Page 13 of Fresh Canvas
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. Agolden 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.
