Chapter 4
four
ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER
AMANTHA
“Amantha, I’ll need you to get my lunch early today.
” Barbara Gaines smiled from her office door, her ever-present red lipstick shining against white teeth.
My boss’s ebony skin seemed to glow from within.
I wondered if it was a trick of the light or if Barbara Gaines simply carried that much confidence.
“Of course, Ms. Gaines. I can be back in fifteen minutes,” I said, snatching my purse off my mahogany desk and scurrying out of the curation department.
I stepped outside, sunlight catching on my engagement ring.
My stomach swooped happily with thoughts of Ryan and our upcoming wedding.
I peeked over my shoulder at the museum.
After interning for almost a year, I still couldn’t believe that basking in art was my job.
My literal job.
To boot, Barbara Gaines was one of the most accredited art curators in Chicago, catapulting to success in her early forties. Most everything Barbara wanted, she got. And for whatever reason, she seemed to have a soft spot for me.
The lawsuit against Barbara that introduced Ryan and me was over, flooding me with a rush of relief. Although Barbara had remained cool and collected, I had been worried about her. Details about the case were hazy, since tight-lipped Barbara had shared little about it.
Whatever Barbara did, I’m sure it was justified.
I returned to the curation wing in record time.
Pushing a limp, sweaty strand from my forehead, I knocked against the heavy door of Barbara’s office.
The glass wall revealed the master at work, barking into her phone.
She nodded and waved me in, making a show of checking her watch and shooting me a thumbs-up.
Barbara’s smile turned sour as she glared at her phone.
“I don’t care if you have to rush the piece through customs!
Get it done!” Barbara snapped. “I’m not pushing the exhibition date.
” She rolled her amber eyes at me and shook her coiled black hair across the shoulders of her white pantsuit.
Her lips pursed. “You know what? Never mind. Clearly, I’m going to have to handle this. ” Huffing goodbye, she ended the call.
I placed Barbara’s usual Caesar salad in front of her. But instead of settling down for lunch, Barbara stood and strode from the office.
“Let’s go, we’ve got an emergency. And bring your notebook.”
I stumbled down the corridor, trying to match her long strides. Barbara’s red-bottomed Louboutin heels floated over the floors as she reapplied her lipstick.
Crimson was Barbara’s signature color. She had once told me that red lipstick was the key to confidence.
Like oil on canvas, one could paint themselves however they wanted to be perceived.
I had purchased a scarlet tube that evening, though it still lay untouched in my purse—alongside the confidence I never dared to wear.
We sidestepped a wide partition covering the entrance to the Astor wing on the first floor. A banner spanned the privacy screen that said “Exhibition Coming Soon.”
A sharp inhale filled my lungs. The hall was breathtaking.
The walls had been repainted a rich, burgundy red, contrasting beautifully with the golden-framed Renaissance collection.
Men stood on ladders, angling overhead spotlights so the oil paints gleamed to life.
Golden labels assigning titles and artists to each masterpiece dotted the walls.
Barbara commanded a red-haired man holding a clipboard over to us with a snap and a point.
“What do you mean the Flores painting won’t be ready in time?”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice before he spoke.
“The art couriers from the Met arrived with the Flores piece two days later than expected. It still needs to complete the forty-eight hour acclimation cycle before we can unbox it, or the painting risks damage from different temperature and humidity levels. Friday morning is the earliest our handlers can hang it. If we rush the condition report and frame it quickly, the opening could still happen—but that’s cutting it close, especially if it needs repairs. ”
Barbara’s scarlet lips hardened into a firm line. “Rush the report then. And anything else you see fit. The museum director and I are not pushing the opening.”
My pen scribbled furiously, taking notes of instructions and timelines.
I strained to ignore the magnetic pull of the surrounding paintings.
But after a few minutes, Barbara’s conversation became less dire, so I risked a few steps toward the closest one.
I kept one ear on Barbara while I was transported to a massive European cathedral.
Intricate women floated over ceilings on gossamer wings. White fabric cascaded down the bodies of each serene being. A golden nameplate beside the frame blazed to life as a man overhead adjusted a spotlight. I murmured the engraving aloud.
