Page 121 of Flirting with Forever

Oh, Mr. Ball. Oh, Mr. Ball. Cam closed her eyes.

“And I think this is one of the prettiest darn paintings ever. And I want to thank Cam Stratford especially for helping me see that I really did want to part with two-point-one million dollars.”

More laughter.

“She’s a very persuasive lady. The Carnegie’s damned lucky to have her. Oops. Can I say damned, Lamont?”

Cam’s head whipped around. Packard was in the back—smiling!

“You can say anything you damned well please,” Packard called. “Just keep those paintings coming.”

The room filled with applause.

“Well, now,” Ball said. “I guess there’s no delaying it. That two-point-one’s gotta go at some point.”

He grabbed the silk cord. Cam closed her eyes.

There was a hush in the room. The hush of awe and something more. Surprise? Then a gasp. Cam slitted an eye.

“Now, I know you were expecting a Van Dyck.” Ball stood not in front of the disputed Van Dyck, but the painting of Cam Mertons had brought to her loft. “I started thinking ’bout it, though, and I thought, pfft, Van Dycks are a dime a dozen. They’re yesterday’s news. What this museum needs is a painting a damned sight prettier—there, I said it again—than the one old Anthony did. This one’s a Peter Lely, folks, the royal portraitist to Charles the Second, and see if you don’t think the same thing I do: He musta known one of Campbell Stratford’s distant relatives.”

The room was stone silent. Cam was terrified. It was so apparently not a Lely, well, not a seventeenth-century Lely, not with her on the front of it. Then, in a random spot in the room, a person started clapping. Then half a dozen other guests began clapping as well, and then the room filled with thunderous applause.

A pair of strong arms slid around her waist, and Peter whispered into her ear, “I thought it might help if I gave him that painting I saw in your car.”

She turned and flung her arms around him. “Thank you.”

Packard strode up to shake Ball’s hand. He hopped on the stage.

“This museum has always been able to count on Woodson Ball,” Packard said. “And today is no exception. Woodson has informed me that in addition to this gorgeous Lely, he will also be putting a fantastic new work on view here soon. Massive in scope, revolutionary in vision, this is a piece you’ll be hearing more about in the news on Monday. It’s exciting. It’s never been seen by the viewing public. It represents a stunning new discovery by the art world. And you, ladies and gentlemen—and board members,” he added significantly, “will be the first people to experience Wednesday Afternoons.”

Cam looked at Peter.

“Er, a bit of a negotiation to make the Van Dyck switch possible,” Peter whispered. “Hope you don’t mind. At least your debut will be on home ground.”

The guests were still applauding. Packard had the room in the palm of his hand.

“But for now, enjoy the Lely,” he said, “and before I send you back to your browsing, I want to say thank you once again to an arts patron who knows how to make a difference. Woodson Ball, everyone.”

The room exploded in a roof-lifting cheer.

Fifty-seven

A throng of guests surrounded Cam to congratulate her, and when she finally broke loose, Peter was gone. She followed the happy crowd down the hall, trying to spot him, but no matter how she strained her head, she couldn’t see him.

She felt a tug at her sleeve. “Peter,” she said and turned.

“Not Peter.”

It was Anastasia. She looked like she’d been crying. Cam put a hand on her instinctively. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Anastasia shook her head. “Nothing. Listen, do you have a minute?”

Cam nodded and led her to a quiet hall next to the freight elevator. “What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you about the Peter Lely painting. I know it’s not real.”

Cam felt her stomach tighten. The game was over. If Anastasia, the museum’s European art curator, was going to challenge it, the painting wouldn’t stand.