Forty-two
Jake Ryan? Ha! How could she have ever been so blind? Peter’s brand of chivalry was far more in the line of, say, Henry VIII than anyone John Hughes had ever dreamed up.
Cam sat at her desk feeling like her world had been turned upside down—upside down, shaken like a maraca, and kicked into the end zone of Peter’s infuriating game plan.
Her face would be splashed across every newspaper in the world, irretrievably linked to a work of art that would excite prurient interest for years to come.
She’d be the punch line of a joke. Her relationship with Jacket had set enough tongues wagging.
Now she’d be seen as the woman passed around the art world, some paint-and-canvas groupie.
She felt powerless. She hated that artists had held all the cards, and she really hated that she’d brought it on herself by yelling at Peter in front of the reporter.
She might as well have stood next to the painting and had That’s my pubic hair tattooed across her forehead.
Ball had managed to convince the reporter guy to hold the story until Monday, long enough to allow the board to meet and choose the next executive director.
How he’d done it, she didn’t know, but she expected it required not only the promise of an exclusive interview, but a big check made out to the reporter’s favorite charity as well.
She’d told Ball she thought she should withdraw her name from consideration, but he’d disagreed—vehemently disagreed.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to that place,” he’d said.
“This is the world of art. They should be thrilled to find themselves smack dab in the middle of the story. Once I buy the paintings, I’ll be taking ’em on tour.
I’ll start the tour there. That oughta quiet their complaints. ”
But she noticed Ball’s confidence hadn’t extended to notifying the board immediately. As certain as he was of her notoriety being seen as a benefit, he didn’t think it was a good idea to risk it in advance of the vote.
So Cam was safe for somewhat less than seventy-two hours, assuming no one who’d been in that carriage house talked.
Ball had taken care of the reporter. She presumed his wife and friends could be trusted.
And when Ball had asked Peter to keep the story under wraps until Monday, Peter had said only, “I have no intention of discussing the paintings ever.” But the art world was a small one, even more so in Pittsburgh, and she wondered exactly how long anyone could be counted on to keep what would be such a monumentally satisfying secret to share.
She looked at the clock. The gala started in a few hours.
Her outfit was hanging on the back of her door.
It was a gorgeous olive angora sweater with pearl buttons down the back and a shimmering full white organza skirt that reached to the floor.
She knew she should try to look forward to wearing it.
It would probably be the last time people would remember her wearing clothes at all.
The door banged open and she jumped. It was Anastasia. She was wearing over-the-knee suede boots and what looked like a jacket of an officer in the Russian Imperial Guard.
“Nothing like casual Fridays,” Cam said.
Anastasia didn’t respond. She seemed preoccupied, which in many ways, Cam thought, was even scarier than her being mad. Anastasia sank onto the corner of Cam’s desk, tapping a bloodred nail on the stapler.
“I ran into that friend of yours the other day.”
Cam girded herself. “Friend?”
“Peter Lely.”
Cam nearly slid off her chair. “Peter?”
“That’s his name, right?”
“Well, yeah, but—Wait, how did you know he was my friend?”
“He introduced himself,” she said quickly. “He’d heard me talking about the museum and said he knew someone who worked there too. Small world, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“We had a very interesting time.”
Anastasia’s gaze moved slowly from the stapler to Cam, and Cam immediately felt a disturbing change in the force.
A brisk slide show of potential sister betrayals flipped through her head.
Anastasia had slept with him. Anastasia had found out about Cam’s time travel.
Anastasia had caught wind of the Wednesday Afternoons horror.
Anastasia was part of the Wednesday Afternoons horror. Cam’s finger flew to her lashes. “Oh?”
“He’s an interesting fellow.”
Gulp. “Really? Where, um, was this meeting?”
Anastasia’s eyes darted back to the stapler. “Can’t remember, actually. A bar downtown, I think.”
Cam tried to picture Peter ordering a drink. “Rhenish” would have earned him nothing but confused looks.
“Men seem to have a thing for you.”
Cam felt like she was being tested, though for the life of her, she had no idea what she was supposed to say. It was like one of those nightmares about the SATs. “I, uh—Pardon?”
“Men. You engender some primitive protectiveness in them.”
“Like Jacket?”
“Of course Jacket. Who did you think I meant?”
“Yes, I can see where screwing the woman who designed my engagement ring was the ultimate act of gallantry.”
“He loves you. Anyone can see it.”
Cam squirmed. It was true. Love and faithfulness occupied quite different galleries in the complicated floor plan of Jacket’s head. “I’ll admit he’s making progress.”
“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 follow the subject line here.
“Good, actually.”
“Kinda weird you’re writing about Peter Lely, and your friend’s named Peter Lely.”
“Yeah, well, he kind of inspired it.”
“Is he an art collector?”
“Mmm. I don’t know for sure. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I just wondered if he collected 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 Ball’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 practically 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’ll 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 all about?”
“Nothing.” Anastasia stood and brushed a speck of dust 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 will 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 still 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 billy 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, all 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, her mother’s “I even lose at Go Fish” eyes?
“I don’t think so,” Cam said. “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.”