“Wilted Redemption. Elgar Dene. Oil on canvas.” I cocked my head to the side, scrutinizing the painting. “That’s not right.”
“What’s not right?” Barbara appeared beside me with a curious smile.
I noticed the half-dozen people watching our exchange with tentative expressions. A visible bead of sweat rolled off the man in charge. I ducked my head, tucking a lock of hair out of my face.
Taking a decisive breath, I said, “This nameplate is wrong. This isn’t an Elgar Dene—it’s a Salvatore Greville.”
The red-haired man’s face blazed hotter than his hair.
“Aren’t you an intern? How would you know?” Papers flew as he scanned his clipboard. His jaw slackened as his eyes bulged.
Without another word, he spun on his heel and stalked toward a man drilling a nameplate to the wall. Their voices began to escalate.
“Nice work.” Barbara’s sly whisper resulted in my face flushing so deeply that it probably looked like the red-haired man’s.
“That could have been extremely embarrassing for the museum. That’s the authority I’ve been waiting to see.
The expertise I would expect my new assistant to have.
I mean, if you don’t mind being promoted, that is. ” She winked.
I gaped back at her.
PRESENT DAY
The Chicago Legacy Art Museum rose from the corner of Montfoot Road and Roosevelt.
Its architecture of paned blue glass and sparkling limestone was stunning.
Even after all these years, the beauty never failed to steal my breath.
An expanse of marble steps fanned out from the corner, inviting all to explore its rich history within.
I darted across the road, narrowly missed a pile of wintery slush, and lurched to avoid a collision with an exiting museum visitor.
I made my way around a wide truck that backed up close to the steps.
Passersby cast venomous glances as they skirted around it too.
A team of men were unloading heavy wooden boxes.
I recognized the containers as packing crates for various artifacts and works of art. They must have been getting ready for a new exhibition. I wondered why they weren’t using the service entrance until I remembered how the snowplows sometimes blocked them.
I hesitated in front of the massive reflective doors, chewing my bottom lip. Barbara would know of an opportunity or opening somewhere, wouldn’t she? I tugged the cuffs of my gray blazer.
Maybe I shouldn’t have picked such a boring color.
My dishwater blonde hair had dried in loose waves from my rushed shower. While stopped at a red light, I had swiped on a couple coats of mascara and some lip gloss. But even with the enhancements, I looked like a nervous wreck with zero saturation.
“Are you going to open the damn door at some point or just stand there looking at it?”
I whirled to find a pair of brown eyes blazing at me from beneath a pair of angry eyebrows.
The truck worker looked to be in his mid-thirties, wearing a black shirt and slacks.
A vein pulsed at his sweaty temple as he balanced a heavy crate.
Sure, the box looked heavy, but did he need to be so rude? Even for Chicago, it was incredulous.
“Oh, I see,” the man snarled, “you must not know how a door works. See, if you pull that shiny handle there, the door opens, then you get out of my way.”
I fought the immediate urge to say sorry for blocking the door. Fought the urge to apologize for simply existing.
I was tired of cowering before jerks.
So without a word, I spun, yanked the door open, and stalked into the museum.
His abrasive shout slipped through the narrowing doorway. “The least you could do is hold it open until I…”
Thud.
I smirked, watching the man let out a poetic string of filth and fury. His glare mirrored mine as he reached for the door handle, the box tipping precariously.
Feigning ignorance, I pasted on a baffled expression, pretending to search for the door’s mechanism to open it from the inside. I dropped my arms to my side in mock exasperation before sauntering off.
Take that, you jerk.
My footsteps clicked as I approached the receptionist in the warmly lit lobby. A lofty, arched ceiling mingled the soft voices echoing around me.
“Hello! I’d like to see Barbara Gaines, please.”
The kind lady frowned in confusion. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Gaines hasn’t worked here in over two years.”
