by Gwyn Cready
“There you are,” Packard said.
Packard always wore the fundraiser’s flush of larceny, but today his palms were rubbing so hard they ought to have been throwing sparks. Of course, being six months from retirement couldn’t have hurt, either. Woodson Ball, who should have looked as though he’d just stumbled out of a gang pickpocketing on an Eastern European subway, managed to project warmth and contented largesse.
Anastasia’s gaze ran rapidly down Cam’s leg. “Afternoon, Cam. Did you have an accident?”
“No.” She ground her teeth. “So glad to see you, Mr. Ball.” Then, in a move she’d learned from Thomas the Tank Engine, Cam did a one-eighty just as the walking threesome reached her, neatly uncoupling Anastasia from Ball’s arm. “How was Florida? Did you and Mrs. Ball have a good trip back?”
Ball was finishing the story of the flight delays just as Jeanne arrived.
“You may remember my assistant, Jeanne Turner. Jeanne, this is Mr. Ball.”
“Ha’d’yadew.” Ball bowed.
Cam looked down to avoid Jeanne’s eyes and caught sight of her pumps. In her effort to manage the hose situation, she must have inadvertently mashed her shoe into the hot dog, because most of the zebra stripes on the left toe were covered in mustard.
“Jeanne has a few papers for you to sign,” Cam said, tucking one foot behind the other. “Nothing major. Just permission to examine the painting, et cetera.” She felt Anastasia’s critical gaze drop even farther and she began to flush.
Anastasia coughed. “Good Lord, Cam, is that—”
“Mustard is very hot this year.”
“Only in Vogue, dear.”
Cam wished the soaring George Segal sculpture of a tightrope walker, which had once balanced high above the heads of Carnegie patrons, would choose this moment to return to its former haunt long enough to drop on Anastasia’s head.
“That’s fine,” Ball said. “Whatever you need me t’do. Just take good care of my countess.” He winked.
The vaunted painting was a gorgeous three-quarter-length portrait of Theresa, Countess of Morefield, that had once been owned by Catherine the Great.
“You know, we already have a fantastic spot picked out for the painting,” Packard said. Cam could almost see the saliva running down his chin.
“It ain’t yours yet, Lamont.” Ball laughed, and Packard looked like someone had just peed on his Gucci loafers. “Not until I hand it over at the gala.”
Ball had taken his grandfather’s struggling headache powders business and turned it into the bestselling college study tool simply by adding enough caffeine to make a hippo run a marathon, then sold it to a Big Pharma company for six times its annual earnings. He divided his time between a villa in Tuscany, an antebellum estate on a river outside Gainesville, and a century-old former industrialist’s mansion not far from the Carnegie. Ball had converted the mansion’s sixty-foot-long carriage house into a well-fortified, temperature-controlled warehouse for his beloved art collection.
Cam and Ball had known each other for years. She’d put him on the trail of a number of fine paintings and other works for sale in the art world, including Jacket’s. Ball’s tastes were wide-ranging and constantly changing, and his pockets as deep as the steam tunnels under the museum. He was returning the favor by letting her get credit for the donation of the Van Dyck, a piece in which he had lost interest.
“Sure was good to get back up north,” Ball said. “It’s been hot as Hades down in Flow-da.”
“In Flow-da,” Jeanne repeated.
“But so, so beautiful.” Anastasia nodded her violently bobbed head. “I remember the orange blossoms—oh God, the orange blossoms.” She closed her eyes and clasped her breast as if she were having a small religious epiphany. “I used to live and die for orange blossom time when I lived in Florida.”
Cam rolled her eyes.
“Ah didn’t know you were a Flowidyan.” Ball beamed.
“Yes,” Packard said, “Anastasia’s been almost everywhere. We were very lucky to steal her from the Getty.”
Cam remembered the day clearly, and lucky was not the word she would have chosen.
“Did you know,” Packard went on, “Anastasia is the author of the definitive critical book on Caravaggio, and—do you want to tell Mr. Ball the news?”
