Flirting With Forever (4 page)

“Cam, I—Oh God, sorry.”

It was Jeanne, and her voice snapped Cam’s ego into action. She broke away and wiped her mouth, embarrassed. “What’s up?”

“Anastasia. On the stairs. In a puff of vampire-colored smoke.”

Peter knew why he’d taken the long way to Maiden Lane.

Maiden Lane was where he’d find the king, but the smal patch of green behind St. Paul’s—Old Pauly, as the residents of Covent Garden referred to it—was where he’d find Ursula.

He crossed the piazza tentatively, ignoring the carriages that passed on either side of him. He made his way past the sanctuary he would never enter again and down the path that ran the length of the church’s north wal . When he saw her, his throat began to tighten. He scanned the space, but it was late afternoon, and the only witnesses to his shame would be the wrens, foraging among the tree roots.

He dropped to a knee.

“I failed you, my love. ’Tis the worst thing a man can do, and I shal live with the pain always.”

If he wanted absolution, there was none. Only the dim reflection of light on this headstone and the one beyond it.

Peter hung his head and let the tears fal down his cheeks.

Cam flew down the improbably long treads of the Carnegie’s staircase with Jeanne on her heels.

“You don’t think she’s there already?” Cam said. “That painting’s nearly mine, and I don’t want her ruining it or, worse, somehow getting credit.”

“When you’re a successful author, wil we be done with al this?”

“Oh, sure. ’Cause you know how many people buy art biographies. I could have them over for cocktails and stil manage to be the worst-dressed person in the room.”

“Especial y with Wite-Out on your hose. So, do you think he’s going to say it again?”

“What?”

“You know.”

Cam shot her a pointed look. “Mr. Bal is from a very old, not to mention very rich, Gainesvil e family. Just because some of his words are, wel , a little hard to understand doesn’t mean he’s not sharp as a tack.”

“I grew up in Mobile, Alabama. You got any trouble understanding me? Do I go around tel ing people I’m a fornicator?”

“It’s not
fornicator
. It’s
Florida Gator
.”

“Oh, I know what it is. It stil makes me laugh to hear it.”

Cam ignored this. She hit the cavernous entry hal and looked left and right. Bal had arrived in Lamont Packard’s office five minutes ago and by now they could be anywhere.

They weren’t in the little café dominated by Warhol’s fluorescent portrait of Andrew Carnegie—“Care for some worker uprising with your Chicken Basil Farfal e?”—nor lounging by the reflecting pool outside.

She turned. Lamont Packard, her boss and the soon-to-be ex-executive director, was emerging from the interior courtyard a step or two in front of Bal , who had Anastasia hot-glued to his arm.

Drat.
She had to think fast.

“Remember the Picasso strategy?”

Jeanne gave her a questioning look. “Yes, but I’m not sure how your favorite ‘Get me outta this blind date’

strategy is going to work here.”

“Wel , this time it’s a Rembrandt strategy, and you need to cal Tim Lockport—anonymously.”

After a beat, Jeanne’s face lit. “You’re bril iant—and scary.”

“Family survival tactic. Lie or die.”

Jeanne angled off toward a museum phone, and Cam headed toward her quarry.

They were an odd threesome, she thought, hurrying toward them: Old School Packard with his investment banker suit; Bal in his linen trousers and orange-and-blue–

striped golf shirt; and, of course, Anastasia, towering over everyone as usual with her wil owy, mock-Eurotrash body, purple Christian Louboutin booties, architectural “Oh this? I knit couture in my spare time” dress and a stainless-steel cuff bracelet so thick it looked like it had come off the brakes of a German Wehrmacht tank. Cam, despite Rubenesque curves, tumbling masses of red curls and a penchant for tight skirts and zebra-striped pumps, felt she gave the appearance of being Frodo’s long-lost country cousin when standing next to the dreaded Anastasia.

“There you are,” Packard said.

Lamont Packard always wore the fund-raiser’s flush of larceny, but today his palms were rubbing so hard they ought to have been throwing sparks. Of course, being six months from retirement couldn’t have hurt, either. Woodson Bal , who should have looked like he’d just stumbled out of a gang pickpocketing on an Eastern European subway, managed to project warmth and contented largesse.

Anastasia’s gaze ran rapidly down Cam’s leg.

“Afternoon, Cam. Did you have an accident?”

“No.” She ground her teeth. “So glad to see you, Mr.

Bal .” Then, in a move she’d learned from Thomas the Tank Engine, Cam did a one eighty just as the walking threesome reached her, neatly uncoupling Anastasia from Bal ’s arm. “How was Florida? Did you and Mrs. Bal have a good trip back?”