My heart plummeted. “Do you have any contact information on how to reach her? I’m looking for a job, and she might have connections. You see, I used to work for her as an assistant, but then I got pregnant and…” Yikes. This woman probably didn’t want my whole life story.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “If you have a resume, I can look and see if you match any qualifications for other open positions we have.”
I fished my resume from my bag, relieved to find the document smudge and crease free. As I handed it across the desk, I heard the door’s suctioning seal pop open behind me. A gust of December wind raised a line of goosebumps across my neck, making me shiver.
The woman put on a pair of glasses and began to scan the resume, so I awkwardly shifted to survey the lobby.
The awful, dark-haired man from earlier caught in my periphery, shaking his head in disgust as he set another crate down.
He shot a glower at me as he stood, sending another shiver down my spine.
“Your resume is quite impressive, Samantha.”
I forced a smile. “Thank you.”
“With your experience, I’m sure we can find something for you.” The sweet lady hunched over her keyboard as hope surged in my veins. “It looks like our second curator, Mr. Russo, hasn’t hired an assistant yet.”
A curator’s assistant? My pulse beat double time at the prospect of picking up where I left off.
“That sounds perfect. When can I come in?”
She aimed her spectacles at the computer screen. “Would now be okay? He usually leaves a morning slot open. According to his calendar, Mr. Russo doesn’t have anyone scheduled. The meeting starts in fifteen minutes. Would you be alright waiting?”
I was speechless for a moment before I said, “Yes! Of course! Now would be great.”
The keyboard clacked as she typed.
“I’ll have our intern escort you up to the office wing.” She passed back my resume with a wrinkled hand, then spoke into her phone. Less than a minute later, a young man with blonde hair joined us at the desk.
“Hello, ma’am. Follow me, please,” he chirped.
I followed him to The Spiral. The Spiral was one of my favorite architectural features in the museum.
Serving both beauty and function, the twisting ramp ascended through each of the three floors above.
It was made of the same sparkling limestone as the exterior, and the ramp’s shortened walls made it easy to look out over the lobby as I walked.
I tipped my gaze to the ceiling, where The Spiral encircled a glittering skylight. The multifaceted glass refracted the winter sunlight into millions of prismatic circles shimmering on the walls. The intern swiped a keycard to open the “Business Only” access door on the second floor.
I stepped through the threshold as nostalgia slammed into me.
Flashbacks of my younger self trailed Barbara down the hall.
My scuffed penny loafers shuffled around the break room, as I dumped two sugars and one cream into Barbara’s afternoon coffee.
I pressed a palm to my racing heart. Oh, how I had missed this place.
The young man hooked a left to the curation department, like I knew he would.
I saw the echo of my younger self sitting at the gleaming mahogany desk, which hadn’t budged an inch.
Out of habit, I glanced at the office where Barbara used to work, my eyes skimming the shiny nameplate as we passed the darkened room.
Blythe Barlow, Curator.
I had never heard of her, but I assumed she had replaced Barbara when she left. Why had Barbara left in the first place?
The second office was also dark, though the door was propped open.
As soon as we walked in, the motion-activated lights flickered to life as the intern told me I could wait here for Mr. Russo.
I thanked him, glad to have a minute to compose myself.
The supple leather waiting chair was surprisingly comfortable.
His office wasn’t as large as Barbara’s had been, but it was pristine.
Stainless steel accents made the space feel modern.
The warm, cherry wood desk glowed beneath my drumming fingers.
A faint scent, clean and masculine, hung in the air.
Cologne, maybe? The golden nameplate atop the desk shined like it had been literally polished.
“Mr. Val Russo,” I murmured.
Either Mr. Russo is obsessive compulsive, or he might be married to another man.
I turned my focus to the interview, preparing for Mr. Russo’s inevitable questions. My resume was stellar. I was more than qualified. Now, it was up to Mr. Russo to agree.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” a familiar voice growled from the doorway.
The blood drained from my body in an instant. There, shadowing the doorway, was the angry man I snubbed at the museum’s entrance not even thirty minutes ago. Sweat still clung to his angry brows.
The man’s face—no, Mr. Russo’s face—scowled down at me.