Oh boy.
Anastasia took a deep breath. “You probably don’t know this, but I’ve always been absolutely enraptured by El Greco.”
Another epiphany, larger than the first. Soon she would be on her knees, recounting secrets from the Virgin Mary, in the grotto-like overhang of the fountain outside.
“Well,” Anastasia went on. “I’ve just signed the contract with Harvard Press today for a biography.”
Cam felt like she’d just taken a fount of holy water to the gut.
Ball nodded. “Now that’s a purdy milestone.”
Yes, it was. And in the cutthroat world of art curating, that was the winning hand. A biography would beat the $2.1 million Van Dyck in the game of publish-or-perish museum life, which is why Cam needed a biography too.
Aaaarrrrrggghhh.
The truth of the matter was Cam had been dawdling. There were reasons for it. One, she had to admit, was that she was naturally lazy. But there was another. In the last month she and Jacket had begun to email each other. At the start, it had just been an abashed appeal to Cam for her expertise on a certain painting, but it had grown to something more. If she had any hope of being chosen to be the next executive director, however, she had better get her butt in gear and get that book revised. With a manuscript updated to include, as the potential publisher had said, “a bit more excitement,” she could announce her own contract. And with a book contract, she was back in the game, executive directorship-wise.
“Of course the promotional details are still a bit fuzzy at this point,” Anastasia said. “I don’t know what Harvard’s thinking of from a book tour or personal appearance point of view.”
“A book tour?” Ball said. “That’s amazing.”
Anastasia backpedaled. “Well, perhaps a conference or two.”
Yes, the Association of Art Museum Curators Mid-Atlantic Regional Meeting is really the place to make an impact—that is, if they can get out of their J. K. Rowling contract first. Cam coughed to hide a smile, and if looks were lasers, Anastasia would have reduced her to a pile of mustard-stained ashes.
Packard put one hand on each woman’s shoulder. “Anastasia’s doing a top-notch job on European art. Cam’s doing a top-notch job on modern. Imagine one set of parents producing two such talented daughters. I like to think of them as the Serena and Venus Williams of the museum circuit.”
Cam was grateful he’d moved on from the Andrews Sisters metaphor he usually employed.
Anastasia clasped Ball’s hand as if the holy power of the art world was running down his arm. “I’d like to show you some architectural renderings you may be interested in. We’re building a new wing. A new, as yet unnamed wing. If you have a moment, I think I—”
Tim Lockport, the museum’s facilities manager, burst into view. “Pardon me, Mr. Packard,” he said, breathing hard. “I think we may have a problem.”
Packard frowned. “What?”
“Someone reported seeing a patron draw on a print upstairs.”
“Oh God. Which one?”
“Rembrandt. The one in the north hallway.”
“Rembrandt. That’s your area, Anastasia. You’d better go with Tim.”
Anastasia gave Lockport a look with the venom usually reserved for Bangalore help desk associates and released Ball’s hand. “Will do.”
Cam whistled as Anastasia clattered off. “Tough break.”
Jeanne, dynamo of efficiency, lodged herself in front of the suddenly unoccupied Ball with pen, permission form, and clipboard.
“My go
sh,” she said as Ball opened his glasses, “those are some bright colors on your shirt. Do the colors stand for something?”
“They shore do. I’m a Flow-da Gatah.”
“A Flow-da Gatah?” She flashed Cam a wicked smile. “Really? And your parents? I suppose they were Flow-da Gatahs too?”
He signed in one quick motion. “You bet. Big ones.”
“Of course, I’m from Alabama, so I’m a Crimson Tide fan myself, but I’ve heard practically everyone in Gainesville is a shameless public—”
“Thank you, Jeanne.” Cam extracted the clipboard from Ball’s hand and returned it to her assistant with a gentle shove. “I know you have to go. Mr. Ball, I’d be happy to show you the plans for the addition. There’s a gallery entrance hall that will quite literally blow your socks off. And if you’ve got time, I’d love to talk with you more after lunch.”
