Flirting with Forever

by Gwyn Cready

  “I guess the mimeograph’s working kinda slow on their end. The article’s from 1932.”

  “Christ!”

  The look on Cam’s face reminded Jeanne she needed to pick up some bug spray on her way home. “Maybe you’d like to pull up a chapter on England on your magical little Amazon flying carpet and hop on over there yourself?”

  Cam shook her head in disgust and returned to typing.

  “You know, you don’t actually have to have the book done by the board meeting,” Jeanne said. “You only need a contract for it, which you already have.”

  “This book is practically writing itself.” Cam hit the Enter key so hard Jeanne wondered if the keyboard was going to flip in the air. “I am awash in heavenly inspiration. Meeting Peter Lely was just what I needed.”

  “Heavenly is the word for it, all right. You’re like an angel.”

  “What?” Cam grimaced fiercely in her admin’s direction.

  “Heavenly,” Jeanne said louder. “I said you’re like, one of our Father’s celestial seraphim.”

  Cam grunted. She dug into the stack of books, holding up two with her elbow, and flipped the pages of a particularly large and musty-looking folio while attempting to keep the whole improbable Jenga tower from taking her little easel, the dead Christmas cactus, and about sixteen Flair pens over the edge like a biblio–Mount Etna. “Dammit!” she cried. “There’s just not enough information on Ursula.”

  “Information? I thought we decided you were going to make this stuff up.”

  “I-I—” A warm pink crawled across Cam’s cheeks. “I’m not going to make it all up. And there’s nothing official anywhere about his marital status. A good author, you know, checks at least some of the facts.”

  “Yeah, but who cares whether some woman whose last name we don’t even know was married or wore a wedding band or liked apples? Apples? I mean, really! Yesterday you had me spend an hour with a magnifying glass trying to tell if her hair was naturally curly or curled with a curling iron.”

  They both turned to look at the book that held the plate of the demurely capped Ursula, which Cam had placed on an easel on the bookcase, right next to a sketch of the same woman, entitled “Lady Lely.” “I mean, c’mon,” Jeanne went on, “who’s going to care unless you’re—Oh my God! You’re jealous!”

  “I am not jealous.”

  “You told me nothing happened. I fell to my knees, praying something would happen, but you swore to me, nope, nothing happened between you and Lely.” Now it all made sense to Jeanne. The book in which the sketch appeared—the sixteenth that had been ordered from various booksellers around the globe—had arrived earlier in the week, and Cam had flipped through it madly after the package arrived and sunk slowly into her chair when she’d come to that page. Then she’d lapsed into a moody silence that had lasted for the rest of the day.

  It took two more seconds for Jeanne’s brain to catch up. “‘Lady Lely,’” she said. “It’s the title. That’s why you’re so upset. He didn’t tell you he was married.”

  “I told you, nothing happened.”

  “Nothing happened? You called me, wearing nothing but a silk sheet and raving so much about what fun it was to pose naked I thought my phone was gonna catch fire. If you didn’t get laid after that, there’s nothing left for you except an IV and bed restraints. No wonder he came barreling back after you. The poor guy’s probably got an erection that reaches from here to the Battle of Trafalgar.”

  “He didn’t come back for me. I told you that.”

  “You have told me exactly nothing since you started revising the Van Dyck biography. You told me nothing when your publisher did an about-face on the book and suddenly it was about Lely instead of Van Dyck. ‘I miscalculated,’ you said. You told me nothing when I dropped not one but two big-as-life cross-century FedEx packages on your doorstep. You have done nothing but bitch, type, run up a tab at every bookstore between here and Tokyo, and wrinkle your nose like you’re smelling donkey poop—yes, just like that—since you got back, and now you’re telling me you didn’t sleep with him?”

  “I did sleep with him,” Cam said angrily. “The nothing that happened happened after we slept together.”

  “Oh. Oh.” Jeanne winced.

  “Right. A big, honking awkward mistake. One of those horrible miscalculations where the only upside is the laughs you get when you tell your friends about it two decades later.”

