Flirting With Forever by Gwyn Cready (books for 20 year olds TXT) 📗

“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.”

“Oh God. Which one?”

“Rembrandt. The one in the north hal way.”

“Rembrandt. That’s your area, Anastasia. You’d better go with Tim.”

Anastasia gave Lockport a look usual y reserved for the phone receiver when talking to Bangalore help desk associates and released Bal ’s hand. “Wil do.”

Cam whistled as Anastasia clattered off. “Tough break.”

Jeanne, dynamo of efficiency, lodged herself in front of the suddenly unoccupied Bal with pen, permission form and clipboard.

“My gosh,” she said as Bal opened his glasses, “those are some bright stripes on your shirt. Do the colors stand for something?”