Ball nodded. “I’ll take you up on the plans, but I’m going to have to pass on lunch. Anastasia’s invited my wife and me to a gallery opening tonight, and the three of us are meeting at Cure for an early dinner. Peggy’s all excited because Anastasia promised to show her some fancy knitting stitch. So many talents. I don’t know how you ladies do it.”
It must be an afternoon for epiphanies. Cam had a blistering vision of Serena taking a tennis racket and knocking Venus right out of her Nikes.
Five
With Ball’s thoughts on the new wing fresh in her head, Cam headed back to the office she shared with Jeanne, closed the door, and fell into a Melanie Wilkes swoon against the medieval coat of armor. “‘Oh God, the orange blossoms. I used to live and die for orange blossom time.’” She growled. “Her backstory is so bogus. You know how long she was in Florida? Three weeks. Three weeks! She was there for a summer course in environmental studies until she’d added that to the long list of majors she couldn’t hack. After that it was either art history or clown college.”
“I’ll refrain from the obvious comment,” Jeanne said.
“Thank you. Did I happen to mention her real name is Stacy?”
“Thirty or forty times.”
“Eeeeerrrrgggg! And now she’s stepping on my donor territory. What sort of a person does that?”
“I dunno. The same sort of person who would force someone to claim a guy drew on a Rembrandt when he didn’t?”
“Beside the point.” Cam started to finger her eyelashes, a reaction to stress she’d been unable to shake since childhood. She knew it made her about as attractive as a junkie six hours past hit time. “Do you think that Van Dyck painting is going to be enough? I mean, the donation’s practically in the bag. Do you think that will be enough to convince the board I’m the right person for the directorship?”
“I know they’ll be bowled over by your granitelike self-confidence.”
“I’ve got to get that book sold.”
“Thatta girl. Where do we stand on that rewrite?”
“‘There once was a man named Van Dyck.’”
“Oh boy. I’d say too many late nights texting Britain’s favorite bad-boy artist, Mr. Lucite and Blueberries. I’m assuming that kiss was a thank-you for the help on a painting you gave him.”
Cam tucked the chain that held the ring farther inside her blouse. The last thing she needed was Jeanne thinking that she was stupid enough to consider Jacket’s offer to reconcile. Especially now that she was considering it.
“It was nothing. And as far as the book is concerned, it’s done from a fact standpoint. I don’t know, though. This editor wants me to sex things up a bit.”
“Sex and artists?” Jeanne shrugged theatrically. “Well, if you think you can find a connection…”
And it did not in any way mean she was falling for the guy again, despite that gravelly Brixton baritone that still made her toes curl, and that kiss…
“Cam?”
“Huh? Oh, right. I mean, no. Not too many late nights.” Jeanne was shooting a “Don’t tell me you were a fool and fell for his load of crap again” look in her direction.
Most important, however, kissing Jacket did not mean she was going to sleep with him. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Hence the “I’m not as easy as you apparently think I am” look she was firing right back at Jeanne. It was the kind of light-saber clashing that could only come from two friends long accustomed to each other’s foibles, and Cam, with the moral high ground of having not actually yet been a fool, clearly held the upper hand. Oh yeah, Jeanne was getting the message. She most certainly was getting the message.
“That mustard in your eye?”
“Gah!” Cam stomped to her desk. “And stop calling him ‘Mr. Lucite and Blueberries.’ He does ‘reapings.’”
“Oh, is that what they’re called?”
Jacket had wowed the art world ten years ago with his portraits that started on the upper corner of a canvas as a traditional oil painting then grew into pieces of fruit and other everyday items encased in small cubes of plastic, bound together, extending outward toward the viewer and sometimes reaching the floor. Cam hadn’t loved it then, though she understood his vision. What she had loved was his motorcycle boots, tight jeans, and damn-the-world attitude—especially when he’d led her into the ladies’ lounge of the Fulham art gallery where they’d just met for a “Fourth of July fireworks meets the ‘Hallelujah’ Chorus” encounter in an empty stall.
