Page 18 of Fresh Canvas
“Listen, I can’t promise it will lead to anything, but I’ll text her that we’re on our way.”
“Say less,” I said. “Just getting in the door is a massive win.”
Following Kate’s trendy leather jacket, I hardly dared to believe my good luck.
When I returned to the curation wing, Mr. Russo’s office was as dark and vacant as his soul. Relief trickled through me. I wouldn’t have put it past him to storm into my impromptu meeting and tell security to kick me out.
Walking into Blythe’s office, I stopped short at the sight while Kate plopped into a chair. Blythe Barlow seemed to be exactly as Kate described—pure chaos.
Sticky notes cluttered every square inch of her desk. Towers of papers and folders teetered on the counter. A variety of pens—one with a peacock feather taped on—jutted out of a red solo cup.
The seasoned curator looked more like she belonged on the beach than in a museum. Her suntanned skin was slightly wrinkled and scattered with adorable freckles. Her blonde hair was—and there was no other way to describe it—frizzy. Like it couldn’t make up its frazzled mind whether it wanted to be wavy or curly.
Even stationary, Blythe seemed to vibrate with creativity, like a crazy scientist inventing something spectacular.
Blythe offered a flustered apology, waving wildly at us as she yanked out drawer after drawer, searching for her phone for the “fudging millionth time.”
The phone was soon discovered sandwiched between folders on her desk, vibrating as Kate called it. Blythe scooped it up and smiled, revealing a charming gap between her two front teeth.
“Hey there. Sorry about that. What’s your name?”
“I’m Amantha Adams. It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Barlow.”
“Woof! That’s an interesting name. And please, call me Blythe.” Her emerald eyes twinkled.
I chuckled. “Sounds great.”
“So, do you have a resume?”
Stupid Val Russo.
“I did,” I said. “I mean, I do. I can show you on my phone. Sorry for not having a hard copy.”Anymore.
I accessed the document and passed my phone to her.
Blythe rummaged in yet another drawer before Kate lifted a pair of turquoise spectacles from atop the computer and handed them to her.
“A master’s degree?” Blythe squinted. “And you worked for Barbara Gaines?” She let out a low whistle as her eyes pulled back to mine.
“Yes, I did. Barbara was a great mentor, and I learned a lot. I’m sure I could pick up where I left off.”
“Is this date right? You haven’t worked in over ten years?” Blythe raised a tawny eyebrow.
I took a deep breath. I had expected this. “I spent the last decade raising my son. I know it’s been a long time, but I’m confident I still have the ability to?—”
Blythe cut me off with a stormy expression. “I don’t thinkit’s fair to punish women for raising their children at home. Either you have the chops to be my assistant, or you don’t. Talent doesn’t expire.”
I exhaled in relief.
“And by the looks of it, you’ve got more than enough talent. Before we make anything official, Human Resources wants to ask all new hires something.” Clasping her hands together, Blythe tipped her head and recited, “If you have any existing or previous relationships with the faculty here, familial or otherwise, it must be disclosed at this time.” Her monotone voice conveyed just how much Blythe actually cared about my relationships.
Oddly enough, Mr. Russo’s scowl flashed through my mind.
That couldn’t be defined as a relationship. Surely that was just an encounter—with the devil. The sadist wouldn’t really prevent me from working at the museum, would he?
“Well,” I shoved an errant lock behind my ear, heat pooling in my cheeks. “This isn’t a relationship by any stretch of the imagination, but I kind of feel like I need to disclose it.”
So I came clean about the interview.