Bal finished the story of the flight delays just as Jeanne arrived.

“You may remember my assistant, Jeanne Turner.

Jeanne, this is Mr. Bal .”

“Ha’d’yadew.” Bal bowed.

As Cam looked down to avoid Jeanne’s eyes, she caught sight of her pumps. In her effort to manage the hose situation, she must have inadvertently mashed her shoe into the hot dog because most of the zebra stripes on the left toe were covered in mustard.

“Jeanne has a few papers for you to sign,” Cam said, tucking one foot behind the other. “Nothing major. Just permission to examine the painting, et cetera.” She felt Anastasia’s critical gaze drop even farther and she began to flush.

Anastasia coughed. “Good Lord, Cam, is that—”

“Mustard is very hot this year.”

“Only in
Vogue,
dear.”

Cam wished the soaring George Segal sculpture of a tightrope walker, which had once balanced high above the heads of Carnegie patrons, would choose this moment to return to its former haunt and drop on Anastasia’s head.

“That’s fine,” Bal said. “Whatever you need me t’do. Just take good care of my countess.” He winked.

The vaunted painting was a gorgeous three-quarter-length portrait of Theresa, Countess of Morefield, that had once been owned by Catherine the Great.

“You know, we already have a fantastic spot picked out for the painting,” Packard said. Cam could almost see the saliva running down his chin.

saliva running down his chin.

“It ain’t yours yet, Lamont.” Bal laughed, and Packard looked like someone had just peed on his Gucci loafers.

“Not until I hand it over at the gala.”

Bal had taken his grandfather’s struggling headache powders business and turned it into the bestsel ing col ege study tool simply by adding enough caffeine to make a hippo run a marathon, then sold it to a Big Pharma company for six times its annual earnings. He divided his time between a vil a in Tuscany, an antebel um estate on a river outside Gainesvil e and a century-old former industrial’s mansion not far from the Carnegie. Bal had converted the mansion’s sixty-foot-long carriage house into a wel -fortified, temperature-control ed warehouse for his beloved art col ection.

Cam and Bal had known each other for years. She’d put him on the trail of a number of fine paintings and other works for sale in the art world, including Jacket’s. Bal ’s tastes were wide-ranging and constantly changing, and his pockets as deep as the steam tunnels under the museum.

He was returning the favor by letting her get credit for the donation of the Van Dyck, a piece in which he had lost interest.

“Sure was good to get back up north,” Bal said. “It’s been hot as Hades down in Flow-da.”

“In Flow-da,” Jeanne repeated. “But so, so beautiful.”

Anastasia nodded her violently bobbed head. “I remember the orange blossoms—oh God, the orange blossoms.” She closed her eyes and clasped her breast as if she were having a smal religious epiphany. “I used to live and die for orange blossom time when I lived in Florida.”

Cam rol ed her eyes.

“Ah didn’t know you were a Flowidyan.” Bal beamed.

“Yes,” Packard said, “Anastasia’s been almost everywhere. We were very lucky to steal her from the Getty.”

Cam remembered the day clearly, and
lucky
was not the word she would have chosen.

“Did you know,” Packard went on, “Anastasia is the author of the definitive critical book on Caravaggio, and—

do you want to tel Mr. Bal the news?”

Oh boy
.

Anastasia took a deep breath. “You probably don’t know this, but I’ve always been absolutely
enraptured
by El Greco.”

Another epiphany, larger than the first. Soon she would be on her knees, recounting secrets from the Virgin Mary, in the grottolike overhang of the fountain outside.

“Wel ,” Anastasia went on. “I’ve just signed the contract with Harvard Press today for a biography.”

Cam felt like she’d just taken a fount of holy water to the gut.

Bal nodded. “Now that’s a purdy milestone.”

Yes, it was. And in the cutthroat world of art curating, that was the winning hand. A biography would beat the 2.1

mil ion-dol ar 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 natural y 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 director next year by the board, 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, directorship-wise.

“Of course,” Anastasia added, “the promotional details are stil a bit fuzzy at this point. I don’t know what Harvard’s thinking of from a book tour or personal appearance point of view.”

“A book tour?” Bal said. “That’s amazing.”

Anastasia backpedaled. “Wel , perhaps a conference or two.”

Yes, the Association of Art Museum Curators Mid-Atlantic Regional Meeting is real y 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 Wil iams of the museum circuit.”

Cam was grateful he’d moved on from the Andrews Sisters metaphor he usual y employed.

Anastasia clasped Bal ’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.”