In the trove of dresses from Zoe, Ava found a pale pink shirt dress with flutter sleeves and a bow tied at the waist. It went great with a pair of pink pumps in the shoe pile. The heels on them were ridiculously high, but she loved the peep toe and the bow across the front so she risked it and slid her feet in, then stood to look in the full length mirror in her room. Whoa. Ava still couldn’t believe the bra-size issue. Every time she hooked those four hooks across her back or caught a glance of her body’s profile, she gasped in shock.
She texted Zoe. Ever heard of CBTAS?
Zoe texted back. Sure. Everyone has. I did a story on it for the station.
Ava texted. So is it real?
Zoe: Hard to say. Mostly anecdotal evidence. Probably from wives who got augmentation and didn’t want to tell husbands. But one study proved it.
Ava: I went off chocolate.
Zoe: Good luck with that.
The day went more quickly than it had the day before, and with slightly fewer stares than on Day One. Several people came by to compliment her on her lemon bread, and one lady asked for the recipe so she could make it for her daughter’s baby shower. Ava wrote it down from memory, and the lady thanked her with a warm smile.
Most of the time she worked like crazy on finalizing grant proposals and renewing her advertising accounts with The Arizona Republic and several local TV stations. She approved the finalized order of the paintings, checked and rechecked the audio tour, and scores of other things. She was on the phone six times with her old friend Dwight Huggins of the Glastonbury, but when she turned on her charming voice—that’s what she was calling it now—he seemed to sniff a little less often while simutaneously treating her more condescendingly (if that was even possible.)
In the back of her mind she toyed with the Kellen McMullen situation. He had sent her three texts today. She pondered how to respond to him. Should she give him the full treatment of How to Snare a Modern Man? Or should she give him the full brush off? He did have some good points, she thought, but he also had his truly irritating aspects. Like his relentless flirtatiousness. Except when it felt a little bit fun. Or his ridiculous cowboy hat. But he didn’t wear it last night. He wore a normal shirt that really accentuated his shoulders. There was his fixation on conspiracy theories. But at least he’d thought about something besides himself, which was something she wouldn’t have expected from a billionaire playboy.
Who kissed so warmly her toes went numb.
All day as she strolled back and forth on her regular trips to the water cooler, she tried to catch a glance of Enzio Valente. Well, to make Enzio Valente catch a glimpse of her. Sure, it was stupid of her to care. Small, even. But success is the best revenge, they say, and she wanted to serve it to him both hot and cold.
But he never materialized. She suspected Jerk Friend may have told her an untruth about Enzio’s absence, but still, no handsome Italian.
In one earth-shattering moment of embarrassment, however, Jerk Friend had walked up on her while she was attempting to hoist her chest back into its holsters—the new equipment took some getting used to. Jerk Friend gave her his signature leer, and she wanted to die. Instead she walked past him, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Keep dreaming, sugar doll,” and she winked. She had never winked at a man in her life!
Then she flounced her hair at him and walked away, totally wishing the floor would swallow her up, but playing the part and deserving the award for Best Actress In a Workplace Drama.
Later on her way to the water cooler, she thought she overheard her name being taken in vain, but she didn’t recognize the voice of the male who used it.
“Have you seen the chick who used to be so, you know?”
“Ava Young?”
“Hottest thing this office has seen since the summer of ’09. Who knew that was lurking under all those nasty shirts? Yowsa.”
Ava walked up, blushing, and said, “Hi, boys. Nice day outside, eh? I just love monsoon season. All the wind fluttering my clothes and hair.”
Neither one replied more than a mumble, but the first one stared at her in not a bad way. How could she not like all this radically different feedback? She enjoyed it immensely.
Besides all the personal things going on during the day, Ava did end up accomplishing plenty of work. She spent an hour going over Nigel and Madge’s projects for the exhibit, and another hour with each team member getting an update on their responsibilities, from security to lighting to the design of the tickets. Zillions of details remained to be solidified, but her team appeared to have the bulk of it under control.
