Flirting With Forever (36 page)

“C’mon, Cam. Give him a break. How much does one guy have to suffer in your world?”

A good question. But even if the answer was “a lot,”

hadn’t Jacket satisfied the requirement?

“How’s the book going?”

Cam rubbed her neck. It was like watching a Federer–

Nadal tennis match, trying to fol ow the subject line here.

“Good, actual y.”

“Kinda weird you’re writing about Peter Lely, and your friend’s named Peter Lely.”

“Yeah, wel , he kind of inspired it.”

“Is he an art col ector?

“Mmm. I don’t know for sure. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I just wondered if he col ected paintings or drawings or art-related letters, that sort of thing?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a real art fan.”

Anastasia nodded, her bob swinging brusquely. “He looked different when I saw him.”

“Different?”

“Sexy.”

“Peter?”
Cam forced a laugh. It was exactly the same thought she’d had at Bal ’s, right before her world imploded.

He wore the clothes of the twenty-first century as if he belonged here.

“Have you thought about sleeping with him?”

“Jeez, Anastasia, first you’re practical y shoving me into Jacket’s arms, and now you’re asking if I’ve thought about sleeping with Peter?”

“Have you?”

Only every night since Guy Fawkes. “No.”

“Good. I know you value fidelity. Once you’ve entered into a relationship, even at the very, very start, you would never do anything to jeopardize it. You’l laugh, but I admire that about you. You know me. I’ve always been a bit of a slut.”

Like calling K2 a bit of a hill.

“But you … You’ve always honored that connection you have with your partners. You’ve always been honorable and faithful and true—”

“Yes, yes, yes, we’ve established I’m the Mother Teresa of the dating world. What is this al about?”

“Nothing.” Anastasia stood and brushed off her wide, tasseled sash. She spotted the dry-cleaner’s bag hanging on the back of the door, and her eyes popped. “What’s this?”

“Evening clothes. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. They have them in Stalingrad, I believe.”

“I don’t mean the outfit. I mean the color. I’ve attended over a dozen museum parties with you, and I’ve never seen you in anything more daring than black. And now you’re wearing olive and white? What gives?”

Cam flushed. “I-I was told I look nice in olive.”

“You do. You definitely do.” Anastasia walked by the dress, considering. “Now, about tomorrow. The board meets at one. One of us is going to walk out of there the director. I think it’s me. Which isn’t to say you’re not the most qualified candidate—apart from me, of course. But I have a friend who’s chummy with three or four of the members. He hears things he passes along to me. The tide has turned in my favor. The selection wil be finalized tomorrow.”

Cam drew her finger along her lashes with a bold swipe.

Anastasia was prone to exaggeration. “They may change their minds when they see the Van Dyck. It’s exceptional.”

“They may. But they’ve known about the acquisition for three months now. You’ve already gotten whatever credit you’re going to get out of it. The only thing it could do for you now is lose you points.”

“Lose me points? How?”

“I don’t know. Not being as good as they expect. You’ve sold it as a blockbuster, Cam. What if it’s not quite everything it’s cracked up to be?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I forgot how trend intensive seventeenth-century paintings were. Last season it was lace-up Rembrandt stil lifes. This season it’s plum-colored Vermeer portraits.”

“Cam, I’m trying to be a good older sister here. Mom said you’re always landing in shit.”

“That was the petting zoo when I was five, and you were the one shoving me out of the way to get to the feed dispenser.”

“There was a bil y goat about to attack.”

“There was a guy from
Mt. Lebanon Magazine
with a camera, and you were afraid you weren’t going to be the girl in the picture.”

“Cam, al I’m saying is it’s not going to turn out as you expected. Wouldn’t it be better to come up with a graceful bow out?”

Cam gazed into her sister’s steely gray eyes. Crap, how was it fair Anastasia got their father’s poker face and Cam, was it fair Anastasia got their father’s poker face and Cam, her mother’s “I even lose at Go Fish” eyes?

“I don’t think so. I’m sticking with it to the end.”

“You’re sure?”

“I guess I’m just going to have to listen to my heart.”

Anastasia nodded. At the door, she paused. “Then listen to it, Cam. You know what it’s saying.”

Mertons landed in the smal studio and straightened his coat. Peter, he noted, hardly looked up from his painting. It seemed to be al the man ever did.

“The Guild has asked me to make a final plea.”

“No.”

“Peter—”

“We’re not done here.”

“We. Ha. Do you ever get tired of having the rest of us focused on your needs?”

“It’s not about my needs. It’s about Ursula.”

“That’s a lie. It’s about revenge. You’re hurt, and you want to hurt her in return.”

