of her entire life—since the horrid one by her set-up prom date totally didn’t count—she had never, ever imagined it happening this way, from a relative stranger worth a billion dollars and right here in her office. And it was much, much better than she would have expected under such circumstances. Kellen McMullen knew his way around a woman’s lip. He was at once soft and insistent, and Ava wasn’t sure how much time passed while he made his introductions so intimately. The back of her left thigh tingled, a sensation which climbed her spine.

  After she pulled away, it took a bit of collecting to resume her equilibrium. Old Ava wanted to resurface and tell Mr. McMullen where he could take his million dollars and that she was not a commodity to be bought and sold, at any price. However, she had known Day One would be toughest as the New Ava. She couldn’t cave to pressure now, although little did she realize what a curve the world would throw at her.

  You’re acting, she told herself. Play the part. Be the girl. Sa-wing batta!

  “Now, Kellen. Mind your manners. We just met. And I’ve got a terrible cold, possibly still contagious.” She had gone completely off balance and gently patted her lips dry with the back of her hand. Some of her lipstick lay smeared across his lower lip—where he wore a wolfish grin.

  He came in for a second kiss-hello, Kellen-style, and she backed off coyly.

  “Now, sugar. You’ve got to give a girl a chance to get to know you first.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a couple of people gathering around the cubicle nearest the conference room and staring in through its fishbowl-type windows. Was Enzio Valente among them?

  “Aw, now Ava. I thought we had a deal.”

  “We did. I said I’d meet you at The Cold Toad for drinks. Not that we would make out in my office.” Her lilting laugh came out naturally this time. She lowered her chin and lashes while still looking at him and blushed. The blush came naturally, too, for a dozen reasons. “Now, tell me, Kell—can I call you Kell?—tell me what you really came down here for.”

  “Aw, it was just to sign some paperwork. Somebody from the museum called me and told me I should come on down. I figured it was a way to get to see you. You’ve been avoiding me like a bad taco, baby-doll. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  “Really, Kell. I have been sick. Ask anyone here. They haven’t seen me forever.” Or ever, at least not like this, she thought. “Now, I can try to find out who called you, and if you like, after you get done with the paperwork, I’ll show you the design I came up with for your slogan on the advertising for the exhibit. I worked real hard on it, Kell. I’m hoping you’ll like it a lot.” She gave him her warmest grin. He squeezed her hand, and then sidled up to her and squeezed her waist.

  “Anything about you, girl. I’m going to like it.” He went for her ear and she pulled away, giggling again, a sound that grated on her own ear for its hollowness. How
was she going to be able to keep this up?

  “You’re a cad, Kellen. A bounder,” Ava said, and meant it. Guys like Kellen McMullen had reputations that preceded them, and this specimen kept to his stereotype. “Now, go on. I ought to get caught up on some things before you and I meet up again. It’s a date, right? After you sign the paperwork you’ll find me? Promise?” She patted his arm, feeling his muscled bicep through the striped shirt. At least his bravado wasn’t false advertising. He did have a little manliness there to back it up.

  Kellen promised and left to take care of tax matters. It took all of Ava’s courage not to have an emotional meltdown after he left. She wanted to laugh and cry and hug herself in fear and loathing all at once. She had just passed the first real test of her new feminine self, and quite smashingly, she figured. Whoa. What kind of a pretender was she?

  A good one.

  As she left the fishbowl, the onlookers scattered, scurrying back to their desks. Some cleared their throats as she passed, almost suggestively, but no one said anything. Thank goodness.

  Later, when Kellen McMullen reappeared at her desk, he said he loved the logo design Ava came up with while he was off signing papers—of course. True to his word he liked everything about Ava and everything connected with her. While looking things over he sat slightly too close for comfort to her, and breathed a little too loudly onto her shoulder, often going in for a whiff of her hair. When he couldn’t see, she looked heavenward for strength to endure the bizarre situation.

  “Now, Kellen. Do you want to see what your generosity is bringing to all us little people here in Phoenix?” She pulled a file from her desk and opened it to show him the pamphlets from the Glastonbury. Surely Kellen had no idea what his money was buying, and he likely didn’t care, but she felt obligated to at least show the guy.