“Ava, you might want to check into what materials the Educational Outreach group has worked up for distribution to some of the local elementary schools,” Nigel suggested. “I think they might need some tweaking and administrative approval from Mr. Phelps.”
“Right, Nigel. Thanks. I appreciate all your know-how on this. I don’t know what this exhibit would be without you.”
She thought she heard him mutter, Darn right, or something like it as he strode away, but whatever. Nigel should never doubt his indispensability to the museum. After all, he served as the requisite British accent holder on the staff—and had worked for Christie’s. No one doubted his authority or questioned his expertise.
One blip occurred in her day when Harmony Billows sidled up to Ava’s desk.
“I know you think you’re Ava Young, but I can see you’re not. You have to tell me what you’ve done with her. I have the FBI on speed dial, and I will call them. Agent Ford is a close, personal friend of mine.”
Ava laughed again. “Harmony, you are just so funny. I guess I never knew what a laugh riot you are. Forgive me for never really trying to get to know you before. I’m so sorry. Why don’t we go to lunch sometime? Or maybe you can tell me who does your nails. Mine are such a mess! I bite them like there’s no tomorrow.”
Harmony frowned. “Now, that’s true of Ava Young. Her nails looked like they had been cut with pinking shears. Let’s see yours.” She inspected them carefully. “Hmm. I still don’t trust you. But I’ll give you a phone number for Ving. He gives the best manicure in town.”
“Thank you, Harmony. You’re really sweet, you know?” That was a stretch of the truth, but things sometimes needed to stretch if they were going to grow.
“If you are some kind of stalkerazzi trying to pick up on Kellen McMullen, I’ll tear you apart. He’s very important to this museum, and I won’t have anyone messing with him.”
Ava just smiled and gave Harmony a hug. Now, that was a first. “Harmony. I love this side of you. I appreciate most of all how protective you are of me! It’s so endearing. How can I show you how much I appreciate you? Here. Have a strawberry. These are so good! I got them at AJ’s Fine Foods this morning—they have the best produce, you know?”
“Yeah,” Harmony munched. “I know. But Ava wouldn’t. Who are you?”
* * *
Being the feminissima woman took a lot of getting used to. Ava had to remind herself constantly she was playing a part and to stay in character. And character meant how she walked, spoke, thought, and even how she moved her head. Last night after work she spent an hour researching 1950s movie starlets to see whom she might emulate. None looked quite right, and she checked several of her books from her shelf. Heroines from various ages of literature gave her ideas—Helen of Troy, who really let the men fight over her; Jane Bennet, who was ladylike almost to a fault; the Virtuous Woman from the book of Proverbs, who spins and sews and buys real estate, but always makes her husband the one who is known in the land among the elders.
A lot to think about.
Mom. Ava dialed her home phone, and her mother picked up. “Mom, how are things out in the countryside?” It was what Ava always called Laveen, her hometown that really only lay half a click west of Phoenix proper but felt like a thirty-year trip into the past.
“Lovely, my dear. Your father and I canned the late crop tomatoes this afternoon, and tonight I’m giving
him a haircut so he’ll look like his handsome self again.”
Ava’s mother, the one who gave Ava her starlet name, had feminine grace as her calling card, but it was combined with a regal strength, even if her mom would never need to rule anything. She ruled her tongue and provided a cozy home for Dad, and that was enough. A fifteen-minute conversation later, Ava felt grounded and ready to play the part afresh.
The next morning, in her Day Three turquoise wrap dress that swept gracefully around her legs in soft flowing crepe, the look she was going for was “loveliness.” Her dozen bangle bracelets jingled as she carried the home-baked raspberry muffins to her office. Jewelry, she decided, might be the fastest way out of a perpetual frump state.
The muffins smelled delicious. She loved to bake. Why didn’t she do it more often?
During her walk to work she got three good long looks from men in a coffee shop window, and lowered her eyes coyly. It was good to practice on strangers.
Throughout the course of the morning, she finally got to where she felt up to speed on the most pressing details of exhibit preparation, as well as the financial aspects of the show. With six days to go before the first shipment of art from the Glastonbury arrived for placement in the Phoenix Metropolitan Museum, things needed to be perfect. She was determined to cover every aspect of the preparations.
