Page 9 of Flirting with Forever

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 gosh,” 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.