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Craig glances up at me and sniffs. “Very well. Mrs. Emmerico. Your resume is... interesting.”
I swallow. “Interesting, sir?”
“Interesting, yes,” Craig says with a flap of his hand. “I have to admit, your academic credentials are impressive. Top of your class in university, several academic awards, art history with a dual specialization in impressionism and post-war European art... Yes, all very interesting.”
“But...?” I venture.
“But you have absolutely no professional experience or qualifications,” Craig continues point-blank. “Not even a summer internship. Don’t they practically hand those out these days?” He snorts derisively.
I take a breath. This was always going to be the hard sell; Callie warned me as much this morning. “That’s correct, sir,” I say. “I haven’t exactly been able to join the workforce since graduating.”
Craig looks up at me, scrutinizing. “And why is that, may I ask?”
Here goes: the only card I have to play. “Because, sir, I had to do something to help my family.”
Craig leans forward at his desk. “Which side?” he asks. “The Dalton side or the Emmerico side?”
So he’s figured it out. At least I don’t have to spell it out for him. “Both,” I reply, on no uncertain terms. “I was a Dalton, and I married a Emmerico.”
“Ah,” Craig says. “So that’s it, then. The Dalton princess married off to the Emmerico family. I would ask about the reasoning, but I know better than to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong. You must know the kind of business I do with families like yours, Mrs. Emmerico.”
“I do,” I reply, and leave it at that.
“Hmm.” Craig eyes me for another moment, clearly weighing his options. He’s playing the game as much as any of us, and I’m sure he’s looking for an angle to exploit. The question is, will he find one?
Finally he clearshis throat and says, “You know, under any other circumstances, Mrs. Emmerico, this would be a resounding no. But considering the glowing recommendation your friend Callie left you... and the fact that your family is, shall we say, well-connected...andthe fact that I’m in desperate need of a new assistant... I suppose my answer should be pretty obvious, shouldn’t it?”
“I don’t want to put words in your mouth, sir.”
“Oh for...” He waves a tired hand at me. “Enough with this ‘sir’ business. And if you think I’m going to spend the rest of our working relationship calling you ‘Mrs. Emmerico,’ you’ve got another think coming.”
A small smile creeps onto my face. “Vivian is fine, Mr. Sterling.”
“That’s better,” he mutters. “And stop smiling. You look like an idiot.” He drums his fingers on his desk and then stands up. “All right then, Vivian. I’m in a rush today and I can’t stick around. That said, how about I arrange to have your friend show you the ropes? It’s low-grade work, but it’s the job you applied for.”
I stand up too, and as much as I try, I can’t quite keep the smile from coming back as we shake hands. “Thank you,” I say. “Seriously, thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he growls as he plods over to the door. “Don’t make me regret this, Vivian.”
“You won’t, sir—I mean, Mr. Sterling,” I promise. It’s only after he’s left the room that my other promise, the one I made to Dad, reenters my mind.
And the fact that there’s no way I’ll be able to keep both of them isn’t lost on me.
* * *
The Sterling Galleryis as about as posh as you can get, even for this neighborhood: the clientele’s all millionaire society ladies, the art is largely modern and abstract, the staff is all hand-picked and well-trained, and the pieces are all meant to be mementos of affluence. The prices are, of course, outrageous, and I get the feeling that the kinds of people who come here as customers—the kinds of people my parents are connected to—are in it more for the price tags than the beauty. But I guess that’s hardly surprising. Sterling isn’t in this business because he loves it, but because he makes a lot of money from it.
Oh,and the place is huge. Like, huge enough that my feet echo on the tile floors and dark gray walls as I follow Callie around like a kid in a candy shop. She’s bursting with excitement, I can tell, and it’s not hard to understand why. This place is classy and beautiful, and there’s so much to see. “Take it all in,” she chirps, sweeping her hand out as we move between a couple of polished metal sculptures. “There are hundreds of pieces. Don’t miss any of it.”
I doas I’m told, moving between the masterpieces for a while before pausing abruptly in front of a painting that’s hanging on the wall by the main entrance. It’s deceptively simple for such a high-end piece of art, but it makes the rest of the pieces in the gallery look down-market by comparison. The image is a bunch of abstract shapes: a circle, some boxes, some squiggles, and some tunnels, all in shades of silver and gray and white. They’re muted, but they still stand out enough to delight my eye. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to represent, but with the way it’s framed in decorative brushed silver, I can’t help but get lost in the beauty of it.
Not the firsttime I’ve been lost in pools of silver like that,I think. I can practically see Theo’s eyes in the swirls and spirals.
“Is that…?”I breathe.
“A Robert Schaeffer,”Callie confirms, nodding. “One of his best, I think. We were lucky to get our hands on it. They’re insanely rare.” She grins. “Although, I’m guessing you knew that.”
“Rare is an understatement,”I agree, laughing.