While she was on hold with the caterers for opening night, Ava surfed the net to catch up on the oh-so-sophisticated art expert’s blog she’d been reading lately, today’s topic being the lack of statistics being kept by Scotland Yard and the Caribinieri on art theft—which reminded Ava. She hadn’t yet heard from Mr. Phelps on the topic of what the supposed threat against the Hudson River exhibit might be.
“Um, hi. Mr. Phelps?” Ava interrupted him in deep thought as he pored over a stack of papers so high Ava actually felt sorry for the man. “You look really busy. Will you talk to me sometime about the threat to the Hudson River exhibit you mentioned the other day—sometime when you’ve got the time?”
Mr. Phelps looked up. “That’s just what I have been working on, uh. Oh, Ava. Boy, the hair throws me off every time. You look very nice, by the way.”
“Thank you, Mr. Phelps. Your good opinion means a lot to me.”
He looked at her as if to ask, It does? but he went on.
“The FBI contacted me about three weeks ago, about the time I thought the exhibit was on the rocks, and gave me some information, a tip they had received. For a while I figured it wouldn’t matter after all, since the funding for the show had gone wobbly, but now we’re on track, and they contacted me again yesterday morning with some more evidence trickling in.”
“This sounds bad. What is it?”
Mr. Phelps bit the lid of his red pen. “Someone is planning to steal one of the larger profile paintings.”
“What?” She wanted to shout, but she kept her still-husky voice even toned and calm. “How do they know this? Do you know which one?”
“It’s unclear, but this morning I received another call, and now the guess is it’s all a hoax. I don’t know why a rumor like this would get started. Part of me says to take it seriously, but I don’t know. It seems pretty far-fetched. We have such good security here, I doubt any thief with a brain would bother. I’m going to give it cautious consideration, but I’m not going to let myself get worked up to any degree just now.”
Holy smoke. Theft? The thought made her sick to her stomach. Ava took three deep breaths before she answered in measured words.
“Have you heard which painting, or paintings, might be targeted?”
“No, nothing so specific as that. Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Ava. I’m sure it’s all just rumor. We’ve received tips like this with every exhibit we’ve ever brought to the museum. You should have heard the doozie when we had that Vermeer here a couple of years ago! Please, I’m sorry I mentioned it.”
But Ava did worry. And rightly so. Her entire career was now truly on the line. Plus, he was telling her not to worry her pretty little head, an annoying and unexpected side effect of the makeover. Was her boss taking her seriously anymore? She rolled her eyes as she walked away. She’d have to take both sides of the coin if she chose this course.
Ava spent several hours Friday afternoon researching art crime. Her favorite art crime expert’s site had some tidbits, but it didn’t bear fruit for this situation of an impending crime. It surprised her how little information was actually out there. Blogs seemed to be the best sources she could find. Some even seemed to be posted clandestinely by criminals wishing to brag.
Unfortunately, none of them bragged about plotting to swipe 19th Century landscape art from Phoenix.
* * *
The following Wednesday came all too soon.
Sometimes in Ava’s life, worry had made time slow to a grinding halt. Other times, worry had created a panic emotion in her that seemed to make the clock move double time. As her cold healed, she could perceive the world much more clearly, and perhaps that was what made time speed up as well, but as the day of the exhibit’s arrival approached, it began to virtually race.
During all the stress she did her letter best not to chew on her newly manicured, teal blue nails. Harmony was right—Ving gave a magnificent manicure. Not that Ava had much to compare it to, this being the first manicure of her life. But it made her fingertips and hands soft as velvet, and blue was her favorite.
The DHL truck pulled in first, followed by UPS, followed by FedEx, followed by a cute little United States Postal jeep. Each one contained a separate portion of the exhibit, for security reasons. Ava, Nigel, Madge, Mr. Phelps, and a full team of Pinkertons oversaw the unloading. Late in the afternoon, the final pieces of art, the real prizes of the collection arrived under tight watch. From the Guardian Armored Car van emerged Niagara by Church, Durand’s engraving of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, which was much larger than Ava expected, and several Bierstadts nearly of mural proportions.
