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I won’t even try.
CHAPTER2
CORA
Ihave thought this a thousand times, in fragments of words and concepts that never quite solidify, but only now you put it into words, or paint, or sculpture, or music, do I fully understand what I’ve been trying to express.
Art.
My first love.
The expression of truths we all know, in a myriad of forms.
“You back from lunch?” Tana, my assistant, chirps on the phone. “I thought of calling earlier, but I didn’t want to interrupt your lunch, but I figured by now you’re probably on your way back to the office.”
“I just entered the building,” I reply with one last glance at the entrance doors behind me. I can’t explain why, but my fingers are damp, misting the casing and screen of my phone. Inside the cavernous entrance hall of the Mercer, my stomach is still tense from the weird feeling I had earlier, outside the building.
The feeling is a strange mixture of anticipation and caution swirling around my insides, and it has nothing to do with my meeting with our director, Peter Markham, about the new exhibition I’m planning.
“I’m on my way up to get my things for the meeting,” I tell Tana.
“That’s the thing,” she informs me, “Deirdre called. Peter is no longer available. He postponed your meeting, which makes zero sense, because Peter already promised to see you today, and it’s unfair to expect us to reschedule at just a moment’s notice, and-”
“Postponed?” I interrupt.What the hell?I stop walking. “Is he in the building?”
“Yes. There’s another meeting. I asked Deirdre who with, but she won’t tell me. I’m guessing it’s a super secret meeting with someone important? But who knows? Maybe the board members popped in? Deirdre wouldn’t say. She even hung up on me.” Tana sounds outraged.
I am too. I’ll bet Deirdre, Peter’s barracuda of an assistant, was happy to relegate my meeting just to remind me that her boss’s time is precious.
Wondering who thesomeone importantis, I smile distractedly at one of the mailroom guys as he heads inside the elevator with an inquiring glance in my direction. I shake my head, and he hits a button on the elevator panel. The doors slide closed.
The meeting is likely with a potential donor, or a politician. For someone like that, they would surely bump a lowly curator like me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a couple walk past the check-in and head for a pair of huge double doors leading into the exhibition spaces. They’re holding hands and smiling. A sudden longing tightens the area around my heart, and I draw in a quick breath, watching until they disappear through the doorway before turning my attention back to my phone.
“Fine. I’ll just wander around down here for a minute. Call Deirdre and find out when I can see Peter. I need to discuss my plans.”
“Will do,” Tana singsongs. I end the call and follow the happy couple through the doorway into the bright courtyard, where sculptures from antiquity occupy marble plinths on the gleaming floor. Smooth columns rise from ground level to a glass atrium above, from where muted rays of sunlight pour down to illuminate terracotta and marble figures older than many lifetimes.
Working every day in proximity to art can make people lose their appreciation. Not me. From the first day I held my father’s hand as he led me through a museum, telling me stories about each painting, sculpture, artist…each civilization represented by exquisitely preserved craft… my appreciation has only grown.
From the first exhibition hall I enter another, then another, losing myself in magnificent works I’ve seen a hundred times. Bright colors leap out from paintings and muted tones beguile from behind elegant frames. This is where I belong, in this place dedicated to preserving and presenting the sublime for generation after generation.
Art is one of the most important bridges between the past and the present, and I am honored to be among the people who tend that bridge.
And yet, I once came close to turning my back on it all.
The memories are like shards of pain stabbing at my insides, and I smother them swiftly. For years, I’ve survived by doing my best not to think abouthim, and I refuse to, not now. Not when I’m finally living the life I’ve always wanted. Upstairs, in one of the smaller halls, is an exhibition entirely curated by me. I have collaborated with some of the most renowned curators in the world. I have articles published in prestigious art journals.
And there’s Matt. Handsome, charming Matt, who loves me and wants to take our relationship to the next level. Maybe, someday soon, I can bring myself to give him what he wants.
There’s no place in my life for regrets, for old longings…
For Tristan.
Even thinking his name is unbearable.
Swallowing the ache in my throat, I make my way to a small, carpeted hall with a collection of Modigliani nudes hanging quietly on the walls. The lissome, graceful shapes remind me of sadness, desperation, and full lives ended too soon.