“No. No. I wanted to stop her. I did not tel the reporter her name. I would never have hurt her wil ingly.”

“Real y? Then maybe you’l want to look at this.” He dropped a sheaf of papers on the table.

Peter regarded them suspiciously.

“I told you messing about in the future was dangerous.

The most recent calculations have come through. You’ve changed her future—and I don’t mean the stupid canvases.

I mean something important.”

“What?”

“A child.”

Peter stil ed.

“That’s right. There is supposed to be a marriage and a child in her future.”

“Of course there is. She’s a young woman. ’Twould be natural to expect such things.”

“But that marriage is gone now, Peter. Don’t you see?

That child is gone. The original calculations on her future, the ones I ran after I found you here, showed them.” He tapped the papers. “Today’s do not. That’s what this nonsense has gotten you. Is that what you were planning?

To take away her future?”

Peter sunk into his chair. “No.”

“You of al people should know what that’s like. You must leave this place. You must leave before you hurt her more.”

Cam moved the little name cards around the diagram of tables distractedly. Today had been a Calamity Deathmatch. What was going to bring Cam to her knees first—
Helga: The Swimsuit Issue
or Doctor Zhivago-ess, the Russian tormentor from hel ? Cam had a vision of herself as Cat-woman, sliding perilously down the side of the crevasse, her nails dug like knives into the edge to keep from fal ing, with Anastasia, standing over her in a far better Catwoman suit, tapping the toe of her boot on Cam’s slipping fingers and shouting for Cam to throw her the keys to the director’s office in order to save herself. And somehow Jacket is dangling below her, clutching her foot, trying to save her or pul her down with him, Cam can’t tel which.

“Cam?”

She jumped. “What?” Jeanne had arrived unnoticed with an armload of mail.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No problem.” She returned to the seating chart. Micki Catterman regularly got drunk enough to spil ful glasses of wine into her purse or fal into her dinner companion’s lap.

A little self-control,
Cam lectured silently as she tapped the sticky note that held Catterman’s name.
We’re talking a
museum gala here, not a fraternity rave, okay?
It was probably not a good idea to seat her next to Sister Rose McNair, either. Cam picked up Catterman and let her hover over the empty seat next to Dick Bolton, the insufferable bore who was making her friend Seph’s life miserable over at Pilgrim Pharmaceuticals. Poetic justice? A little more of that in this world would certainly be appreciated, Cam considered, thinking for a long moment of the unexpectedly intriguing bristle of Peter’s beard and of a dark, stubbled Batman pul ing her from the crevasse—

“Who are you moving?” Jeanne dumped the mail on the corner of her desk.

In her mind, Cam flung the keys and caught Batman’s gloved hand, al in one graceful movement. “Oh, Catwoman.”

“Catwoman?”

Cam frowned, the spel of her daydream broken. “Catwoman? Why did you say that?”

“Because
you
said it.”

“I did
not
.”

Jeanne made a deep sigh and rol ed her eyes. “Could you please sleep with
one
of them again? I think your brain is turning into mashed potatoes.”

“Is that the sort of thing you’re learning in that online biology class of yours?”

“Yes, the teacher has asked us al to come to the next webcast dressed as naughty little lab assistants. Do you think that’s a problem?”

“I think you’re going to have more fun than I am tonight.”

Cam pressed the Catterman square next to Bolton, then picked up Bal and put him and his wife on either side of Sister Rose. Sister Rose was the city’s biggest Pitt Panther fan. She and Bal could talk col ege footbal to their hearts’ content.

Cam rubbed her eyes and reached for the mail. A large manila envelope slipped off the top of the stack. Probably another book. She grabbed a corner and tore. It was an ancient copy of
The Burlington Magazine,
a much-revered British fine arts monthly. This was the issue from 1932 that had the image of Peter and the four Ursulas. She prayed the picture would be clearer than the tiny blurred scan she’d received. The painting, long held by a wealthy private col ector, had not been seen in public in several generations. Cam herself had never seen it, even in print.

This would provide her first real look at one of the most revealing of Peter’s paintings.

She pushed the table diagrams to one side and slipped a finger under the cover careful y. The yel owed paper crackled. The cover had no picture, only the words “
The
Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs,
Il ustrated & Published Monthly” in a turn-of-the-century font and, below that, a table of contents, which she scanned for a reference to Peter.

to Peter.

The author of the article was a viscount, likely the man her research said had owned the painting in the thirties, and the title nearly made Cam fal off her chair: “Lely’s Love Story.”

Cam flipped to the first page of the article, leaned back in her chair and began to read. By the time she reached the end, everything she thought she knew had changed and the one thing she did know was that she had to find Peter.