Her heart beat madly. It was finally happening!
It took the next three days of working all day and late into the evening for the whole setup to occur. Three walls’ background color needed to be repainted, as it clashed with the tones in the featured art. No pamphlet could do justice to the true hues of the oils. Nigel and his associates had done their best, and had done extremely well, but it took tweaking. When they got it just right and to Nigel and Ava and Mr. Phelps’ approval, Ava praised her coworker. There were a lot of different ways she could have said it, but she considered carefully and tried to give it the most feminine twist she could.
“Nigel, I really admire the way you were able to showcase the art. You could see the perfect color to set off the masterpieces. I could never have done it. It took a real critic’s eyes, like yours. Wonderful!”
To Ava’s surprise, the well-considered effort to praise him seemed lost on Nigel. His face got sour, and he walked away without responding. Mr. Phelps looked Ava’s way as if to see her reaction. Ava shrugged and gave Mr. Phelps her best puzzled and “oh, well, what can you do” look. He smiled back and nodded.
Time continued to race. Ava worked like an insane person, with a dozen details popping into her head at any given minute. She kept a small pink notepad with her at all times to keep herself from forgetting anything major or minor. From the radio ads to the valet parking attendants for the big donor preview evening and wine tasting, from the fresh flowers for the tables in the lobby to the letters of gratitude to the Glastonbury for their generosity and fine stewardship of these priceless treasures, Ava made the debut of her first major visiting exhibit as ready as a novice such as she could manage.
And then the myriad details had to float off in a whirlwind of too-late, because opening night arrived. Friday evening, the first cool evening of early September, the Hudson River masters lay on the verge of their debut before the general public for anyone west of the Appalachian range. Ava could hardly breathe.
At six o’
clock, Kellen McMullen called.
“Ava, Ava, Ava. Where have you been all my life?”
“Just down the street, Kellen. Where have you been all month?”
“Aw, baby. You know. Here and there, and everywhere. You know how nice Boston is in the fall? It’s for lovers. You want to hop a plane tonight after the shindig?”
“Oh, so you’ll be here?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Wouldn’t dream of missing it. Wouldn’t dream of missing you at it, Ava. What’ll you be wearing?”
Ava laughed, doing her best to sound like water in a brook. “Why do you want to know?”
“So that you and I will be the most smashing couple there this evening.”
“Oh, so we’ll be a couple now, is it?”
“Aw, Ava. I thought it was understood! I paid for the art and you were the price I exacted for my very generous donation. Come on, don’t act like this is a big ol’ surprise now.” Kellen coaxed her sweetly, teasing. She somehow didn’t mind any of it.
“If you say so, Kell. I’m wearing the basic uniform of opening night—”
“Got it. Little black dress, right?” Kellen knew the drill. “Sweet. Can’t wait to see you. Now, promise you’ll hang on my arm and on my every word and gaze longingly at my six favorite paintings with me and not listen to that bore of an audio tour while you’re with me. The headphones will mash your gorgeous, gorgeous hair, babe.”
She agreed to be Kellen McMullen’s pseudo-date for the gala opener for VIPs. What choice did she have? She couldn’t exactly give him the brush off, and she didn’t necessarily want to. Kellen made her feel like a fun person. He peeled away some of her old inhibitions, remnants of the Old Ava, the one she had worked overtime to suppress over the past few weeks, even when things got stressful.
In careful attention to her appearance, with her best Veronica Lake peek-a-boo bangs and the black five-inch heels with straps crisscrossing from the toes to her ankles, Ava spritzed her neck with a perfume she loved a while ago but had forgotten about. In a bold move, she selected a deep red lipstick. It took six looks in the mirror to decide it was okay for her to go out looking so striking, but she convinced herself that tonight was a night of nights and she had to look and play the part of hostess to the patrons and escort to the man who made it all possible.
The Lost Art: A Romantic Comedy Page 8
