Page 15 of The Art of Scandal

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt your chores,” Sofia said. “Beto and I were so disappointed we couldn’t make it to Matthew’s birthday party.” She offered the present. “Could you give this to him, along with our regrets?”

Rachel had sent the invitation with no expectation they would accept. She’d never seen this woman at any event that didn’t have valet parking.

“Thank you.” Rachel accepted the gift and tried to resist the urge to drop it on his dirty undershirts.

“Great.” Sofia flashed another blinding smile. “I also have an ulterior motive for stopping by. Again, I could have called, but I hate asking for favors over the phone.”

“A favor?” Rachel tried to keep her voice neutral. The lingering throb at the base of her skull intensified. Was this a trap? Sofia was one of Matt’s biggest financial donors and was actively lobbying behind the scenes for his congressional bid. Had he called to complain about what happened? Were they colluding to fix a situation that neededhandling?

“I’m sure you know our foundation chooses a couple to host the art gala every year,” Sofia said.

Rachel tensed when she mentioned the origin of chartreuse-gate. She tried to keep her voice steady. “Herman and Matilda were chosen one year, I believe.” She remembered how bored her mother-in-law had been by it, announcing the honor during the salad course at dinner. “There are no plus-ones, unfortunately,” she’d sighed. “That family is very cheap.”

Sofia nodded. “The Abbotts ran one of our most successful campaigns. This year we chose Judith and Karl, but with everything that happened…”

Everything being Karl Harris running off with his wife’s twenty-seven-year-old hairdresser and moving his medical practice to Tampa. Judith’s settlement wasn’t enough to cover the mortgage, and she was currently living in exile, otherwise known as a two-bedroom condo on the southeast edge of town. The women she used to consider friends would only whisper her name behind their hands with down-turned eyes as though she were dead instead of working at a Pottery Barn.

“Anyway.” Sofia shook off the thought with a delicate shudder. “We need new hosts. I know it’s last minute, but would you be interested?”

“You want me to help find new hosts?”

Sofia’s plush lips tightened briefly and then curved into a fresh smile. “No, darling. I want you and Matt to host this year. He told me years ago about your art background, and I thought—well, that makes you the perfect choice, doesn’t it?”

Whenever someone brought up Rachel’s art, it felt like they were talking about a different person. That woman had been raised by a musician who believed that creativity unbound by expectations was the best way to live your life. Her father, Peter, used to say that Rachel’s photography was a gift she was obligated to share with the world. She’d convinced herself that leaving Faith, then two years old, to have arealcollege experience was necessary to live up to all that potential. She’d planned to settle down with her daughter after she graduated, and build another life of swirling creativity, unbound by rules or expectations.

But none of that was true. She wasn’t destined for greatness. And sometimes Faith still held her hand so tight it hurt. Like her mother might disappear.

“Matt told you about that?” Rachel struggled to keep her voice steady. “About my photos, I mean?”

“Photos? No. He mentioned that you studied art history. My cousin had the same major at UCLA, but she owns a smoothie shop now. Benita’s Batidos.” She shrugged. “They taste like dirt. But the Instagram is impressive.”

Rachel tried to think of a tactful way to ask what the woman’s angle was and failed. Maybe she could cultivate the offer into a strategic friendship. Once her divorce hit the news cycle, Sofia could be a powerful ally.

“What would hosting involve?”

Sofia pinched the air between her fingers. “Very little. A few planning committee meetings. And the hosts typically commission a collection from a local artist.”

A familiar warmth spread through Rachel’s body at the mention of an exhibit. Before she met Matt, she had envisioned a life filled with creators and patrons brought together by her curatorial eye. Now she had to settle for rearranging the landscapes in her dining room. “I would work with a local artist?”

“Work with? No, no.” Sofia waved again and added a soft chuckle. “Lyric Patterson is consulting for us. Have you heard of her? She’s worked for the Met. I convinced her to help us find an artist and curate the event.”

Rachel knewofLyric Patterson. They’d both attended Howard and applied to the same graduate programs a year apart. Rachel had read about Lyric’s success through the regular alumni newsletters. She’d interned in Europe, been mentored in New York, and made a name for herself curating pop-up exhibits featuring artists of color around the country. It was as if Rachel had drawn up blueprints for the professional life she’d abandoned, and Lyric had found them, dusted off years of neglect, and then built her career.

“Lyric’s amazing,” Rachel said, while her insides steeped in envy. “I’m sure she’ll put together a wonderful collection.”

“No, what’s amazing is that you’re willing to help us out with this. I promise it won’t be a burden. All we need is your gorgeous face and the Abbott name.”

And that was it. Sofia’s real reason for putting her vendetta aside and inviting Rachel to host: She needed a flashy distraction from the scandal, and Matt and Rachel were at the peak of their moment. Sofia wanted to sell two-thousand-dollar tickets to see the Washington “It Couple” up close and in person.

“So we show up and greet people?”

“Exactly,” Sofia said, beaming as if she had given Rachel another gift.No need to worry your little head about actual work, just keep posing for the cameras.“You’ll do it then? Oh, that’s wonderful. It’s a relief to know the gala will be in your hands.”

Rachel tried to match her enthusiasm. “Tell me where and when to smile.”

Sofia touched her arm with a soft laugh. “You’re funnier than I thought. Let’s talk more about the gala next Saturday.”

“Next Saturday?”

---