  “Worse than the photographer you were dating who said you reminded him of an older Lindsay Lohan?”

  “Ugh. Yes.”

  “Worse than the guy from the Planning Commission who was so thrilled when he realized you both wore the same size jeans?”

  “Oh God! Yes, yes, okay. I make bad decisions when it comes to men. That’s why I haven’t dated in six months. That’s why I’ve been holding off on giving Jacket an answer. Only Peter seemed different. Peter seemed… Oh, Jeanne, you should have been there. There was this woman whose married lover had broken up with her, and the married lover told Peter privately he was canceling the painting he’d commissioned of her, but when the woman arrived, Peter carried on as if nothing had changed. He told her that even though she and her paramour had parted ways, the man said he still wanted to remember her just as she was.”

  “Wow.”

  “Exactly. And when he heard that Jacket had never done a portrait of me, he was so careful not to say anything that might make me think that was odd, but I could tell by the look on his face he was angry with Jacket.”

  “He’s your Jake Ryan.”

  “Yes! That’s what I thought. But I was so wrong. Oh, Jeanne, I was so wrong.” Cam collapsed against the back of her chair. “He had to have known I was coming. I don’t know how. Mertons—the second cross-century FedEx package—said they’d been watching me. Not that Peter let on, of course. And then he let me…” Cam shook her head as if trying to shake the horrible memory out of her brain. “Cripes, you saw how I was dressed when I got back. That’s how I was posing. So, the whole time I think I’m pumping him for information—”

  “He’s actually pumping you.”

  “Bingo. And it turns out he fed me a load of crap, which is why the Van Dyck book was withdrawn. And now I find out he’s married. And look at this. Came in my email this morning.”

  Cam turned her monitor and showed Jeanne a bucolic painting of a man, clearly Lely, surrounded by four women. He had a large cello between his knees and was fingering it.

  “Symbolic,” Jeanne almost said, but swallowed the jest at the sight of Cam’s face. Closer inspection showed the women to be four versions of the same person—a woman with downcast eyes in a simple gown; a woman in a frock almost religious in its plainness whose hair was tucked under a head scarf; a graceful, barebacked model, gazing at the painter from over her shoulder; and a seductress with breasts bared, daring the man to possess her.

  “Well.”

  “Exactly,” Cam said.

  “They’re all, uh…”

  “Ursula, yes.”

  “He was apparently quite taken with her.”

  “Apparently. Look, he even added cherubim, so much the goddess she was.”

  Jeanne squinted. The image was blurred and only about four inches by four inches on the screen, but there they were, two child angels, one with a flute, keeping time with Lely and his muse. “What’s the title?”

  “Dunno. It’s just a picture from the catalog. That’s all the guy was willing to scan. He’s overnighting the actual print.”

  Jeanne rolled her eyes. If Cam ever made a profit on her writing, she’d be dumbfounded.

  “So he’s married?”

  “Yep.”

  “To Ursula?”

  “Lady Lely,” Cam said archly.

  “That shit.” A lady, huh? Jeanne remembered all of the princess gear she’d had as a kid. “Just
think. You could have been like Lady Diana.”

  “I think you’re missing the point here.”

  “Oh no, I’m getting the point. Your Van Dyck lark has turned into a Lely vendetta.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Then why was I researching premature ejaculation for you?”

  Cam took on a prim, magisterial pose. “Characters can’t be two-dimensional, you know. They need…texture.”

  “Texture? Premature ejaculation, genital herpes, and chronic flatulence. That’s enough texture to last a lifetime.”

  “They’re not all his.” Cam sniffed. “Ursula has the genital herpes.”

  “Tell me, is there like an ethics code for writers?”

  “Ethics?”

  “You know,” Jeanne said, “someday the shoe may be on the other foot.”

  “That’s the beauty of being an author. I don’t worry about feet.”

  “I’m just saying, authors have a responsibility to be fair, especially a biographer.”

