Flirting With Forever (32 page)

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

“Oh.
Oh
.” Jeanne winced.

“Right. A big, honking awkward mistake. One of those

“Right. A big, honking awkward mistake. One of those horrible miscalculations where the only upside is the laughs you get when you tel 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 thril ed when he realized you and he 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 this one seemed different. This one seemed … Oh, Jeanne, you should have been there. There was this woman whose married lover had broken up with her, and the married lover had 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 had said he stil 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 tel 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 col apsed against the back Jeanne, I was so wrong.” Cam col apsed 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. So, the whole time I think I’m pumping him for information—”

“He’s actual y 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 And it turns out he fed me a load of crap, which is why the Van Dyck book was withdrawn.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 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 cel o between his knees and was fingering it.

“Symbolic,” Jeanne almost said, but swal owed the jest at the sight of her boss’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 headscarf; a graceful, barebacked model, gazing at the painter from over her shoulder; and a seductress with breasts bared, daring the man to possess her.

“Wel .”

“Exactly,” Cam said.

“They’re al , 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 al the guy was wil ing to scan. He’s overnighting the actual print.”

Jeanne rol ed her eyes. If Cam’s book ever made a profit, she’d be dumbfounded.

“So he’s married.”

“Yep.”

“To Ursula?”

“Lady Lely,” Cam said archly.

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

Cam crossed her arms. “You’re missing the point here.”

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

“Wel , 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 keep Amy Winehouse’s hairstylist busy for a year.”

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

“Isn’t there, like, an ethics code for writers?”

“Writers? Ethics?”

“You know, 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, especial y a biographer.”

“
Fict
ographer. You should have seen the way Nel 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 pul ed 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, stil 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 real y 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 in his hands.

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

Jeanne couldn’t tel 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 cal ing 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 waterfal of emotions crashing in her head. She thought of that first night at the gal ery, 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—al the way to the Lenox Hil 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 cup-cakes 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. Tel me you’l marry me.”

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

“Tel 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 dinner after the party ended.

“Yes.”

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

“Yes, I’l tel 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 wel just tel him yes now.

“Bril iant.”

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

“Cam.”

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

The senior staff was standing in the north gal ery, 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 gleeful y.

“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 gel ed. And don’t forget the new gift. Two-point-one mil ion bucks. Right here in our hot little acquiring hands.”

“Cam, Cam, Cam.” Packard held up his palms. “You’re stil 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.”

“Cool. 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-mil ion-dol ar Van Dyck in
Meddling Old Crank
Quarterly
as wel ?”

“Of course. The board is thril ed 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 cal s ‘accomplished and smart.’”

“Hey, you know who else was accomplished and smart?

Hitler. And he actual y 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 al . And if someone asks you about either of them, try to give the impression that this one’s been misunderstand, that it’s going to be—you know—more turpentine, less diaphragm jel y.”

“So lie?”

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

“Cripes.”

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

Cam looked at the Duchess of Portsmouth’s dropping neckline and Lornacopia’s Bazooka bubble gum nipples.

“Nope, we couldn’t have that, sir.”