His recent work had become almost a parody of itself, though, with the painting and canvas chucked entirely and the rest reduced to stacks or sometimes just single cubes of plastic. In truth, “Mr. Lucite and Blueberries” wasn’t that far from the truth.
Cam grabbed her mug and went to the coffeemaker, dejected. Then she remembered it had shorted out yesterday, right in the middle of the Caffè Verona. The sides had melted into a depressing shade of toasted marshmallow brown and that corner of the room still smelled like burnt socks. Why did it always rain on the unloved?
“So he’ll be bunking with you?”
Cam looked to see if Jeanne had served this up with a hefty side of judgment. She hadn’t.
“It’s only a month or so, just until the exhibit opens. He’s trying to finish one more piece for it.”
“I know exactly what piece that is.”
“And don’t forget the loft is half his.”
“Just make sure he stays on his side of the line. Oh God!” Jeanne’s gaze was riveted on her screen.
“What?”
“An email from the board. ‘In anticipation of Lamont Packard’s revised retirement date—’”
“Revised retirement date?”
“‘—the board has made the decision to end the search for executive director early. The deadline for applications is now November twenty-sixth, interviews will follow immediately, and the new director will be chosen by the board at a special session to be held December fifteenth, the day after the gala opening of the new exhibit.’”
Cam’s heart sank as she looked at her calendar. It was November fifth. She had exactly three weeks to sell her book. A number of panic-filled visions rocketed through her brain—sleepless nights as she stuck in new chapters, standing in front of a table of twenty stone-faced rich people with the power to make or break her, and waiting by her desk for the phone to ring with the decision. But the worst, the most horrible vision that passed through her mind, was that of reporting to her older sister.
A sound made her stop, a sound that could only be made by a pair of Christian Louboutin booties being driven down the hall like Herefords to the slaughter. Only the Herefords weren’t the ones about to get a bullet between the eyes. Cam dove under her desk just as the door flung open.
“You meddling, manipulative bitch! If you think you can have me dragged out of—Where is she? Where’s Cam?”
She could see Anastasia’s seething form reflected on the armor breastplate—a fun-house mirror in a medieval house of horrors.
Jeanne straightened papers on her desk with the cool of an ice cube. You could certainly tell she didn’t have a narcissistic older sister with a Darth Vader temper. You could also tell she was trying not to look at Cam.
Jeanne said, “She’s under…a deadline.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Her book’s almost done, you know. Finishing touches. Her editors talking the New York Times bestseller list. First print run: twenty thousand.”
Bless that woman!
Anastasia’s eyes narrowed into battleship gun ports. “Well, take a message to her for me. Tell her she’s to call me the instant she sets foot in here, that if she thinks I wasn’t going to talk to Tim Lockport and figure out what the hell happened, she’s got another think coming. And you can also tell her if they printed a million copies of her stupid book, it still wouldn’t get her one step closer to the executive directorship because that spot belongs to the woman who has demonstrated time after time that she can grow a complex collection, manage the fundraising needs of an organization, demonstrate academic excellence, and eat without getting condiments on her shoes. Did you get all that?”
Jeanne read back from the message pad. “‘Cam, call your older sister.’”
Small tendrils of smoke curled out of Anastasia’s ears, or maybe it was just the coffeemaker. She picked up Jeanne’s bowl of pink paper clips and reared back.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Stacy.” Cam crawled out of the kneehole and dusted herself off. “Get over yourself.”
“You heard all that?”
“Squirrel Hill heard all that.”
“You have a lot of nerve.”
Cam mimed an introduction. “Pot. Kettle. Kettle. Pot. By the way, Ball loved the new wing.”
Anastasia drew herself up into full Hydra horror. “You don’t own Ball!”