  “Fictographer. You should have seen the way Nell Gwyn looked at him while he worked. Come to think of it, I’ve seen pictures of her son, and he bears an uncanny resemblance to Lely.” She pulled a pen from behind her ear and dashed off a note.

  “I’m not saying he isn’t deserving, Cam. But the world has a funny way of balancing things out. You take a couple swings. Maybe he deserves it, maybe he doesn’t. But you don’t want that swing coming back and knocking your teeth out.” She held two fingers over her front teeth and gave her boss a goofy smile.

  “Hm.”

  “You know,” Jeanne said, “just because she was married to him doesn’t mean she’s a bad person.”

  Cam glanced again at the portrait of the winsome, doe-eyed redhead.

  “Maybe,” Jeanne said, “she left him because she thought she didn’t love him—or because she thought he didn’t love her. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t deserve any of it. Or maybe he deserved to be left but didn’t deserve any of the other pain she put him through after that.”

  Cam pursed her lips, still looking at the painting.

  “Maybe she’s one of those women who isn’t quite sure what she wants. I’ve heard they exist.” Jeanne saw the gentle jab hit home. “Breaking it off completely can be better than letting him stay and think he has a chance. And maybe he really does love you.”

  Cam froze and then Jeanne froze. She turned. Jacket stood in the doorway, in a weathered leather coat, holding a to-go bag from Crepes Parisiennes and a large, steaming cup of coffee.

  “Hey.” He nodded at Jeanne and gave Cam a warm smile. “I didn’t see you this morning.”

  Jeanne couldn’t tell if he’d heard them or not. As usual, his tough-guy eyes were pressed into narrow, constipated slits.

  “I brought breakfast,” he said.

  Jeanne hoped it included fiber. “Oh dear, is that the executive director calling me?” She cupped a hand to her ear. “Better run.”

  “Wow, this is just what I needed.” Cam buried her face in the coffee’s rising steam, hoping Jacket would attribute the pink on her cheeks to it.

  Jacket twisted the Crepes Parisiennes bag, staring at his boots. It was not like him to display any sort of vulnerability, and Cam felt an inexplicable desire to protect him.

  “Christ,” he said in that devastating Brixton growl, “I hope you know I love you.”

  She found herself in his arms, his warm mouth over hers, a waterfall of emotions crashing in her head. She thought of that first night at the gallery, his husky asides in her ear; the time she’d twisted her ankle on the way to the fourth shoe store of the day in New York and how he’d carried her—carried her—all the way to the Lenox Hill emergency room; and the last time they’d been together, before she knew he was sleeping with the jewelry designer, when he’d surprised her with Fourth of July cupcakes from Potomac Bakery decorated with sparklers—“a Brit’s attempt to be American.”

  Oh God, could she trust him again? The lips were easy. The heart was harder.

  He fished the coffee out of her hand, placed it and the bag on her desk, and swept her back into his arms. “I’ve made mistakes and I’ve waited and waited. Tell me you’ll marry me.”

  “Jacket…” she said into the soft leather. It would be so easy to fall again. He smelled like an Arabian prince and tasted like honey. She made an uncertain noise.

  “Tell me at dinner,” he said, “after the gala.”

  They had agreed to celebrate at Eleven, one of their favorite Pittsburgh restaurants, with a late-night supper after the party ended.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?” His face broke into a smile so big it made her heart hurt.

  “Yes, I’ll tell you after the gala,” she said, nearly unable to get the clarification out. What chance did she have, looking into eyes like that? She might as well just tell him yes now.

  “Brilliant,” he said and meant it.

  He hugged her tightly. She felt the ring, still on its chain, press into her chest.

  Thirty-seven

  “Cam.”

  She jerked, realizing Lamont Packard was speaking to her. “Sorry. Just thinking about the opening.”

  The senior staff was standing in the north gallery, admiring Packard’s arrangement of the exhibition’s opening room. The theme was “Behold: Love Through the Eyes of the Artist.” What were the odds Packard would have put the Carnegie’s most important Lely, Louise de Penancoet, the Duchess of Portsmouth, right next to Jacket’s Lornacopia?

  “Do you have a minute?” he asked.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Cam caught Anastasia’s pinched face. “Sure,” she said gleefully.

  “Great. Everyone else, off to make our usual Carnegie magic. We’ve got a little over twenty-four hours before the gala. Let’s make everything perfect.” He clapped his hands and they dispersed.

  Cam’s stomach began to churn. The look on Packard’s face did not exactly say promotion. He waited until the last of the staffers had drifted out.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  Packard’s brows knitted. Cam felt faint. Almost every dream she’d had about her future included running a museum, this museum. And absolutely no vision of her future had included reporting to her sister.

  “You know the nominating committee met on Tuesday—”

  “But the Lely book has sold! And the Van Dyck one? A complete misunderstanding. My publisher announced too soon. You know the artistic mind. Things hadn’t quite gelled. And don’t forget the new gift. Two-point-one million bucks. Right here in our hot little acquiring hands.”

  “Cam, Cam, Cam.” Packard held up his palms. “You’re still a candidate. The committee just has a few questions.”

  “About what?”

  Packard sighed. “Look, you know you’d be my choice. But you know Adele Fitcher—”

  Cam groaned. Fitcher was a conservative old biddy with a boatload of money—the worst sort of conservative old biddy.

  “She doesn’t like your book.”

  “Has she read it?” Cam asked.

  “She’s read about it.”

  “Great. An uninformed backstabber. Hope she posts a review at Amazon too.”

  “You know most of the board members don’t mind. In fact, a number think it’s just the thing to inject some interest in the masters—sex ’em up a little. Let ’em think it was like backstage at a Mötley Crüe concert. Stretch the truth a little.”

  Cam coughed. Packard and his similes.

  “But Adele doesn’t like the sex. She thinks it cheapens our image and is tacky and unnecessary.”

  “I can see why Mr. Fitcher happily dropped dead at age forty-nine.”

  “Cam, her opinion carries a lot of weight.”

  “Let me ask, did she happen to read about the two-point-one-milli
on-dollar Van Dyck in Meddling Old Crank Quarterly as well?”

  “Of course. The board is thrilled with your work on that.”

  “But?”

  “I’m not going to lie, Cam. There’s a chance you’re not going to get the job. Fitcher is lobbying hard for Anastasia, whom she calls ‘accomplished and smart.’”

  “Hey, you know who else was accomplished and smart? Hitler. And he actually read the books before he blacklisted them.”

  “Cam…”

  “What do I need to do?”

  “Keep a low profile. Don’t mention the book when the board interviews you on Saturday. Don’t mention the book at all. And if someone asks you about either of them, try to give the impression that this one’s been misunderstood, that it’s going to be—you know—more turpentine, less diaphragm jelly.”

  “So lie?”

  Packard’s face lit up in relief. “Exactly.”

  “Cripes.”

  “Cam, all she wants to do is protect the Carnegie. We can’t have people thinking our staff members are running around all day with sex on the brain.”

  Cam looked at the Duchess of Portsmouth’s dropping neckline and Lornacopia’s Bazooka bubble gum nipples. “Nope, we couldn’t have that, sir.”

  Thirty-eight

  Peter took his first sip and let the hard work of the day slide off his shoulders. If the Guild wanted to make the Afterlife feel like a reward, they should forget the bocce ball and start serving up the cappuccino from Orbis instead. He hadn’t expected to like this twenty-first-century world, with its drab clothes, never-ending stream of roaring cars, and inhabitants with a prodigious proclivity for talking loudly into their little communication boxes. In fact, given the destruction of his hopes regarding Cam and his subsequent anger over the book, he had fully expected to hate it. But here at Orbis, amid the smell of roasted beans and cinnamon, the gentle hum of the steam machine, and the scene of the high street at twilight framed in the wide front windows, he could almost forget the cares that had brought him low.